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Standing at 7'2", Xander O'Tarin was an enormous, tank-like human, broad-shouldered and barrel chested. Flawlessly pressed black slacks and vest stark against the brilliant white of his high-collared shirt, the tycoon was immaculate in appearance. His hands, however, told a different story. Scarred, battered and calloused, they were hands that had seen hard work, clutched a blade, held a pistol. Hands that had killed on more than one occasion. The hands of a soldier and a mercenary. The leader of Black Star had not always led the life of privilege and power he enjoyed now.
Beside him, cradled in her birth, was a ship far smaller, yet almost as valuable as the massive liner she inhabited. The Freedom's Blade, a Blade-class stealth attack frigate, built in the tradition of the Human Alliance's legendary Normandy line. Sleek, crisp and dagger-shaped, the frigate wore the white and black livery of Black Star, the seven-pointed starburst splashed in matte black paint across her flank. Built for speed, maneuverability and stealth, she was beautiful, as much a work of art as a warship. Designed to slip unnoticed through enemy fleets, creeping past their defenses and ripping them apart with Casaba Torpedos before vanishing, her delicate, organic appearance disguised a deadly killing machine. But this Blade would serve a different purpose. Xander O'Tarin had taken great care in selecting her crew, and her commander.
The door behind him hissed open, and 18 figures filtered in. O'Tarin did not turn. The twin glass ovals perched on his large, aquiline nose were not simple spectacles, but smart lenses mated to the Queen's systems, feeding data from her cameras and databanks. Confirming the presence of his newest batch of SOD recruits. A motley band, assembled from every race and every corner of the galaxy, each uniquely talented in their chosen field. With Major Tarchus to keep them in line, and Commander Marshall to set their course and keep their moral compass clear, the old tycoon was confident that they would perform their duty. When the last of them had entered and assembled, he turned, removing the lenses and tucking them into a vest pocket.
"Officer on deck!" Maj. Tarchus barked, snapping her heels together and saluting.
"At ease, Major" O'Tarin chuckled, waving his hand dismissively "I'm not a soldier. But you are" he said, clasping his hands behind his back again, and walking slowly down the line.
"You are all soldiers. You have chosen, or been chosen, to serve the people of this galaxy. You have a long, hard fight ahead of you. I won't lie to you. Some of you may not come back alive. And weâre facing a dangerous foe. When Independance Day comes, the Turians are going to hit us with everything theyâve got. Theyâre not an enemy to be sneezed at, either. The Turian Hierarchy commands the largest military force in the Galaxy, and theyâve got centuries of experience behind them. But we have something they donât. Those Turian soldiers, theyâre fighting for a paycheck. For their masters. Masters theyâll never meet or speak to. You, and every other soldier of the Union, is fighting for more than that. Weâre fighting for our homes, and our families, and our freedom. They think weâre peasent rabble, to be smacked back into place with a little show of force. Theyâve underestimated us. Theyâve underestimated our resolve, our commitment to our people and our cause. And itâs that commitment that is going to make sure that no many how many times they knock us down, we get right back up and hit back, harder. Thatâs the best advice I can give you: never back down, never doubt your convictions, and never let anything compromise who you are. Youâre going to need all of that. You are a vital resource, a uniquely capable and promising fighting force. And youâre more than that: youâre an experiment, to see if what Shepard had was a fluke. If this kind of fighting force, in this kind of ship, has a place in the modern theater of war. Weâre counting on you. Not just me and High Command, but every man, woman and child in Union Space. Good luck, godspeed, and make us proudâ He stopped as he reached the end of the line. âMister Marshall, you have the deckâ
John Marshall lifted his duffle bag from the ground, and stepped out of line, turning to face his crew.
âLadies and Gentlemen, Iâm honored to be your commander. I hope to get to know each and every one of you better, but for now, we have pressing matters to attend to. Our current mission is time-sensitive. Once your personal effects are stowed on the ship, you will report to the conference room on the Command Deck, behind the CIC. I will answer any and all questions there. Dismissedâ Marshall hefted his kit, and mounted the gantry leading into the ship.
âAlright scrubs, you heard the Captain! I want your shit in your quarters, your kit in the armory, and your asses in the briefing room in thirty minutes!â Tarchus snapped, stalking up the gantry after Marshall.
KaiâSaaya reached for her bag, but straightened up as she felt Xanderâs hand on her shoulder.
âDaaad, not nowâ she whispered. The human smiled.
âI know, I know. But Iâll risk tarnishing your reputation in front of the others. Thereâs something I want you to haveâ He said, leading her over to a tool cart near the bayâs entrance. There was a small bundle of cloth on it, thick and black with intricate interlocking line patterns in the same golden-yellow as the stripes on her flightsuitâs plating. OâTarin picked it up, and handed it to her. âIf you donât know what that is, well, than Iâve failed as a parentâ
âItâs a hood. For an old enviro-suitâ Kai said, puzzled. âIs this... momâs?â
âNo. This is older. From when the suits were still necessary. This belonged to your great-great-grandmother. It was my good luck charm when I was, well, you know. Now, I think youâll need it more than Iâ Xander said. There was something wistful, and sad, in his eyes. Kai stared at the ancient fabric in her hands.
âThanks, dad...â she whispered, unsure what to think.
âYou should probably go. Be careful with that. Youâre the last of the Saaya family. I want to see you give it to your daughterâ
âDamn it, you old bastard, youâre being a stereotypeâ
âIâm just teasing youâ he chuckled ânow go! Theyâre really going to think youâre a princess if you hold up the whole shipâ
Kai scowled, then ran for the gantry, scooping up her duffle as she went.
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Akaya had found ways to keep herself busy, yes; even so, the novelty had quickly worn thin. Being called at last to the Freedomâs Blade â what was, more or less, her new home â had been a relief. She stood among seventeen others, now, swathed in black from head to toe, occasionally shifting the weight of her worldly possessions between hands as the lot of them trickled into the room. The assemblage halted inside, fanning out before a human male whose wide silhouette she promptly recognized from prior sessions of research. Xander OâTarin, she mused inwardly, not particularly surprised at his presence. Sheâd figured the man might make an appearance in the flesh; after all, the leader of the Black Star would surely want to see off this particularly important undertaking â to proffer a parting pep talk to the S.O.D.âs fresh meat before they zipped off into the stars toward their dangerous imperative.
He turned, and peering from where sheâd taken her place at the leftmost end of the queue, Akaya could see a turian female further down promptly snapping to attention, her voice crisply reiterating what Akaya already knew. She, herself, did not bother saluting. With her hands clasped behind her back and her bag settled neatly on the ground before her, Akaya merely stood impassively, her head canted a few scant degrees as she listened. One brow quirked slightly upward at OâTarinâs first words. Wouldnât call myself a soldier, necessarily. Unless a soldier of fortune counted. While she had an adequate understanding of military decorum, Akaya couldnât quite find it in herself to care about it. And though she certainly was good at killing, following orders wasnât quite her fortĂ©; prostrating herself in displays of subjection, even less so. A soldier, maybe, but a poor one at best.
The man droned on. His words registered with her as he strode down the line, but only marginally. Her own conviction to the Unionâs ideology was tenuous, at best. Politics and social movements had never been of any particular concern to her; all that had mattered had been survival. Sheâd extricated herself from Omegaâs complex tangle of squabbling cabals and their affairs by acting as a faceless, impartial sellsword, not questioning or caring about the motive behind the job â just doing it, and collecting her reward. That much hadnât changed. In a sense, then, this was just another contract, albeit one with the extra satisfaction of striking back at the institution that had sought to erase her. And that was motivation enough.
OâTarin made way for another human male, and Akaya squinted, taking in his features, his bearing. Though not as physically imposing, Marshall still carried himself in a manner befitting his rank. His speech was brief in comparison, a mere establishment of directives before he turned and departed, the turian from earlier trailing in his wake â but not before snapping at the rest of the collective, of course; aggressively restating what, again, had already been established. Akaya contemplated whether that was what she was here to do â the S.O.D.âs very own redundancy specialist â and wrinkled her nose near-imperceptibly. She was vividly getting the impression that she wasnât going to be especially fond of this particular compatriot.
In their wake, there was silence, broken by the shuffling of feet as the rest of the Bladeâs crew drifted off to get settled in. No shortage of quarians, she reflected, but that had been anticipated. From what she understood, Union space was practically swarming with them. That wasnât anything objectionable, of course; her place of residence had put her into contact with virtually every spacefaring species out there, and sheâd become accustomed to the distinct psychological and cultural divergences of each. Quarians, she could tolerate. Turians, with their heavy insistence on respect and integrity? Not so much. Theyâd always grated on her.
Akaya lingered for a moment out of interest. Her dark gaze fell on OâTarin again, who had stepped forward to have a word with a young quarian girl, one heavy hand resting on her shoulder. Interesting, Akaya reflected, observing the exchange, the gift, and the fact that she was referring to the human as her father. Akaya did not comment, did not pass judgment, only ruminated on it for a fraction of a second â and then filed it away, hefting her bag and slinging it over her shoulder as she strode toward the gantry. Thirty minutes â long enough to get her things situated, and then maybe do a spot of exploring, before the party really got started.
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The crew of the Freedomâs Blade shuffled awkwardly towards their vessel, none particularly eager to advance ahead of the crowd or speak especially loudly. Kosakâs four eyes raked over his compatriots carefully, scrutinizing each one. He recalled the strategy heâd always used during his time in C-Secâidentify allies, investigate assets, and anticipate threats. With a crew he knew so little about, this was difficult, but Kosak could already make rudimentary predictions.
There were a cluster of quarians, three humans, two asari, two krogan, two turians, a drell, a geth, and a volus. The quarians likely didnât pose any threat, and perhaps they could even sympathize with the inequity his people faced. Allies. The humans, turians, and asari might not be so favorable towards himâmost rarely came into contact with batarians, even on the Citadel and other dense population centers. The krogan and geth Kosak classified as threats. He was wholly unfamiliar with geth, never having seen one up close, although he had encountered more than a few krogan on the Citadel. They were temperamental, to say the least, and Kosakâs often-sarcastic demeanor did little to help. The drell perturbed him; she had seemed bored during OâTarinâs speech, as if she was simply waiting for her next chance to kill someone. Threat. The volus could be an asset, he figured. When ruptured, a volusâ tightly-sealed suit could quickly become an improvised explosive device, with results that were messy, to say the least; C-Sec didnât post signs saying Warning, Volusâ suits are pressurized for no reason.
The batarian cringed. What was he doing? These were the people he needed to make himself trust, not use and dispose of, not like others had done to him. The entire reason he had joined the Union was for the sake of his people, whom, he knew, could not survive isolated from other races, as they had been.
The Hegemony was living on borrowed time, anyway, he mused. Even if Shepard hadnât wiped out Aratoht, the Reapers wouldâve done it anyway; and even if the Reapers hadnât come, the Alliance wouldâve blown the Hegemony to bits in the next war.
Kosak resolved to put aside his prejudices, his predispositions. If he couldnât how could he expect any other batarian to do the same?
And yet, nervousness and suspicion lurked within him. The commander of their vessel had seemed as trepidatious as he wasâthough his brief, uninspired words hid these feelings considerably less well than Kosak did. Was there really anything in him, or had he simply been appointed meaninglessly, to be some lackey to the Unionâs higher echelon?
The turian executive officer grated on him even more. The stiff, militaristic yell in her voice as sheâd addressed the crew had made him grind his teeth in irritation. Who was he that he deserved to be treated with that kind of derision? Some rodent in the streets?
It was better than his commanding officers in C-Sec, he supposed. They had treated him with fake grins and simple tones, like they were speaking to childâa buffoon. He could only hope that heâd get some semblance of respect. And besides--he was in the military now. The real military, not C-Sec or the Blue Suns or Blood Pack. A real military organization demanded respect, the yes, sirs and no, sirs that Kosak had never learned. He didn't know if he could.
He pushed his doubts aside as the crowd neared the end of the passageway. The sleek, dark craft came into view, and despite himself, Kosak felt awed.
It was the Freedomâs Blade.
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The Geth platform classified as G-UT-IP-73 saluted. The programs of the platform had extrapolated the intent of the statement mid sentence then come to a general course of action before it had finished. There was one chief reason not to salute, the small energy cost of the movement. There were multiple reasons to salute. Most centered around group trust and giving cursory information that the platformâs design was applicable to general military forces within the Union.
The platform stopped saluting when the call to ease was made. The leader of Black Star went into a short speech that the programs of G-UT-IP-73 identified as intending on boosting the personal motivation of those before him. As he did so, the programs went back to gathering and processing general information about the mission, the crew they were to be a part of, and other non-related topics. Though they made sure to store the information Xander O'Tarin was communicating.
The Geth of the prototype platform were close to finishing sorting through the operational briefing they had received three hours earlier when the platform had been activated. It had been speculated that they would be done before now, however the complication that had occurred during startup had been a setback.There had been 353 geth programs assigned to inhabit the G-UT-IP-73 platform. Now there were 356.
Upon startup there were two geth programs that were activated on hardware for the first time. These were programs that had been written specifically for implementation in this platform. Shortly after the installation into the prototype platform, due to the presence of these two first time activations there resulted in three new programs written. Creating a platform generation. Unfortunately this had created a situation where the platformâs âlife-cycleâ had been reduced from thirty down to seven years.
Despite this complication, it was decided by the Processing Power Heresy consensus that the prototype platform would still report to its live action testing environment. Considering that 7 years was still an adequate testing period. With the Council-Union war looming so close on the horizon, it was likely the project would either be implemented or canceled before G-UT-IP-73 was forced into decommission by the Hardware Limitation Revelation.
By the time Xander OâTarin was finished with his speech and handed over the floor to Commander Marshal, the Geth of G-UT-IP-73 had finished processing the briefing data it had been provided with. They noted the orders to store personal and operational items after boarding the craft. The G-UT-IP-73 platorm did not have any personal items. The platform had also been shipped to the Freedoms Blade separately from its stock weapon, the staple of all union forces, which was likely already stored in the armory.
After the second order call came from the Turian Major, G-UT-IP-73 decided to report directly to the conference room and await the briefing there. The platform followed the rest of the crew into the Freedomâs Blade, pacing with the intention of not invading personal space while still reaching its destination as quickly as possible.
As the platform boarded the ship, it pinged the ships Geth Core. Simultaneously relaying relevant information about itself and its experiences, while also requesting specific and nonspecific information about the ship and the geth that inhabited it. To organics this was generally speculated to be similar to a greeting or salutation, though in actuality it was much more intimate than that.
At the end of the ping, G-UT-IP-73 attached a value associated with the total size of information processed in creating the message. Considering that the ships core was part of the General Collective and not the PPH Collective, this was observed by organics one of the very few Geth âJokesâ.
The first information sent in the reply from the core, âRannoch is our home.â, was the âresponseâ to the jokeâs âcallâ.
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"I know what I signed up for. I know what we're up against. Just give me orders and i will follow them" he thought to himself.
He started to make notes of the various crew members boarding the Freedom's Blade with him.
"A lot of fellow Quarians here. Though Im not suprised given this vessel's origins. Humans are tad unpredictable thanks to their large diversity in personality. I just hope the doctor di. his homework on Dextro biology. A Krogan too? I've never worked with a Krogan before. Their typical enthusiasm for combat and bravado should be fairly entertaining. That Batarian... I havent seen one of them for a long time. Im honestly suprised their species survived the Reaper War given what happened to their home system. I... should probably keep that to myself."
He was lost in thought, but quickly snapped to when the crew was at least 10 feet in front of him heading towards the ship. He grabbed his first duffel bag and slung it across his back and grabbed the second with his left hand. "And so it begins!" He said aloud, though he only gets puzzled looks in response. He pulled up his right omni tool and looked over schematics for the weapons to be issued to the crew aboard the ship, making plans on ways he can customize these weapons.
"What i have planned for these weapons... will probably be illegal."
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What struck Heuran was that these people, these soldiers were far more battle scared than himself. True â he had been tested in battle, he had avoided fire while picking up civilian and ally alike- but he hadnât been through the battles and campaigns the warriors and mercenaries around him had. Hueran was set up for an altogether different kind of warfare, the one that goes on in an injured body, of falling blood pressures and rising temperatures. He was adept at saving lives, but taking them was a skill that would need to be improved upon.
As Heuran built up a history of his patients, Commander Marshall stepped forward, and Heuran pulled up his file. His was the sparsest of all the files, his physical history was near complete and apart from a few broken bones and scars he was in prime condition. What truly interested Lieutenant Heuran was the psychological history; a wall of black tape was all that greeted his investigations. The Commander was clearly a complex individual â and for the S.O.D intelligence officers to completely scrub a manâs psych history it meant one thing, mental baggage. The doctor would have to keep an eye on him.
As the turian with an unfortunate intra-rectal implant barked them on to the ship Heuran gathered his equipment and moved forward, always gathering information, how a person carried themselves, how they walked, the scars they showed â the ones they didnât. This assignment would be a tricky one, and as the embarked on their deadly imperative Heuran knew his skills would be tested to their extreme.
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âOfficer on deck!â
âWe donât have to salute do we? Oh look the robotâs saluting. Typical artificial behaviour. I never understood saluting. Iâll show you my hand and that means I respect you? Waste of time if you ask me.â Cormack looked around examining the Skyllian Queen. He had never been one for interior design and decoration, but the shape of the ship was art to him; the soft humming of the engines was music in his ears. OâTarin babbled on, âYouâre going to save the galaxy. Only through the power of friendship will you prevailâ, or some such rubbish. Cormack didnât care. He just wanted to be in the hull of his ship, not up here listening to some old man grumble on.
Cormack looked left and right, examining his new crewmates. âA lot of Rannoch-clan here. A lot of Rannoch-clan everywhere these days. Amazing feat, considering their history. Earth-clan, Palaven-clan⊠Tuchunka-clan? Oh dear.â Cormack had been told stories of the Tuchunka-clan as a boy, how they would sneak into the rooms of naughty boys at night and rip their arms off. Or how they killed an entire alien species thousands of years ago. Cormack has always thought the genophage had been a good thing, because he was terrified of Tuchunka-clan. He continued to inspect his new friends. âThessia-clan. Wonderful. Although I may have to try to keep them off me, we have important missions to do here. I should tell them at the first opportunity I get. No Thessia-clan, you may not have a piece of this whenever you please.â He had a history with members of the Thessia-clan, or so he believed. One when on a date with him after he had just joined Black Star. It was nothing serious, she did it out of pity mostly, but Cormack has had somewhat of an obsession with those blue beauties ever since.
âAlright scrubs, you heard the Captain! I want you shit in your quartersâŠâ
âWhat a charming Palaven-clan,â he thought, âI think Iâll stay out of your way.â Cormack followed the others out. He found himself walking right behind the Tuchunka-clan, his leathery ass wobbling in Cormackâs face as he walked. Behind him walked the Karâshan-clan. Cormack felt a shiver go down his spine. âWhy do I get the feeling heâs looking at my suit?â
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She took in the collection of individuals that were to be her new crew mates. An interesting assemblage, she thought. There was another Asari, such as herself, which provided a comfort in her that she wouldn't be alone in sharing her culture. A krogan and a drell, both of which looking like they've seen their fair share of conflict, if the scars were anything to go by. Geth, volus, turians, a whole conglomerate of Quarians, and two humans also stood among them. One human, the Commander, was a formidable looking man, who Arintha thought suited his role as their leader. The other a young medical professional, who seemed to fidget about, nervous. Lastly she spotted the lone Batarian, and twinge of sadness came over her. She remembers, so clearly, when the news came of the Batarian worlds being near annihilated at the hands of the reapers those centuries ago. How their population was on the brink and their refugees flooded into anywhere they could. After the war, no one, especially not the Council, had even cared abut their fate, or really the fate of any non-Council race. Which was why Arintha had trekked out to the outer systems of the galaxy, helping those that she could. She has spent most of her many years post-Reaper War in the outskirts of the galaxy, doing whatever work she could find. She had felt the neglect the Council had had towards the worlds outside Council Space, and their actions (or lack thereof) were what had pushed her into the arms of the Union, and of BSTG.
The turian woman stepped forward and snapped a shrill command, and a large imposing human stepped forward. Arintha recognizes him as Xander O'Tarin, leader of the Black Star Trans Galactic. He gave a stirring speech, which only reaffirmed why Arintha had agreed to join SOD, to unite all species and systems. As O'Tarin finished, Commander Marshall stepped up, giving his straightforward commands to put your things away and report for duty, and once again the Turian Major barked a harsh order. Arintha picked up her bag. She didn't have an overabundance of personal items, a few keepsakes, clothing, her tools. Her most important items were probably the small collection of holos she had in her bag. Many of them featured her with another asari, with striking violet skin and a regal pose. Arezza T'Peara... Arintha's first bondmate. Also pictured was a small asari child, their daughter Kasra. The two had died trying to escape Thessia during the invasion by the reapers, and Arintha's memory of watching their shuttle being shot down was as vivid as that of any drell. Other of the holos held pictures of a batarian man, laughing or smiling, usually covered in engine grease of some sort. Uratokk, who came after Arezza by more than half a century, and lived with Arintha for over half a century more. Arintha had met him during her time in Batarian refugee camps, and they had been happy together, even with all the conflict in the galaxy.
Arintha smiled, walking with the rest of the crew onto the Freedom's Blade, bag in hand, reminiscing about her past loved ones. She knew that whatever she would be doing as a SOD agent would be important, and would effect not only her but many many people in the galaxy. And she was ready for it, to take on whatever responsibilities befell her. She looked around once again at her new crew mates. These people were soldiers and mercenaries and even killers. She didn't know them yet, only had her own vague assessments of them to go off of, and she certainly didn't yet trust them. But she was hopeful that, in time, she would be able to.
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âYou are all soldiersâ the human OâTarin began with a voice which was used to being heard and obeyed. âYou have chosen, or been chosen, to serve the people of this galaxy . . .â
Daraâs posture remained immaculate, but he allowed himself a small scowl. He understood perfectly well why they couldnât be given any details about their assignment before this point, but he was hoping for a little less pep talk about a bit more briefing before departure. From the personnel reports it was obvious that the Blade would be doing one-the-ground work behind enemy lines, hopefully more reconnaissance than sabotage and infiltration, but from what Britus had told him only Dara, the captain, and the XO had even been given that much. And apparently she had to go to considerable lengths to convince the Brass that Dara needed those reports to do his job.
â. . . shutup, shutup, shutup . . .â
Startled by the audio glitch, Dara surreptitiously started a diagnostic program on his suitâs systems, hoping that it wasnât playing loudly enough for anyone else to hear. What would be causing that anyway? Maybe one of Telonâs pranks which he had missed, though this didnât quite seem like him.
A moment later the audio loop stopped, but the report came back negative. But that couldnât be right, unless someone had actually been talking. But who would be dumb enough to . . .
Stealing a glance to his right, Daraâs eyes grew wide and his mouth hung open. There were five Quarians in the lineup, which meant that the male in the ragged half-suit had to be Reegar. His report classified HatjanâReegar as âextremely unstableâ and said he had been rejected after miserably failing a psychological test. So weâre going out with half the crew barely old enough to be back from pilgrimage and someone who should be in a care center, Dara thought, remembering to close his mouth and infinitely grateful that he had decided to wear the mask today.
Feeling the last bit of optimism he had about this post sink out of his chest and into the ground, he had his Geth schedule an audience with the captain at his next availability and began to wonder what the hell Britus had gotten him into.
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The Turian Major stood at the head of the line, incredbly erect. Next to her was the ship's Commander, John Marshall. Alex had heard about the man's accomplishments. They were impressive, to say the least. The ship and her crew were in good hands. As he looked down the rest of the line, he noticed the abundance of Quarians. It was to be expected, being this deep in Union space, but it troubled Alex. Even with their immune systems recovering, they could become a liability if their suit was punctured during battle. He realized that one of them was quivering as he stood. Alex noticed the pieces of Turian and Asari strapped to the Quarian's belt. He made a mental note to stay as far away as possible from that one. As he continued down the line, there were two turians, another human, a krogan, a batarian, a drell, two asari, a geth and a volus. The last two were strange additions, but Alex did not mind too much. As long as they were capable soldiers, he would accept them on his team. He could tell everybody was surveying each other, but something was off. It took him a moment, and he realized that nobody was paying any attention to him.
He found this strange. Being one of the largest humans in existence, people usually gawked and stared as he walked by. His teammates paid him no attention. He chalked it up to the fact that he wore such normal clothing compared to the rest of the crew's flashy apparel. He had chosen a form-fitting dark grey shirt, and a pair of olive green cargo pants. He had even decided to dress up and left the sleeves on. His battered pair of aviator sunglasses sat comfortably on his nose, and his dog tags rested on the middle of his chest. He saw one of the asari glance at him, and gave her a small smile. It would do him no favors to make enemies with his teammates. He noticed that the majority of the people in line were looking at the Krogan. Alex had fought with and against many of these warriors, but he could tell that most of the crew had never seen one so close. The Krogan was large, and physically impressive. But Alex had fought bigger... and won. Regardless, it would do him good to become acquainted with the krogan. As stupid as they could be, if you managed to drill an idea through their thick crest, they would destroy worlds to defend it.
O'Tarin finished his speech, and the crew was dismissed. As the people around him filed into the ship, Alex rummaged through his bag and found the package of Batarian cigars his father had given to him back on Bekenstein. He lit the end of it, and drew in a deep breath of smoke. The cigars always reminded him of home, and never failed to cheer him up. He grabbed his bag, a cigar and smile on his lips, and sought out to find the most solitary area of the ship.
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