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Chapter Text

The SSV Skyhold is a serviceable ship – clean, orderly, and with a smart crew. And at its helm her captain gathers several of her officers and highest ranking soldiers. The war against the Reapers has been long and hard, and it is far from over. And although the ship's halls are spotless, the hardships of these times shows in her people. They are weary, and slow to answer their captain's call.

“I apologize for pulling you all from your duties,” Captain Leliana starts. Her posture is straight and her uniform is neatly pressed, but there are telling bags under her eyes that can't quite be covered with makeup. “But we've received orders from HQ. Admiral Hackett's ordered us to reclaim Benning.”

“What?!” Dorian sputters and struggles to maintain his composure. “Don't we get a chance to pull ourselves together at least? Resupply? We'd nearly used everything we had at Luna.”

Leliana's lips thin as she regards her Armory Chief with carefully blank, icy eyes, “The Admiral didn't elaborate, but I'd assume our forces are pulled thin enough. He'd relayed our vessel was the most capable in this sector. With Reaper forces controlling the planet, Arcturus Station is starving. If we want to gain an edge, and focus our attentions on Earth, the Station is our priority, and by default, Benning.”

“But to reclaim an entire planet,” the pilot swivels in his chair, but ultimately decides to stand with his arms crossing over his broad chest. “That's mad, even for us.”

“I'll take your opinion into consideration, Flight-Lieutenant Rutherford, but our orders still stand,” Leliana replies a bit clipped, her nerves nearly worn away.

“If we don't die on Benning, we will die elsewhere. Tis merely a matter of when,” Cullen's 'borrowed' co-pilot comments in her low and dangerously lazy tones. She's from the forces on Luna – borrowed by way of her entire company having been massacred by Cerberus forces, her nearly amongst them, and the SSV Skyhold being in need of competent help.

“How could you say something like that?” Cullen blurts. “You'd so willingly make your son an orphan?” He'd seen her looking at holos of her boy after being assimilated into the crew, and he'd asked after them. He was shocked that someone so callus could turn so warm when speaking of her child.

“Do not speak of something you do not understand,” she spits back. “Follow your orders, or do you fancy treason?”

“I – no.” Cullen deflates and sits heavily back into his pilot's chair. He looks towards his captain, but his gaze ultimately settles on the ship's XO. “Then what's our plan for reclaiming Benning?”

Josephine smiles, but it's noticeably not one of her brightest. “Lieutenant-Commander Trevelyan will lead a squad on Central Benning with recon as a primary objective. Our intel on the planet's enemy activity is noticeably... scarce, and so we need more information before we can plan further.”

“Some communications are coming in,” Specialist Harding pipes in, “but with the buoys gone to crap, the feeds are pretty much scrambled.”

“Will I be takin' a full squad down?” Trevelyan asks with a carefully disinterested drawl.

Captain Leliana nods her head once, “We can't know what you'll face once you're on the surface, and it's better to err on the side of caution here. If need be, LT Pentaghast can take a second team down to offer support.”

“Who will be going with whom?” Cassandra asks with her gaze swiveling around the cockpit's occupants. The office space normally reserved for such meetings is packed full with supplies scavenged from Luna, most of which hasn't been sorted yet. Their rations and munitions could be better stocked, and the Med Bay has been seeing patients in a steady flow since touchdown on the moon's surface. Dorian was only slightly exaggerating on how poor their supplies are, but there's still a noticeable strain on the crew because of it. And to face such another daunting mission so soon... it's a bit too risky for the LTs tastes.

“Trevelyan will be taking a mako in from Central's limits to reduce the risk in aerial countermeasures. So that means Blackwall's with him,” Josephine glances to the datapad glowing a faint orange with her notes from her earlier debrief with her Captain. “Recon indicates the need for an infiltration specialist, so Sera, despite the earlier... mess she'd caused in the heavy munitions port.” A tactful understatement, in the least. Sera had used a poorly controlled biotic lift in the fight with Cerberus agents on Luna where she'd nearly blew up the entire base because heavy munitions were colliding with each other. “In the interest of preventing serious bodily harm,” Josephine continues, “Doctor Solas will be in the squad, as will Armory Chief Pavus.”

“Wonderful,” Dorian huffs quietly.

XO Montilyet continues without paying Dorian's comment any heed, “Your squad,” she turns towards Cassandra, “which will very likely need to be sent in, will be traveling by shuttle due to a press on time for any support operations.”

“Will Cole be piloting?” Cassandra asks with a raised brow. She'd rather have the boy at the shuttle's helm than anyone else – she learned that the hard way after narrowly escaping Earth.

“Yes,” Josephine nods. “And that leaves you with Specialist Tethras for recon, and the Chief Engineer for added gunfire. You will be going in with a partial team, since Doctor de Fer is needed on board.” Josephine pauses with a shift of her weight. “If needed, Doctor de Fer will lead a third team depending on the circumstances. Possibly for extraction.”

Cassandra frowns a bit at that, “I'd like to have another soldier with me when the situation is so unknown.”

“Speak with Bull,” Leliana offers. “Engineer Aclassi may be amendable to joining your squad. Although it is likely your squad will need to be sent in, we won't know for certain until we reach Benning. A partial team may be enough for a support drop.”

“I have to debrief Bull still,” Josephine starts. “You can come with me to engineering bay if you want, Cassandra.”

Cassandra nods with her gaze quickly running over her comrades with a sense of foreboding clenching her gut. Something about this mission doesn't sit right with her.

Chapter Text

The sound of the Iron Bull's raucous laughter is grating on Cassandra's ears, even from across the cooling array where she's standing before Engineer Aclassi. Krem's bent over with a few diagnostic tools Cassandra couldn't name held in his hands as he nods along with her request. He's not the slightest bit phased in suddenly joining a support squad – one that will quite possibly be called to action at a moment's notice facing unknown and likely numerous hostiles on a planet known to be in enemy hands.

He shrugs while he stands to his full height, absently wiping a bit of unknown liquid from the coils of the array that are submerged in the stuff onto his coveralls. “Had worse stints with the Chief,” he offers by way of explanation, and casually accepts the position on the squad. He slides the tools onto his belt after wiping them with a rag hanging off one strap of his blues, and continues with another small shrug. “You need a gunman, and I can be that man. No problem, LT. When's the drop?”

“Roughly ten standard hours,” Cassandra replies with her lips pinched thin. She still doesn't like the sound of this entire operation. “Possibly longer depending on Reaper activity.”

“Well, I just finished maintenance on this hunk of junk,” he comments while reaching out and sliding his fingers effortlessly on the hard-light interface at the edge of the massive array. The array shifts with the sound of metal sliding against metal and collapses a bit to hide the coils from sight. “Plenty of time to grab a bite and crash, with the Chief's permission, of course,” he adds almost as an afterthought.

“We'll be going in with full gear. Be ready,” Cassandra makes to back away on the raised platform to the adjacent stair. “And thank you,” she adds after a moment while she remembers her manners. “I am certain that you will be a valuable asset to our squad.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves her off. “Save your ass-kissing for the Captain, LT.” Cassandra raises a brow at the implication, but turns on her heel to walk down to the mouth of the engineering bay where Josephine is, presumably, still debriefing Bull on the coming mission.

The Iron Bull is a tall man without a single hair on his head, and is much more intelligent than first appearances would grant him. He prefers his chosen moniker versus the horrible slew of letters that were bequeathed unto him as a child, and, honestly, Cassandra has a hard time imagining him as anything other than 'The Iron Bull'. He's the annoying, yet efficient, Chief Engineer responsible for keeping them from suffocating to death while they sleep or floating aimlessly in darkspace. Though Cassandra feels pressed to amend her internal assessment of the man when she spies him with his uniform shirt tied around his waist, the straps of his coveralls hanging loosely at his sides, his chest bare and the tribal dragon tattoos on his shoulders on display with a blatant disregard for the regulations. He even has a string of incendiary grenades hanging off his belt for some unknown, and possibly dangerous, reason.

“So, let me get this straight,” she hears him say while she walks towards the two standing beside the bay's doors, minding the passing engineers – Bull's 'Chargers' as he calls them – and slides beside Josephine at attention. “Our primary objective is to watch the Boss' ass if he gets into some deep shit? Ain't rescue ops more your style, XO?”

“Typically,” Josephine agrees while passing a nod to Cassandra. “But, this is officially a secondary support operation with recon being the primary objective after Trevelyan's squad is secured. We need to find out how many Reaper forces there are in Central Benning, where they are, and we need to locate any survivors. Transmissions are still bouncing off the buoys, so it follows that there are some civilian or Alliance forces in hiding near the communications towers in the capital.”

“Right,” Bull absently scratches the side of his head. “But we're leaving Sol to do this, right? We've been stationed here since everything hit the fan.”

“The Alliance is fracturing under the strain of the Reapers and the splintering cells of Cerberus forces,” Josephine supplies before she turns on her ever present datapad, runs her fingers against the pad's surface, and then holds it out in Bull's direction. “This is Arcturus Station as of 21:00 three solar days ago.” Cassandra cranes her head forward a bit, and she can see the distinctive silhouette of the station crowded with yellow-stripped cruisers – Cerberus is trying to push their way into the heart of the Alliance. The image fades into another, this one showing the shadow of a pair of Reapers in the distance. “Enemy forces have created a blockade, one that is currently being stormed by our available forces in the area. More would come to call if communications were the least bit stable, but, unfortunately, few are equipped with arrays that can function well with so many buoys going dark. As far as we can gather, it appears much of the Alliance is holding out in scattered pockets doing what they can without stable communication with HQ.”

“Shouldn't we be there?” Bull points towards the datapad, “That'd be my primary objective, not some farmland.”

Josephine turns the datapad back around in her hands before replying, “Estimated projections for the blockade are not favorable at this time. It appears Cerberus forces have intel on the Station's layout, and are targeting critical areas. Weapons systems, life support, and ship and cargo bays are some of the heaviest hit. Last communications with Admiral Hackett revealed the blockade to be a week strong and food stores already critically low. When the blockade is broken, the soldiers and families on the station will need to be fed, and Reaper forces and their allied Cerberus cells need to be eliminated on Benning for that to happen. We are currently the only vessel entrusted with this assignment.”

“So we get the boring job while everyone else gets to blow shit up and have a helluva time doing it?”

“I can promise you, this assignment won't be boring,” Cassandra finally interjects. “You have seen Trevelyan in action before, haven't you?” she asks wryly with one raised brow.

“Ha!” Bull laughs with a grin stretching his face wide. “You've got the Boss pegged, Pentaghast. Hm,” he taps the grenades hanging on his belt thoughtfully, “Maybe I'll finally get to give these little fireballs a go.”

Cassandra eyes the grenades suspiciously, “Do I want to know what those are?”

“Probably not,” he shrugs, “but they'll blast a hole through whatever mess the Boss digs up, that I can guarantee.”

Chapter Text

The last half hour before a mission drop is set to launch is probably the most stressful, at least, for Dorian. As Armory Chief the dashing biotic is charged with maintaining and equipping the weapons of all battle-ready soldiers aboard the vessel. And many people, quite needlessly, wait until the last handful of minutes before a drop to gather their weapons and personal supply of clips, explosives, and even the rare melee combat-class instrument or two. Dorian knows each shotgun, plasma projector, and turret from tip to tail and personally slaves over each very deadly tool in the SSV Skyhold's arsenal. Well, Dorian corrects himself as he hands off the pistol he was set to cleaning to his second, Dagna. She, obviously, helps too, or Dorian wouldn't subject himself to the girl's endless chatter.

She takes the pistol with a quick smile, and Dorian walks himself to his personal armor locker, set securely away in the armory's workshop and not amongst the rows of lockers in the front of the bay. Having this personal space is like a breath of fresh air, and Dorian wouldn't trade this little corner, this little locker, for the world. It's one thing to have to subject himself to communal showers, but this little space is his and he relishes the chance to ready for battle without an audience. Not that he would mind one, normally, but he has learned in his time with the Alliance that privacy is a precious gift when you serve on starships.

After adorning his debatable needlessly elaborate light armor, Dorian goes to the corner of the workshop that he's also claimed as his , and fits his M-11 Suppressor and his M-37 Falcon that's just as tinkered with as his aforementioned pistol onto his person. There are some perks to being Armory Chief, after all. Having first dibs on most scopes, barrels, and grips are just some of the things Dorian adores about his position on the ship, not that he'd ever say so within earshot of the Captain or anyone else. Although, as Trevelyan plows through the workshop's automated doors with one of his grieves askew and neither of his weapons strapped to his person, Dorian is quite familiar with the downsides. His squad leader is notoriously one of those people who are always tardy on readying for a mission.

“Neither my gun's in my locker,” the man states while swiping back a questionably too long fringe of blond, and already sweaty, bangs from his forehead. Dorian merely has to grab his stock of heatsinks and make his way down to the bowels of the ship to wait out the rest of the time before 'drop's a go' in the silence of the shuttle bay. He was looking forward to some quiet before the chaos begins.

While Dorian's busy trying to mind the armored plates on his gloves as he scrubs his face is frustration, Dagna, again helpfully, pipes in, “The Captain asked that your weapons be outfitted with extended barrels and kinetic capacitors – the ones we picked up on Luna. Your poor guns needed them too,” she exclaims. “Why you always wait until the last possible moment to requisition upgrades for yourself, I'll never know.”

“Don't like having to mess with anythin' new,” he shrugs and makes his way over Dagna's station. “You got 'em?”

“Yep! Here,” she pats the low steel table she's standing in front of.

There's a small smile playing at the edges of Trevelyan's lips while he hefts his assault rifle from the table, and an audible groan from Dorian. “The X Kovalyov. You do know you aren't living in the dark ages?” Dorian asks with a roll of his eyes for added dramatic flare.

“It's been good to me,” the man defends.

“Hardly,” Dorian scoffs. “That hunk of metal is almost as bad as your sniper.”

“I still get more headshots in than Sera,” Trevelyan counters.

“Only because she's too busy blowing up everything in sight to pay her scope any mind.”

“Don't you two have to get down to the shuttle?” Dagna interjects. “I think the ship's almost in range now.”

Dorian glances at the holo-clock installed above the fabricator for weapons' parts; the one Dagna toys with when they have the occasional raw material on hand. Yes, now they have ten minutes – roughly enough time to make it down the stair and check-in over the comms before launch. “We have to get our asses movin'.” Dorian agrees, and wordlessly follows after the Trevelyan while his fiddles with the straps of his loose grieve. Dorian shakes his head at the man's back. Their squad leader is a mess.

“There yer are!” The blonde bobbed head of Sera pokes out from the Mako's hatch when they finally enter the shuttle bay. “Blackwall won' lemme sit shotgun!” she complains.

“I've infinity calls on shotgun!” Trevelyan shouts back, “You know that!”

And their squad leader has infinity calls on sitting up front in the Mako, too, apparently. A small part of Dorian wants to crawl back to the armory bay and go back to cleaning and calibrating 'til his heart's content. He surely doesn't have to be there while they slink around and shoot husks on Benning, right?

“Why the frown?” A deep voice asks from somewhere to his right, and Dorian cranes his head to see the Iron Bull, the metal horns adorning the sides of his helm a dead giveaway, coming towards him as they walk to the Mako. “We're about to get into some shit!” the man grins a far too happy smile, in Dorian's opinion.

“Right. Shit,” Dorian scowls. “And how long are we going to be 'in this shit', anyway?”

“Why?” Bull leans towards him. “You've got something better to be doing?”

“Oh, yes,” Dorian drawls. “Anything would be preferable to reliving that mess on Luna, now wouldn't it? Those weren't exactly the kinds of fireworks I particularly enjoy.”

“You like 'em bigger than what Sera can pull, huh?” The Bull's grin has a peculiar edge to it now. “I've been working on something,” the brute of an engineer comments with a tap at the edge of his belt where a string of grenades are lined up neatly at the edge of his chestpiece. “I can promise these explosives will be big enough to hold your attention.”

Dorian snorts and lifts his eyes before his eyes wonder, or worse, stare. The brute's charm is near to null, but for some reason his eyes dare to traitorously have a mind of their own when it comes to him. It's not enough that the flirting has gone too far one too many times for his liking, either. “Right,” he says dryly. “I'll believe it when I see it, as they say,” he says before scurrying off towards the Mako sauntering, and most definitely not running away.

“Strap in,” Specialist Blackwall demands in his rather raspy tones signifying a taste for smokes despite the regs against them, “Five minutes til drop.”

'Blackwall', or Specialist Thom Rainier – how that alias ever came about, Dorian doesn't really care to know – is the only one of their field agents approved for multi-class vehicle operations, and Dorian knows this not because the man brags about his skill-set, but because everyone just knows everything about everyone on this ship. Minus the origins of the name 'Blackwall', the amount of useless information rattling around in Dorian's skull is enough to drive him to distraction. Has he mentioned that Dagna likes to chat ? And that he spends the better part of his day in the girl's company?

The drop itself is about as enjoyable as a drop from atmo to a planet's surface in a tank can be. There's the sensation of his stomach trying to come up through his throat combined with the feeling of his ears popping painfully at the change in pressure, and all that is enough to drive the beginnings of a migraine to the base of his skull. But just before the wheels of the hulking beast of metal touch the scorched plains of an alien field, Dorian works up his biotics and cloaks himself in a weak barrier while he grips onto the rungs above his head with tight fists.

When he blinks his eyes open, although he would never admit to having squeezed them closed in the first place, he looks through the barred window to the right of the Bull's head and can make out the wreckage of a skycar smoldering in the midst of the remains of, what he guesses to be, a farmhouse. There's smoke in the distance above the silhouette of skyscrapers, too. And the sky itself is a depressing shade of dingy gray-black clogged with dust and ash. Out of all the things Dorian dislikes, and there's quite a few, Dorian – and the whole galaxy, as far as he's concerned – hate the Reapers the most.

Chapter Text

“Why wasn't I informed of this earlier?”

Josephine is not at all surprised to see Cassandra striding into the cockpit with footsteps that resound with the sound of heavy rubber hitting steel, and so she puts on her best placating smile and turns from the overhead display to greet the LT warmly.

“Hello Cassandra.” She looks up and meets the fire in Cassandra's gaze impassively. “I assume your question is regarding the personnel change in Trevelyan's squad?” She asks with one raised brow, having already anticipated Cassandra's questioning. With the last-minute change, and her various and extensive other duties, Josephine had notified the LT via ping. She'd known she'd come in person though. Cassandra was one of those officers that preferred face-to-face interaction. Or interrogation, depending on the LT's mood.

“Yes,” Cassandra says shortly. “The Chief Engineer was assigned to my squad during the debrief.”

Josephine nods slowly in agreement before moving on to an explanation, “Doctor Solas was called into surgery. Unfortunately, Corporal Michel de Chevin took a turn for the worst. The Captain decided that Bull would make a fit replacement during the interim due to his basic first-aid training.”

“Oh,” Cassandra briefly flicks her gaze down to the toes of her boots in about as much as she would show her chagrin. “What is de Chevin's status?” she asks with a slight pause of hesitation between her words.

“He is still in surgery,” Josephine folds her hands neatly over her datapad, allowing the weight of the situation to settle over them. Of all the soldiers sent to Luna to secure the base once it was discovered that Cerberus had a foothold there, the young man was the worst hit survivor – he'd been within blast radius of a frag grenade and took several pieces of shrapnel to the chest. “If he is stabilized before your squad is called planet-side, Doctor Solas will accompany you on the drop. Doctor de Fer should be able to oversee his care once the procedure is complete.”

“If you are certain?” Cassandra asks with pinched lips that are threatening to outright frown. “I could find a replacement if the doctor is needed in the event de Chevin's condition backslides again.”

Josephine allows a moment to take this into consideration. “We will see if your squad is needed to support Trevelyan, first. I'll discuss alternatives with the Captain if needed.”

Cassandra nods, and both women turn towards the cockpit's display when they hear the slightly static-filled voice of the squad leader filter over the comm, “ Any survivors? ”

The slice of holo-screen with a view from Trevelyan's helmet-cam shows a slightly distorted image of what appears to be a framework of a building twisted together with a barely-discernible skycar. “ Heat signatures are null. Nothing coming in on the local frequencies ,” Blackwall replies. “ No life-signs detected. ”

“Do a sweep of Central's perimeter. Keep it quiet,” the Captain directs from her chosen spot just behind the pilot's seat, a few paces away from the mouth of the cockpit where Cassandra and Josephine are standing.

“Observation to the med bay is open,” Josephine comments to Cassandra, knowing that the LT is worried based on the tautness of her shoulders and the particular pinching of her facial features. Cassandra is relatively easy to read, despite her notoriety as not only a decorated N7 graduate, but for her adaptability and impressive willingness to live and succeed no matter what. Someone of her ilk – the only soldier to have survived the massacre on Akuze giving her a memorability comparable to the Captain's well-known past on Torfan, or even the first human spectre's work on Elysium – would indicate that person would be a hardened soldier borne of steel and stone. Which is true. Cassandra is a force to be reckoned with, but Josephine's found her to be a softie deep, deep inside. And that tenderheartedness manifests in subtle ways in her expression and body language, most of which could be overlooked or misinterpreted. But Josephine knows better. She wouldn't be the ship's executive officer if she wasn't a people-person and didn't know her crew inside and out.

At the skeptical look the LT throws her, Josephine smiles a kind smile again and says, “It could be several hours before they even enter Central. It'll be nothing but empty fields and distasteful noises from Sera until they enter the city. Preliminary scans showed little remarkable Reaper activity outside the metropolis. Seems the Reapers haven't much of a taste for vegetables,” the smile turns into a cheeky grin. She knows there could very well be pockets of enemy resistance stowed away where their ship's scanners can't reach, but she also knows her shipmate and friend could do with easing her own worries before she's called planet-side. As XO Josephine's tasked with ensuring the ship and her operations runs as smoothly as possible at the behest of her captain, and that includes crew fitness and morale.

“Hmm,” Cassandra hums and looks away. “I suppose if I am not needed here, it would be best if I checked in with my squad.”

“That would be best,” Josephine agrees with that smile of hers still firmly in place. “Must ensure everyone is battle-ready.”

Cassandra nods and turns heel with Josephine briefly tracking her retreating back with her eyes. That Cassandra has been a tough woman since Josephine's known her, back when Cassandra, Leliana, and herself were all in N-training. But with the Reapers adding an insurmountable mess of obstacles and stress to everything, it seems as if Cassandra's even more withdrawn and difficult than is strictly necessary. The XO doesn't know when she's last seen her old friend even smile.

Josephine shakes her head at herself and turns back towards the display network splayed over holo-projections on the cockpit's hub displays and the ginger locks of her best friend and captain catches her eye. Leliana is a whole other mountain of difficulties that Josephine concerns herself with. If Cassandra has a hard shell, then Leliana has an entire bunker wrapped around her. Needless to say, if wading through the Reaper threat can take a toll on a person, then there's a whole other form of stress that can mount from managing the heightened emotions and volitions of the people toiling with the Reapers themselves.

Josephine worries at the state of her crewmates and friends, and she's made it her personal goal to see everyone as hale and whole as they can be by the end of this war.

As she takes a seat in a vacant navigator's chair facing towards the displays and ignoring the rude sound-effects courtesy of Sera, Josephine holds onto the faith that there will be an end to this war. She hasn't a doubt that one way or another, the Reapers will someday be defeated. She just prays that that end will be during her lifetime.

After a time Josephine's legs start to turn a little stiff, and she starts to develop a crick in her neck. She had been exchanging pings and bits of data with Specialist Harding while the ground team disabled mines, rogue drones, and recovered caches of munitions from enemy hands on the outskirts of Central Benning. There hasn't been any sign of survivors – and that includes the people holding resistance on the planet's surface and maintaining communications planet-side and intergalatically. There are still signals traveling through the air of Benning, and they're ever-changing in both stability and information. There's no indication of the signals being some repetitive mayday kept circulating by a SI in Central, but rather, from the snatches they've been able to make sense of, they're updates on enemy movement and pleas for help from the survivors. The best they've been able to conclude, as it correlates with their earlier suspicions, is that the survivors must be within Central itself closer to the communications towers to be able to relay information so often.

If the crew of the SSV Skyhold can gather as much, then surely the Reapers must know of the survivors. If they do, then time isn't on their side.

Josephine had also been tracking Trevelyan's squad's movement, and it seems their sweep, having revealed very little critical information, is near an end. They'll be entering Central soon, and Cassandra's squad should ready themselves. Deciding that it would be best to update Cassandra in person, this time, Josephine compiles her data and quickly sends the files off to the Captain. She knows it will all need to be written into proper reports at a later time, but she also knows Leliana should have easy access to the information as the mission progresses.

She pops her spine, sends a short salute Leliana's way, and makes her way to the stairwell that ends at the corridor leading to the infirmary. Last she knew, Cassandra was making rounds with the intention of observing de Chevin's surgery at some point. Last updates from Chief Medical Officer de Fer were that de Chevin's condition was still critical, but stabilizing. There's a bit of shrapnel wedged between his ribs and dangerously close to his heart. Another piece had nearly severed his arm at the joint of his hardsuit.

Josephine smiles politely and spares a moment for idle chatter with passing ensigns on her way to the open observation port adjacent to the med bay, and skids to a stop as she rounds the corner. Cassandra isn't alone. Josephine let's a secret little pleased smile grace her lips as she quietly backs away from the edge of the open room, but still close enough to listen in on the room's occupants. The former infiltrator-class operative isn't above a little spying every now and then, especially when it concerns one of her friends. It's her responsibility to know her crew, after all.

“It could've been worse,” she hears an unmistakable male voice say in uncharacteristically soft tones, “at least he's still in one piece.”

“And not a casualty,” Cassandra agrees with a weary sigh. “...It could have been worse,” she repeats even softer, and Josephine wishes she could see the two to know what brought about the shift in Cassandra's tone.

“Hey, don't get like that on me, Seeker,” the male voice says. “We're both still kicking, aren't we?”

“For how long?” Cassandra growls. “How long do we have until we're one of the millions the Reapers have already slaughtered?”

There's silence for a long, long moment, but in the quiet Josephine strains to hear, and she can make out the sounds of low murmuring and... kissing? That secret smile of hers grows and she can feel the warmth of a blush staining her cheeks as she makes to return to the stairwell. She had thought, well... Cassandra seemed to be a little bit too stringent on Alliance regulations to allow herself to engage in... fraternization. And with Specialist Tethras! The smile on Josephine's face is an uncontrollable thing now. She knew the two were on poor terms when Varric was first reassigned to the crew, due to no less than the impressive string of marks on his record. He's an excellent marksman though, and so Leliana took a chance on him just months before the Reapers hit Earth. His disregard for regs has obviously rubbed off on the LT. And now Josephine feels the need to amend her internal assessment on Cassandra's state. If Cassandra has someone to trust and share comfort in, then that shell she'd thought around her must be more like a shield directed against the onslaught of the Reapers, and not her heart.

Josephine knows something about that. She thinks back to that kiss she shared with Squad Leader Trevelyan just after the ship broke Earth's atmo when the Reapers first attacked the home world. Facing life and death on a galaxy-wide scale puts some very important things into perspective. Josephine's learned that life is a short, fragile, and fleeting thing. And that any opportunity to live should be taken and not let go. With that in mind, she leans against the cool metal of the stairwell's wall and brings her trusty datapad to life with a swipe of her long fingers. After accessing the ship's messaging system, she sends a ping to the LT informing her of the mission's progress and instructing her to ready her team in the event they'll need to respond quickly if Trevelyan's squad needs support. A ping will have to do this time. Josephine doesn't want to intrude.

Chapter Text

There was a hydroponics plant beside a farmhold just southeast of Central that Captain wanted scouted and secured before they could all take the Mako into the city. The place was deserted. No bodies, but there were plenty signs of struggle evidenced in blood splatter, scorch marks, and abandoned shotguns amongst other things. The prospects once they entered the city weren't looking too good, not that Trevelyan put much stock in it being anything good in the first place.

Sera walked up to the nearest console and unceremoniously tore off the side paneling before snaking her thin arms up into the circuitry. “No blasted power,” she grumbles. “Someone move their arse 'n find the friggin' generator. Farmer types always got redundancies. One thing they got. Friggin' dirt's another.”

“Right,” Trevelyan rolls his eyes in amusement. Sera's young and brash, but a damn good hacker. Bit trigger happy though, and biotics happy too, come to think about it. But they get on well enough. She'll follow his orders, and they bicker on and on like long lost siblings. “Dorian. Bull,” he nods towards the two men hovering nearby. “Secure the perimeter. I've got the generator.” He taps the side of his open-face helmet, “Keep comm links open.” There's some half-muttered grumbling before the two walk off, and Trevelyan himself turns on his heel towards the plant's entrance.

“It's gonna be a minute,” he radios in to Blackwall, the man having stayed behind in the Mako to monitor systems, “Let us know if somethin' comes up on the scanners.”

“Aye, aye sir.”

Trevelyan exists the hydroponics plant to walk towards the back of the building where they'd spotted solar arrays prior to disembarking from the Mako. On his way, he powers up his omni-tool and switches over his comm to a private signal he'd set up with Josephine months ago. “Hey sweetheart,” he calls, “Whatcha up to?”

“Eli!” He can hear the smile in Josephine's voice. “I'm on my way to the CIC to rejoin the Captain in standing observation,” she pauses and he hears her take a breath. “Did anything happen?”

“Naw,” he reassures. “Just need ta fire up the generator so Sera can get at a data cache.” He rounds a corner and looks around briefly before continuing on his way. Nothing in sight but wilted plants and ash. It's depressing as all hell. “Where ya rejoinin' Captain from?”

“Med bay observation,” there's another pause. “Michel's condition is still critical.”

“That's too bad,” he mumbles with genuine sorrow. “He's a good kid.”

“A fine soldier,” his girlfriend agrees. Can he even call Josephine his girlfriend when they haven't been on an actual date? Don't really have the time to do that in the middle of a war, but still. Josephine would like to be treated like a lady, he can tell, and he wishes they were afforded at least a semblance of normalcy. “You'll never believe what I saw!” She continues after a moment with her voice a few octaves higher in her apparent excitement.

Trevelyan allows himself a small smile, and takes the bait. Josephine's a bit of a gossip, but he loves her for it all the same, “Whatcha see Josie?”

“Cassandra and Varric!” She whisper-squeals, if that's even a sound a person can make, but Josephine's made it. “I think they're together!”

He snorts a short laugh. “Really?” he asks incredulously, “Well, ain't that somethin'.” Eli likes the both of them well enough, but he'd never thought they'd wind up as an item. He knows his Josie has been chattering on and on about how cute they would be, once Dorian let her in on his observations of not-quite-subtle sexual tension between the two. Him and Josephine were different. They just sorta... came together. And it works for them. He wouldn't have it any other way.

“How long do you think they've been... you know?”

“I don't know,” he replies while rounding another corner approaching the back of the building. “Doesn't really matter, now does it?”

“Well I want to know,” she sighs a dreamy-sounding static-filled sigh.

“Of course you do,” he says fondly. “Be careful not to pry too much into their business,” he cautions. “LT wouldn't take kindly to that, I think.”

“I will venture to be discreet,” she promises. “Talk to me,” she phrases the request as a question, “until you come back, please? It's nice.”

“I can do that,” he says while sliding up to the array and starts looking for the control keys. “I've gotta go now Josie.”

“Stay safe,” she wishes as a farewell.

“I'll try my best,” he says just before switching his comm back over to the team's signal.

'I'll try my best,' that's really all he can promise, now isn't it? With the whole galaxy gone to shit, there really isn't much in the way of reassurances any more. He could get jumped by a husk at any time, or the Skyhold could be blown to bits from a Reaper in a heartbeat. As a career soldier, he's used to the danger, but it's the uncertainty that's clawing at him. Communications with brass are crap, and entire worlds are being thrown into chaos. Some are wiped off the map before their distress signals are even decrypted. They can't keep their enemy in their sights, and that's the worst.

The solar array's control panel is labeled in French, and instead of powering up his 'tool and translating the damn thing, Trevelyan decides that he knows French well enough and presses the largest button he sees. The array's panels shake and start to move with a terrible creaking sound, and instead of angling towards this planet's sunlight, they start to collapse in on themselves. He curses and punches the control panel, and the array screeches and stops all movement.

Blinking at the damn thing stupefied, and pissed, Trevelyan internally curses that there's a reason he's squad leader and not on tech support, and it's apparently a good one. He thought he could handle a godforsaken solar array though.

“Bull,” he calls on his comm. “Gotta problem here. Machine's busted.”

“Right, Boss,” there's humor in the large man's tone. “On my way.”

There's another screech, but it's not coming from the array. Trevelyan peers off into the distance while he hefts his trusty riffle from his back and into his arms. “Bring Dorian 'n Sera along too,” he says while cocking his head and peering into the scope. “There's trouble.”

Chapter Text

If there was one thing Bull could always count on, it was the boss getting himself in some kind of trouble. Stumbling into a varren's nest, running head-first into redundant security protocols, accidentally activating a YIMR that he was trying to deactivate, or even pissing on a guy's foot – that was the boss. He'd always find a way out of it though. Bull was oftentimes bewildered at the man's natural talent for evading shit. He's a good guy though. Simple. And that kind of straightforward kindness and proclivity towards navigating through hell is why he's made an excellent squad leader, so far. Bull's just waiting for something to blow up in his face. He's got a hundred credits riding on it, in fact. Not that he hopes he'll get injured or fail miserably at something, oh no, it's just that Varric's a wise ass, and so he took the bet. Mostly so he'd be able to hold it over the Specialist and have a few laughs at his expense. Maybe share a few drinks and crack wise, too. Good times.

And by the time Bull's rounded up the two biotics of their squad, they run out towards the back of the building they were securing to see the boss taking pot shots at a mass of grey wiry things with unnaturally gaping maws – husks. Mutant fucking bastards. They creep the shit outta Bull too.

“Fire in the hole!” Bull bellows while clicking a grenade off his belt, depressing the activation key, and tossing it as far into the mass of creatures as he can. It's not one of his special grenades, oh he's saving those for something good, but rather a cryo bomb spraying liquid nitrogen, amongst other nasty stuff, all over the snarling grey things and freezing body parts together and completely immobilizing a few.

“There's a lot of activity,” they hear Blackwall break over the comm, “What's your status?”

“Trying ta kick the arse of a crap load of mutant zombies!” Sera yells while unleashing a lift field over the closest husks just before scrambling into cover behind the solar array with her limbs flailing about, “Thanks a bunch for the warning there Blackwall! Dropped the ball a bit, huh?” Her voice drops off into a mad cackle while she pulls out her sniper riffle and starts shooting the floating husks haphazardly.

Bull barks a laugh before lifting a thin disk from a pouch in his utility belt. He swipes his thumb along the middle and throws the disk about a foot in front of him on the cracked earth. The disk blinks a vibrant orange once, twice, and then lifts as a hard-light sphere solidifies around it – Bull's combat-class drone. He activates his omni-tool while completely ignoring the poorly aimed shots from the Reaper creatures with particle beams, and initiates the search and destroy protocol on his drone while the Captain's voice filters through their helmets,

“Two dozen hostiles in your vicinity,” she intones, “Conserve ammo. Rely on tech and biotics. I want the area secured under twenty.”

“Watch you surroundings, Bull!” He hears Dorian blurt from somewhere behind him, and when he turns to look towards the Armory Chief, he sees him cloaked the faint blue shimmer of a barrier and picking off the husks affected by his earlier grenade. “Your shields won't hold forever!”

“Worried about me, Dorian?” He grins through the clear face of his helmet. “I've got double generators. They'll hold just fine. Don't worry your pretty little head.” He can practically feel the other man roll his eyes.

“As much as I normally like you all's normal chit-chat,” Trevelyan breathes heavily in their ears, “Can we just get to killin' these damned things?”

“I am killing them!” Sera laughs, loudly.

With his grin still firmly in place, the Iron Bull pulls his shotgun from his back and steps up towards the front of the solar array where the boss has taken up a post. Trevelyan nods once in his direction before breaking in over their comms again,

“Dorian and Bull, I wancha both watching the flanks and thinning the herd. Sera stay high. I've got the front runners.” There's a sharp intake of breath and a hurried, “Oh shit!”

A hulking beastly creature is charging down from a bend in the field of withered crops and making a beeline for their troops. It has a twisted head of a turian adorning a body more suited to a krogan and making a sick caricature of two of the galaxy's fiercest inhabitants. It bellows a loud wordless sound and starts charging in earnest once it makes eye contact with their leader.

“That's a big bloke,” Sera gasps.

“Blackwall!” Trevelyan shouts into the comm, “Be on standby to bring the Mako 'round. We've got one of 'em brute guys. Might need the big guns for this one.”

“Belay that order,” Leliana's voice chimes in. “The Mako's munitions are to be conserved for Central. This hostile can be taken on foot.”

“Fuck!” Dorian curses loud enough to be heard without the aid of the communicators. “Pardon me,” he needlessly apologies, “What are our orders then, sir?”

“Sera,” Trevelyan starts, but she interrupts with a quick, “Already on it!” With the crack of her sniper riffle echoing against the metal-plated head of the Reaper monstrosity.

“I've got something special for this one,” Bull chuckles darkly and quickly swaps his shotgun for the grenade launcher slung comfortably over his back. “Boss,” he starts, “you might want to tell the troops to fall back,” he cautions.

Trevelyan's eyes flick towards the string of unmarked grenades lining the engineer's belt while the larger man plucks one from his belt. “New toys?” he asks with a smirk pulling his lips and excitement brightening his eyes.

“Uh huh,” Bull grins and punches his omni-tool to start up his flickering orange tech armor. “You might wanna move.”

“You heard the man!” Trevelyan shouts into the comm, “Move your asses back into cover!”

Bull turns his head just quick enough to catch Trevelyan running back to the edge of the hydroponics plant with a protesting Sera firmly in his grasp and Dorian trailing after the two with backwards glances in his direction, before he takes a deep breath and hefts the considerable weight of his grenade launcher onto his shoulder. He takes a careful aim on the massive creature gaining on their position, and without another thought fires his weapon. There's a sharp ding of something hard hitting something else just as hard, before the whoosh of flame and heat heralds the billowing explosion spreading over the immediate area. The screams of husks are snuffed out almost as quickly as they're heard, and the sizzling of the Iron Bull's tech armor as the bit of tech struggles withstand the onslaught of fire is all he can hear while he looses his vision in a blanketing bright white light. When the world starts to come back into focus and the buzzing of Bull's kinetic generators winds down, there's nothing but a small crater where crops and enemies once were. There's a considerable amount of ash in the already dusty air, but not even a bone fragment of the herd of Reaper spawn they were fighting against can be found.

“Whoohoo!” Trevelyan cheers over the comms, “That was kick ass! How many of those you got?”

“Did ya see that explosion?” Sera near whispers in awe.

Bull chuckles, hard, “Four left, Boss.”

Chapter Text

Despite their win of that battle, the fireworks and all that shit, things rapidly went down hill for the ground team after that explosion of Bull's. That blast, impressive enough to be recorded and integrated in an audio book, attracted the attention of all the baddies in their vicinity. Securing the hydroponics plant and picking at a data cache was abandoned in favor of, well, making a run for it. They fled into the Mako and tried to outrun the veritable horde after them.

They got to the outskirts of Central's limits before the heat was just too much.

The team veered off from any notable path to dodge and skirt past hostiles through the ruin of buildings and vehicles. They found a place to hunker down in a dilapidated skycar garage just within the city to wait until it was cool enough to venture out into the metropolis and finish their mission. They simply didn't have the resources or firepower to plow through the area guns blazing. Though if they did it would certainly make for a better story.

Varric knows all this not because he was privy to the observation of the goings on in the cockpit, but because Cassandra was busing herself debriefing her team on the situation. Trevelyan's squad had hunkered down, but the Reaper bastards found them, and now they're boxed in. And, more importantly, they were being sent in to pull all the others' asses out of the fire before the mission goes to complete shit, or worse they get themselves made into Reaper paste.

The specialist takes a quick look around at his teammates to gauge their reactions with the prospects of all the fun they'll soon be having. The Kid, their shuttle pilot, is staring at the Seeker with his eyes nearly bulging out of his head and his mouth partially open, and despite his impressive expression Varric can't quite figure if that's fear or excitement lighting that face of his. Chuckles, well, he looks utterly worn out and Varric has to bite his tongue on whether or not the doc should really be going groundside in his current state. He's been pushing it a bit too much, in Varric's opinion, but a doctor oughta know whether or not they're mission worthy, right? The last one of their lot, one of Tiny's guys, is simply taking everything in with a kind of grim determination that makes the author in Varric wonder at the guy's story if he's taking in the idea of a horde of Reaper uglies without even an eyebrow twitch. Scary shit.

Varric finds the whole thing annoying, potentially exhausting, and, okay, maybe he is just a little bit worried. Not for himself, but for the Seeker. She's been taking shit pretty hard. Anyone pulls so much as a hamstring on their ship, and it hurts her, he can tell. Maybe that's exaggerating on his part, but he knows she's never taken to losing shipmates well. Given that bullshit on Akuze though, who can blame her? And furthermore, what kind of asshat would even take to losing people well in the first place? Varric mentally rolls his eyes at himself. He's just concerned. Flat out.

Varric doesn't have very many people to worry about in the galaxy though. His father practically offed himself when he started dealing in red sand in the Traverse, and his mother was a goner the moment she started taking the stuff. His brother though, getting tied up in Cerberus and getting his head screwed up by a derelict Reaper. Hawke had the clearance and had told him what happened to Bartrand. Messed up shit is what that is. Well, that brings Varric back to his point. He pretty much only had Hawke and the rest of his old crew to worry over, even if he's on the Skyhold now. And... and he had the Seeker.

The timing was all fucked up, but they... they just worked . And Varric had decided long ago that he wasn't going to take anything for granted. Especially something as good as what he had with the Seeker. And, damn, but it was good. Better than what he thought he had with Bianca, and Varric still wonders why it took him so long to see that relationship of his coming to its inevitable end. But the Seeker, he's willing to take a chance with her. Varric's nothing if not a betting man, and so far lady luck's been on his side.

His lips twitch up in a smirk while he obediently stands at attention with the others of their team in the debrief with their commanding officer. Varric's listening with one ear while his eyes trace the dips and curves of the lieutenant's scarred face, fully enjoying the distraction of her full lips forming droning words. Lips that he knows exactly how they press against his, and what kinds of sounds they can make. Cassandra quirks an eyebrow at him, noticing his distraction, but he simply shrugs a bit and tries to tamp down on his wondering thoughts and growing smile. Things have been slow, but steady between them. Given the Reaper invasion though, it's a wonder they even gave it a shot in the first place, let alone had the chance to.

And there goes the dark thoughts again.

Seriously, sometimes having an overactive imagination is a real downer.

Varric caught 'the importance of stealth ' and ' speed and efficiency ' while he was busy scowling at himself, and then their team was off to the Gunnery before he knew it. Damn, but he's not on it today. He better get on it though, what with Chuckles practically out of commission and Cassandra with that look in her eyes. It's the kind of look that gets a soldier badges, and the kind of look that spikes Varric's worry again. Hawke used to poke fun and call him a mother hen, but, hell, if no one else is looking out for their asses, Varric damn well will. Especially with the Kid piloting. He's even more jumped up than Isabela when she got her hands on a questionably modified propulsion injector. A shiver still goes down Varric's spine when he thinks about it. He knows the Seeker's impressed with the Kid's gunfire-avoiding maneuvers, but it just makes Varric nauseous. Sea sick's better than dead though. So there's that.

Shit. This mission's gonna be about as fun as that time Varric was forced into coercing Blondie's cat out of a maintenance shaft. Varric quickly abandoned that thought. Damned cat. He still has scars from the scratches. He'd told it as they were from a rabid varren, though. Made for a better story then getting scratched to hell from an orange tabby.

Varric wonders if he'll have to embellish the retelling of this mission to make it more palatable, or if it'll just be exciting enough on its own. Nah, he doubts that. If anything, he'll probably have to take it down a few notches to make it more believable.