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Commander Hornet doesn’t like to brag, but she’s pretty good at her job.

Sure, the galaxy has made major strides in recent times— especially with Commander Shepard’s role in the ongoing Reaper War— and still that hardly negates the fact that it’s hard for a human woman to make her mark in the military. From Basic all the way to her N7 designation, it’s been a hard-fought battle that she’s managed to win with nothing but her blood, sweat, and determination to see herself placed above all the other flaking men in her ranks.

When she finally moved from recruit to private to sergeant to lieutenant to that lauded title of commander, she had felt nothing but pride swelling in her chest. Suddenly, she was no longer the little soldier who tried her best not to get caught underfoot while the other boys ran rings around her— now, she was clapped on the shoulder, cheered for, exclaimed that she was the best of the best from her regiment. In all honesty, if she didn’t have Captain Vespa with her, Hornet wasn’t sure if she would have ever survived as long as she did. She had the grit and drive, and yet there were some things that even the most indelible of soldiers could not face. Thank God for Vespa— and a bit of nepotism.

Well, that was then. This is now. Now, Hornet has been a Commander for years, leading her boys into the front-lines, or however close one could get to wherever Commander Shepard was doing her work. The Reapers were giving the galaxy hell and Hornet was damned sure that she was going to return fire.

Amid the legendary Commander’s work, there have been whispers that the Council is looking to recruit even more Spectres into that secretive circle of theirs. Of course, these are all rumours. Completely unreliable information. But if there’s even a single chance to climb that final rank into the same circle as the other strongest soldiers in the galaxy, then Hornet wants— no, needs— to take that chance.

There are no sure-fire ways to become a Spectre. Only that one must prove themselves in the line of battle, and show through hard actions that they are deserving to be part of Special Tactics and Reconnaissance. Then, and only then, can Hornet say that she’s the best at her job.

Right under Commander Shepard, of course.

“Captain Vespa.”

“Commander.”

“You wished to see me?”

The captain leans back in her chair. Her office in the Citadel is a cushy little place, although it’s decorated sparsely. The few things that show her personal life are the photos lining her desk, such as the portait of both herself and Commander Herrah locked arm-in-arm in a hospital. In Herrah’s arms is a small baby, fat-faced and wailing.

“No doubt you’ve heard what the Council’s planning, yes?”

Hornet nods. “Yes. I assumed it was just recruit talk, though. You know how they are, what with the war right now.”

Vespa tuts. She shuffles some papers on her desk, looking for something that is most likely buried beneath piles of paperwork that she’s neglected to do. A few have ink-blot signatures dappled over dotted lines, and others have giant X’s crossed over them.

“I remember you being the same when you first enrolled. In Basic—”

“Forgive the insubordination, Captain, but I don’t think either of us need to recall my time in Basic,” Hornet says, an unbidden flush growing in her cheeks. And just for good measure, she adds, “Please, sir. Ma’am.”

“Right,” Vespa replies with a chuckle. She manages to find the paper she was looking for and hands it over to Hornet. “Here. I thought this might be of interest to you.”

“This could have been e-mail.”

“Everything could be an e-mail. I find paper to be more personal. Reminds me of home.”

Unlike many of her recruits, Vespa was born and bred on Earth. All humans are human, but not all of them are Earthlings. It makes the Captain stand out a bit amidst the other higher-ups, but Hornet has always found that to make her just that more personable. Captain Vespa likes the wind and the rain, the natural shifting hues of an Earth spring. All Hornet has known in her life is the cold, hard walls of ships and stations.

Still, some part of her always dreamed of wandering the fields of Earth, from its megatropolises to its hidden valleys. That would probably have to wait until her retirement, though— if she ever survived that long.

Hornet turns her attention to the slip of paper. It’s got confidential written all over it, hard-to-read jargon littering the page. Her eyes glaze over as her mind summarizes the basic points, but snaps to attention when they notice one very specific set of words.

Spectre. Recruitment. Human.

“So, it’s true?” she asks.

“Apparently,” Vespa says. “I know you’re on shore leave, but keep this in mind. The Reapers wait for no one, Commander; this could be your chance.”

In coded language: there’s going to be an assignment soon where you can prove yourself to the Council that you belong amongst the greats. Take this time to train, to prepare, because once that command lands in your inbox, you’ll want to be flying out of the docks without a moment to spare.

That command doesn’t come until weeks later. In fact, it comes two whole missions later when Commander Hornet is back on the Citadel while she waits for her coffee to be made at one of the newer cafés that’s been built in the station. Absently, she thinks that it’s a bit of a weird time to be opening a coffee shop while in the middle of an intergalactic and intensely destructive war, but she supposed that was the nature of war. Life had to continue on, no matter what.

It’s busy on the Citadel today. Swathes of privates and recruits hover around the café, probably eager to get a taste of real coffee after subsisting off the powdered shit they have on the ships. It’s a simple indulgence. But it’s an indulgence that Hornet enjoys just as much as the trainees do.

Hornet hears her name called and she rises from her table to fetch her drink. The size of the crowd has grown since she first placed her order; it forces her to nudge her way around the lanky boys that float near the counter, shoulders bumping and hips shoving. It’s a miracle that she manages to make her way through the throng, only to find that someone else’s coffee order was placed right behind hers. He reaches out for his drink just as she does hers, and both cups go tumbling across the countertop.

“Oh, fuck,” groans Hornet.

“Oh, my!” exclaims the man.

There’s coffee everywhere. On the counter, on Hornet’s hands, and definitely now dripping onto the floor. The crowd has begun to shuffle away from the café, watching with sudden recognition as to who both spilled the coffees.

Commander Hornet, she hears whispered in the crowd. There are some mentions of her crew, her ship, and her battles. And in the other corner, she hears another name. Commander Quirrel: his crew, his ship, his battles.

The two look at each other and lock eyes. He must have heard the chatters, too, if his sudden gaze is anything to go by. The surprise slowly melts from his expression as he smiles small, head nodding toward the mess of coffee and cups and liquid-logged napkins.

“I’m sorry,” he says, all politeness and immediately making Hornet look like a stone-cold bitch for not apologizing first, “let me get you another. On me.”

Hornet narrows her eyes. She falls back on suspicion when certain variables are unknown to her in situations, but this isn’t a battlefield. It’s not even a training session. Right now, she’s in front of a bunch of kids and they’re waiting with bated breath to see what the two commanders will say to each other.

So, she relents.

“That would be appreciated. Thank you.”

The café workers discard all other orders and whip up both Hornet and Quirrel’s coffees like they’re going to be shot on site if they don’t do so. Obviously, Hornet would never harm a civilian; although, to be fair, she always keeps her sidearm on her no matter where she goes. Still, it’s fairly frowned upon to pull a weapon out while on diplomatic grounds.

Allegedly.

Quirrel brings both of the coffees to the table Hornet has situated herself back at. She expects him to place the cup down, apologize once more, and then take his leave after Hornet makes an attempt to pay him back out of courtesy. Instead, he slides into the seat across from her and continues that smiling of his.

Before taking a single sip of his drink, he extends his hand out and introduces himself.

“Commander Quirrel. It’s good to meet you…”

“Commander Hornet,” she replies, taking his hand into hers. His palm is warm from where he held the coffees, now pressed up against her own grip. His handshake is firm, which Hornet thinks is the minimum that would be expected of a man of his rank.

“Hornet?” he says. “Like the bug?”

“Yes.”

“Is it a callsign?” he presses.

“No.”

Hornet expects there to be blissful quiet after that. Her shore leave is a whopping total of two days (or one, if you consider how much of that time she spends training in the range), so she’d like to make the most of her singular moment to enjoy her coffee in the Citadel’s hums and whirs.

But not so. Her fellow commander continues his talking, going on and on about callsigns and missions and old captains.

“They tried to tack one onto me back when I was a lieutenant,” he says with a laugh. “Books, it was. As far as callsigns go, it wasn’t a bad one; I’d heard way worse. But it was still awfully strange hearing sergeants call me Books until the captain put a stop to it. Maybe I was too nice to the boys— probably still am.”

For some reason, that name brings up an old memory of Hornet’s. She closes her eyes for a split-second, digging deep in her mind for a mention of a Lieutenant Books. In there, she sees glimpses of gunfire and aged reports, eyes widening at the details within it. And then, as sudden as a flashbang, the remembrance blinds her completely.

“You were Lieutenant Books?”

“Not anymore!” says Quirrel, hands raised in embarrassment. He nearly topples over his coffee again with the motion and he goes to correct it before it spills all over the crisp, white table. “It’s been a long time since then.”

Not really, if Hornet’s memory is serving her correctly. Somewhere around five years ago there was a geth invasion on some colony planet, and the SSV Warsaw was called to respond to it. The ship’s head was a Commander Jenkins, with his right-hand being a Lieutenant Books— which Hornet was later informed was not the Lieutenant’s actual name. Either way, the invasion was bad enough that the colony had lost nearly half of its population, and the Warsaw’s crew were working in quite bad conditions.

The planet was no Eden, and had harsh weather that came in the form of massive windstorms that would pull anyone not bolted down to the ground up and away. The geth had some advantage in being literally made of metal so as to remain mostly planted; the colony did not.

It was through some ingenious tactical decisions from the Lieutenant that allowed the rest of the colony to survive. Apparently, Lieutenant Books had rigged some kind of biotic field to somehow displace the gravity in the area. He wasn’t a biotic, yet that didn’t really matter when he was clever enough to figure out the colony’s gravity mechanism to enhance it by threefold. Sure, everyone moved slower, but that hardly mattered when the Lieutenant was also a skilled sniper. Make the enemy move through molasses and then pick them off from afar.

“I remember hearing about your involvement in that mission,” Hornet says. “It was a very impressive report.”

Quirrel waves a hand. “Ah, it was nothing.”

It was definitely not nothing, but far be it from Hornet to convince someone who doesn’t want to hear their work be complimented. Lieutenant Books— now Commander Quirrel— is clearly the type to not care for effusive praise. That, or he genuinely thinks that his actions for the colony did not constitute any sort of impressiveness. If that’s the case, then Hornet wonders what does fit his definition of praiseworthy.

“But you, Commander,” Quirrel says after a beat, “I’ve heard much about you.”

Hornet scoffs and takes a sip of her coffee. “All complaints, I’m sure.”

There’s a reason why Hornet is lovingly nicknamed Commander Hardass in the Alliance Navy. Not that anyone would say it in front of her face if they valued their life, but the name always proved to be true whenever someone met her for the first time. Stony-faced, cold-hearted, Hornet was overwhelmingly dedicated to the Alliance and would do anything to keep her crew alive, and that meant keeping a level head.

This wasn’t boot camp. This wasn’t training. This was the real world and when lives were on the line, Hornet would rather be perceived as the mean bitch she occasionally was as opposed to being the sweet-hearted commander who let her emotions rule her actions. Emotions got people killed, and nobody wanted that.

“Oh, you know how the Alliance likes to talk,” Quirrel says. “I don’t pay them any mind.”

Hornet raises a brow. “Are you advising me, Commander?”

Quirrel mirrors the action. “That depends on whether or not you’re looking for it, Commander.”

A silence passes through them. The empty space is filled with the monotonous chatter of the Citadel, of people passing by and discussing plans on park benches. A group of asari glide along, some salarians are talking science, and innumerable humans drone on and on about how they wish that the war would just fucking end already. But none of that really matters as the universe shrinks down to this infinitesimal moment between two of the Alliance’s very own.

Hornet stares. Quirrel returns the favour.

And then, he breaks out into another damned smile.

“Have you heard?” he whispers conspiratorially, offering no further information whatsoever. That stupid grin is still on his face, which Hornet has only just noticed is completely devoid of scars. It’s an awfully strange thing for a soldier not to have. Either Quirrel is terribly lucky, or isn’t the type to put himself in the line of fire.

“Spit it out, Commander. I’m not here to figure out riddles.”

Quirrel just laughs and nods his head amiably. “Okay, okay. Sorry. It’s just that there’s a rumour going around that the Council is on the lookout for another Spectre— specifically a human one. Heard anything about it?”

Yes, Hornet wants to immediately respond. And I’m gunning for it, so don’t you fucking dare even think about showing off to the Council with all your tech-tricks.

She doesn’t say anything of the like. Instead, she chugs the rest of her coffee and places the cup down on the table with a smidge more force than she intended to. It has the same effect as her thoughts, though; the surface rumbles with the collision, and Quirrel has to right his cup up once more.

“Not in the slightest,” she says. “And you’d best avoid gossiping in front of the recruits if you want to keep up appearances.”

“It’s nothing that they don’t already know.” Quirrel shrugs, and then adds, “Plus, I was trying to feel out the competition. I know Commanders...”

Quirrel’s voice trails off just as Hornet is startled into a stark realization. For reasons that she doesn’t care to ponder, Hornet thought she was the only one who knew that it was a confirmed fact that the Council was looking to recruit another Spectre. These were unprecedented times, after all, and the good Commander Shepard couldn’t carry the weight of the universe on her singular shoulders.

Well, she probably could, but that wasn’t the point.

The point was that it was in the Council’s best interest to find another like-minded human to provide additional support to their one and only other human Spectre, considering that she was the sole reason the galaxy even knows about the Reaper threat at all.

In conclusion, the next human Spectre needs to be like her, Commander Shepard. Someone powerful, someone strong— someone who doesn’t take shit and gets the job done.

Someone like Hornet, perhaps.

“… so, yeah. I’m assuming you’re not putting your ticket into the box, then?”

Oh, hell no. Hornet was going to lodge her ticket so far into that damn box that the cardboard would explode. She’d smash it into pulp before anyone else had a single chance to even get their name in— niceties be damned.

It’s clear that Quirrel is aiming for that position, too, if his expression is anything to go by. Though he comes off as friendly and amiable, there’s a quietly-hidden competitive streak that settles just below his demeanour. His brow is pinched just lightly. His smile is a little too wide. And his arms resting on the table are more rigid than anything, shoulders piqued as he awaits her reply.

Hornet can see it as plain as the stars in the sky that Quirrel wants to be a Spectre. Badly.

“I don’t know,” she lies. “It’s a great responsibility to bear.”

“As they say: nothing ventured, nothing gained. The path is already laid, so why not follow it?”

Hornet rises, empty coffee cup in hand. She looks down at Quirrel, who in turn looks up at her. If she peers close enough, she can see her face reflecting in his eyes; her cropped hair, the slithering scars along her chin, and her hard, unmoving expression. She wills it to remain so as she replies, “Not every path is meant to be treaded.”

Hornet was a military brat.

As a spacer, she spent basically her whole life jumping from station to ship, ship to Citadel, and then back to other stations. Her father— a hot-shot advisor for the Council who everyone called King, in spite of his given name being far more boring than that— hadn’t cared for a life moving in the stars. That didn’t concern Hornet’s mother, Commander Herrah. In fact, it concerned her so little that when she found out she was pregnant, she up and left him without a second thought, which probably didn’t mean as much when one remembered that King and Herrah were a one-night-stand type of situation. Herrah also hadn’t cared overmuch that her daughter was without a father. Being raised amongst her crew made up for that plenty.

This was long before the days of Reapers and the tentatively-growing truces between humans and the galaxy’s other races. In fact, Hornet had been born shortly after the First Contact War, with Herrah having served in it. But once her daughter had been brought into the world, the Commander decided that it was best to take a firm step back and take on an administrative role in the Alliance in order to keep herself and daughter safe. 

That didn’t last very long. Herrah couldn’t ever resist getting her hands into the fray.

At least, that’s all according to Captain Vespa, Herrah’s very good friend and former C.O. The unfortunate truth of being a military brat was that there was always a chance that your parent— or parents— wouldn’t come back to the ship, and that’s exactly what happened to Herrah on one fateful day. Hornet can’t quite recall the details, but she does remember the empty ache of her missing mother and the acronym KIA being fused into her skull and the twinkle of dog tags that sparkled with the engraved name Herrah.

This is all to say that Hornet has spent her entire life in the Alliance Navy. Whether part of it, surrounded by it, or quite literally raised by it, she’s been embedded deep in its bones since her birth.

Which makes it all the more boggling to learn that Commander Quirrel (Books, the mean part of her brain says) only recently received his N7 designation in the past few years following the geth invasion incident. According to the records on Hornet’s datapad, he’d been a lieutenant for quite some time, and hadn’t even been in the Navy for very long either.

In truth, he used to be a scientist. A researcher. He’d worked alongside a Dr. Monomon back on Earth, working specifically on biotic modifications to enhance eezo levels and mass effect control in users. This would have been all fine and dandy to Hornet if it didn’t immediately occur to her that this was her direct competition on her road to becoming a Spectre.

Call her crazy. Obsessed. Whatever other word applies to a person who is completely and utterly engrossed in achieving a goal. But Hornet knows that she’s far more qualified than some retired Earthling researcher turned soldier. There is no way in goddamned hell that Commander Quirrel was going to take Hornet’s spot as the Council’s very best.

She’d stake her fucking life on it.

A mission finally comes through that Hornet knows will put her on the Council’s radar.

It’s a distress signal from an Alliance colony planet called Valhalla, named in the same vein as humanity’s other resource-rich colonies that are especially suitable for life, like Elysium and Eden Prime. But places like that always seem to attract the worst kind of attention, as proved by the mission’s brief.

Commander Hornet,

The colony planet of Valhalla has recently experienced a number of calculated attacks from pirates— more specifically, batarian slavers. Though they’ve steered clear of Elysium since the Blitz, their eyes are now on one of our newer colonies that has little resources to defend itself. The colony has been able to defend itself against the slavers for some time due to its new biotic barriers, but their channels have gone dark as of yesterday. We need you to investigate the situation and do what is necessary to preserve the lives of the colonists and Valhalla's resources.

Unfortunately, the colony’s leader, Otto, was recently slain in a batarian attack two weeks ago. The Valhalla colony has neglected to report on who its new leader is, so I advise you to investigate widely amongst the colonists to deduce this.

Captain Vespa

In no time, Hornet is flitting to the SSV Alamo and ordering a request for her pilot to make a beeline to the Petra Nebula, where Valhalla is located.

The ride there is smooth and the jump through the relay is no problem. Soon enough, Hornet’s ship is making a soft landing in the wide fields of Valhalla. Wearing a suit is completely optional on a planet like this one, replete with oxygen and trees and beautiful green grass. It’s awfully similar to Earth; it reminds her of the short visits she’d make to the Alliance’s administrative HQ in Vancouver-Seattle, with its little gardens of cherry blossom trees in the spring and the soft, orange hues of the sunshine growing on the megatropolises’ horizons. Valhalla is a lot like that, but maybe just without all the massive, looming buildings.

Instead, shadows here are casted by strangely-shaped trees, angular and sharp. That, and the colonists’ buildings that are made primarily of hardy steel skeletons and domed tops. There are a number of greenhouses that line the main perimeter of the colony’s base, which spans a fair distance into the long fields. It looks a bit like a summer camp, but with less of that wood cabin appearance.

Hornet calls Lieutenant Lace over to join her in greeting the colony. Although Lace is anything but a military woman, she’d lived in its life for far too long to know anything else, much like Hornet’s upbringing. To quote the lieutenant herself: “I hate the ship and the ship hates me.” Yet, she’s remained all this time beside Hornet after their time in Basic together.

And while she may despise the hard, cold life in the stars, Lace is wickedly good with a sniper rifle and it’s clear she loves shooting with it, too. That’s probably why she’s still here, if not for her loyalty to Hornet.

“Ugh,” says Lace as they disembark together, “I left my Mantis in my apartment.”

“You quite literally have the best rifle in your hands that credits can buy,” Hornet says. “And you want your Mantis?”

Lace tosses her head back. Curly silver hair spills past her shoulder, far longer than the regulation standard. When they first started working together, Hornet tried to tell her to chop the strands to the same shortness as her own, but Lace wouldn’t hear a single word of it. Either she kept it long or she would quit— and Hornet honestly couldn’t imagine the battlefield without Lace watching her six.

Thus, her hair remains as is.

“Commander,” she ambles, “you just don’t understand what me and my Mantis have. We’re like soulmates.”

“It’s just a rifle.”

“But it’s my rifle. She’s sleek and smooth and fires like a dream. Just look at your kit,” scoffs the lieutenant. “A shotgun? Please. It’s all bulk and bleh.”

Hornet rolls her eyes. She’s far beyond writing Lace up for insubordination. It’s already happened so many times, so the commander sees little point in bothering with it anymore. Either way, Lace wouldn’t really care if she got written up since it would just get her kicked out of the Navy in the worst case scenario, which is kind of what she wants.

“I’m a biotic, Lace.”

“As if that explains anything.”

“It explains everything.”

“Well, I’m sure not hearing it from you.”

How Lace ever made it through Basic and beyond is a mystery to everyone who’s ever met her. Prim and prissy, she’s not the type of woman you’d ever think to see fighting the good fight against the Reapers. If anything, you’d expect her to be the one being saved from a burning city as she wails that her nail’s been broken. But Hornet would be damned before she ever admitted that to Lace’s face, especially when she’s holding a Viper in her gloved hands. That thing can blast the brains out of basically anyone, through Hornet’s helmet included.

Either way, the lieutenant should know that Vanguards fight up-close and personal. Hornet’s biotic implant is one of the finest, gained after a hard-earned surgery and a gentle brush with death. The L5n is a thing to be reckoned with in the right hands. Unsurprisingly, Hornet’s are the perfect fit.

Lace hefts her Viper and slings it over her shoulder, the barrel tapping against the side of her head. She sighs a loud and dramatic sigh as they stand at the colony’s entrance gates. Hornet calls out to the ramparts that Alliance Navy members have arrived to provide assistance, but no one responds.

Hornet’s first assumption is that no one is attending the ramparts to watch for visitors, military or otherwise. That would make sense since most of the colony isn’t exactly fit to defend their home, equipped only with the barest of pistols and perhaps a few shotguns. Yet, the longer the commander and lieutenant stand around and wait for a reply, for the gates to swing open, the more suspicious Hornet becomes.

Eventually, a face peeks over the rampart walls. It is a young man, no older than eighteen, wielding a shotgun in shaky hands. His head is slicked with sweat and there are damp stains all around the collar of his shirt and underarms. He practically squeaks when he sees both Hornet and Lace decked out in full Alliance gear, suits of armour hard and shining the the dying sunlight.

“Alliance— Alliance Navy!” he exclaims, mostly to himself. “What are you doing here?”

Lace throws Hornet a bored look.

Hornet keeps her voice level as she says, “We’re part of the SSV Alamo, responding to an SOS launched by the colony of Valhalla. My name is Commander Hornet; this my lieutenant, Lace. And if my pilot hasn’t completely lost it, then I’m fairly sure that this is Valhalla.”

The boy is clearly stressed out of his mind, now shivering even in the heat of the sun. He trembles and blathers while Hornet talks on, detailing what she knows about their situation. Normally, this calms people down. Having the Alliance Navy respond to your distress call tends to be a good thing, after all. But this boy, he instead fumbles with the shotgun like he’s never held it a day in his life and aims it down at the commander and lieutenant.

Hornet’s grip on her gun is sudden and sure. She doesn’t aim up at the boy— her shields are more than strong enough to survive a spray from nearly twenty feet above her— but that doesn’t answer why his sights are locked onto her. It’d be best to keep this as civil as possible. Unfortunately, Lace doesn’t see it that way. Hornet hasn’t issued any commands, and so Lace acts as she will with her rifle trained up at the colonist.

Hornet raises her hand. Stop, wait.

A split-second slips by as Lace lowers her gun, finger still on the trigger. For a moment, it appears that everything will be fine as the boy continues his trembling and stilted aiming, until a hand appears on his shoulder and he fires the gun. The blast rings out into the open air as Hornet raises her shields to cover both her and Lace, the lieutenant immediately sidling behind her Commander with well-trained instinct. When Hornet shields, you duck for cover.

“A little trigger-happy there, hm?”

That voice. Kindly, cheery— a lilt of curiosity laced in the words.

Ah, shit.

Looking to the ramparts reveals the one person in the entire galaxy that Hornet does not want to see. Up there is Commander Quirrel, a hand laid calmly on the boy’s shoulder with a smile decorating his rounded face. He nods down at Hornet, who responds only because she’s got to keep up appearances. It serves no one to see two Alliance commanders squabble like children, especially if only one of them is squabbling and the other is merely smiling.

“Commander Hornet! What brings you to Valhalla?” calls Commander Quirrel, waving.

“I assume the same as you,” she says. “Didn’t think that the Alliance would send out a double order.”

“If you’re here, then it seems like they did. One moment, I’ll get the gates open; I’ll fill you in on everything we’ve investigated so far.”

Quirrel disappears from the tops, the boy following closely behind. Soon enough, the gates swing open with a metallic drone, the whir of engines pushing them outward. Dirt kicks up from the ground in spite of the lines drawn in the ground from repeated use.

Inside, there are dozens of colonists frantically running about. No one makes a sound other than the odd, worried utter, and yet all of them move as if driven by a crazed need to keep their blood pumping hard. They remind Hornet of the recruits back in Basic, frenetic with unkempt energy once the Drill Instructor was gone. 

“Sorry about Mark here,” Quirrel says as he dismisses the boy with a gentle nudge. “My crew has been occupied with the situation and he offered to keep an eye on the gates. I think he was just trying to show off for Matilda over there.”

With that, Quirrel offers Hornet a secretive wink and a gesture over to a young girl who stands beside a group of women. The ladies chatter quietly in a corner near what looks to be a greenhouse, their cotton slacks dirty and faces painted with anxiety. The girl— Matilda— brushes a lock of hair behind her ear as she watches Mark stumble away from Quirrel and into the throngs of colonists.

“A sad attempt, then,” Lace huffs. She extends her hand out to Quirrel, who takes it with a firm shake. “Lieutenant Lace.”

“Commander Quirrel. And we already know one another, Commander Hornet.”

It takes all of her strength, but Hornet does not look at Lace when the lieutenant turns her head to look at the commander. It’s easy to imagine her expression, though: potential bewilderment, confusion, and some surefire mischief. It’s all the more suspicious for Hornet and Quirrel to know each other when Lace is intimately aware of Hornet’s deep desire to be a Spectre— and now faced with her exact rival, Lace is probably concocting a million plans in her head to foil Quirrel’s chance of becoming a Spectre, too.

But Hornet wants an even playing field. While it is true that she wishes for as little competition as possible in order to reach her goal, there’s no glory in a title gained through deception.

“We do,” Hornet says. “A summary, please, Commander Quirrel.”

“Valhalla's colonists have refused to tell us what exactly is plaguing their planet. We managed to defend it from a batarian attack shortly after my crew and I first landed, but beyond that, we’re in the blind. For now, my crew have been keeping watch to see if anything else suspicious is happening.”

“How long have you been here?”

“4 hours. On the surface, it appears like this is nothing more than a regular pirate attack, but…”

“But what, Commander? Don’t dither.”

Quirrel chuckles and shakes his head. “I was thinking that the colonists need a sterner hand to get the information from them. I’ve got my lieutenant working on it right now— unfortunately, his methodology leaves one wishing for a more restrained attempt.”

He gestures behind him, back at the crowd of colonists. A few circle around a tall, proud-looking solider with a scowl etched onto his sharp features. His snarl is all but evident as each colonist shakes their head at his questions.

“Lieutenant Tiso,” Quirrel says, “is sadly not a people-person. I would do the questioning myself; however, the colonists are also not responding well to the soft approach.”

Hornet raises a brow. “Are you often soft in your work?”

“One might say that.”

His gear says otherwise. Quirrel is covered from head-to-toe in top-rank armour, classic N7 colours licking languid stripes along his arms. A sturdy sniper rifle sits comfortably on his side, as well as a bulky pistol that’s holstered on him. Hornet quickly identifies the rifle as a Black Widow— deadly, fast and packed with raw stopping power.

“Sounds like you’ve got your work cut out for you, Hornet,” yawns Lace.

“Don’t think you’re getting out of this,” says Hornet pointedly. “Get a sitrep from Lieutenant Tiso and report back to me promptly. I’d like to waste little time.”

Lace grumbles but does as she’s commanded, stomping off into the colony’s base, rifle bouncing on her back. Both commanders watch as she fades into the crowd, the only thing marking her presence being her stark, steel-toned hair.

“Still not thinking about that Spectre position, Commander?” asks Quirrel.

Hornet doesn’t respond as she heads further into the base.

The colonists are driving Hornet insane.

It isn’t that Hornet is unused to working with colonists. Far from it, actually. Most SOS missions she responds to are attacks on colony planets or other Alliance strongholds that require her ship’s crew. Talking to civvies is just part of the job, whether they be jumpy or awestruck at the fact that they’re talking to the Navy’s best and brightest.

But these colonists? Hornet would take fighting a big-ass Reaper any day if she could get the hell out of this base.

None of them want to talk. Every single one of them is flighty and nervous, so much so that the commander has seen a number of them biting their nails down to the bed. She’s never seen such abject mistrust toward Alliance soldiers before. It’s like the moment she walks up to them, they scatter as if bugs beneath a rock. And to add insult to injury, there’s no sign of a new colony leader— mostly because no one is talking.

Lace’s sitrep isn’t much better when Hornet finally receives it through her comm.

“Your commander buddy’s lieutenant is an asshole. He gave me this look, as if I didn’t belong in the Navy— like, are you joking? I worked my ass off to get to this position and all he had to say was, ‘The Alliance’s standards must be falling.’ We need to leave before I blast him.”

Hornet may have been thinking the exact same thing not two minutes earlier, but that doesn’t mean she wants to hear it from her right-hand. She sighs, “Lace, focus. Sitrep.”

“Colonists experienced a Batarian attack at 1700 hours and are refusing to divulge information about SOS distress signal.”

“Did Lieutenant Tiso mention why two Alliance vessels were summoned to address the signal?”

Lace huffs. “Negative, Commander. As if I could get that information from him.”

Leaning back, Hornet looks up at the awning she stands beneath and groans. Her crew has been here for about an hour and there are no leads as to what’s happened to Valhalla’s colony base. As of now, there’s not enough information to go off of that would let either the SSV Alamo or Quirrel’s ship leave the planet with a full report. The danger hasn’t cleared, if the attitude of the colonists is anything to go by.

The cplonists know something. They just won’t say what.

Hornet goes over what she does know. The batarian attack occurred at 1700 hours, shortly after Quirrel's ship landed; the colony's mood is paranoid, or panicked at best; and two Alliance ships were called to respond to the planet. That normally doesn’t happen unless there’s a pressing battle that requires multiple fighters. But in that case, there would be far more than just two SSVs. There should be cruisers, dreadnoughts, things with more firepower as opposed to recon ships.

Hornet wants to chalk it up to a mistake on Captain Vespa’s part— maybe she didn’t see that the mission was already doled out to Quirrel and wanted to get her late friend’s daughter that coveted attention from the Council as soon as possible. Except, Hornet can’t believe that Vespa, a Contact War veteran, would screw something up something so simple like a duplicated mission order.

Lace’s voice buzzes in her ear again. This time, it’s with less annoyance and more of that mischief that the Lieutenant is so well-known for.

“Sooo,” Lace sing-songs, “that Commander, huh?”

“Lieutenant, keep the comms clear for real reports.”

“Didn’t copy that. Anyways, you know Commander Quirrel?”

Fingers pinch the bridge of Hornet’s nose. It doesn’t stave the growing headache, though.

“Barely. We met at that Citadel café. I never knew him before that,” she says. She’s not sure why she’s entertaining Lace’s antics. Whatever. It’s better than dealing with the colonists and this waste of a mission. Now, she’ll have to find another one that will spotlight her to the Council. Maybe something to do with the Reapers? No, that’s Commander Shepard’s thing…

“Really? You hadn’t heard of Lieutenant Books?”

“No, I knew of him— I simply didn’t know that the Commander and Books were the same person.”

A group of colonists shuffle by, heads low. A few of them speak to one another; most remain silent. Their eyes stay steady and averted— except, there’s one who raises her head.

“Hornet, I hate to ask this, but do you live under a rock?”

“Get to the point, Lace.”

Through the comms, Lace cackles.

“My point is that Commander Quirrel is known for literally one thing only: biotic tech mods. He’s, like, obsessed with them.”

 A colonist girl looks up, and Hornet recognizes her as Matilda, the one who the nervous guard Mark presumably has a crush on. She and the commander lock eyes for a brief moment before Matilda’s brows pinch and she slows in her walking.

“So?”

The rest of the group moves on. Matilda remains.

“So, you’re a biotic. He loves biotic stuff.”

Matilda strides forward, steps hesitant, though they nevertheless push her toward Hornet. Lace’s voice fizzles out when Hornet taps the side of her comm to lower the volume, biting out to her lieutenant, “Get your head out of the gutter and get back to work. Hornet out.”

“Buzzkill,” she bemoans. “Lace out.”

The drone of mechanical heat lamps hums in the background, Hornet realizing distantly that she’s probably standing near one of the many greenhouses in the colony. Inside, she can spot little tufts of green sprouting from the planter boxes, scared children watering the flower garden tucked in the corner. It strikes her as a frivolous thing to grow before remembering that they’re all people— all living beings. And sometimes survival isn’t enough to simply live.

Matilda toys with a strand of blonde hair as she fidgets in front of Hornet, though she eventually stammers out a greeting and introduction. She is, indeed, Matilda, and she’s part of Valhalla’s sole human colony; and she’s wondering when everything will return back to normal and if the batarians will stay far away from the planet.

“That depends,” Hornet says, voice level. She fears that if she presses any harder than pure neutrality that she’ll scare the poor thing off, shivering as she is like a skittish animal. “They will if you explain exactly what happened to the colony. I know about the attack, and I know that it’s happened before. But no one is speaking. No one seems to wish to speak to the Alliance.”

Matilda dances on her feet before tugging on Hornet’s gauntlet. Her frail, thin hands are twigs compared to the trunk-shaped metal, but the grip on Hornet’s wrist is unfailingly strong. She tugs the Commander into a corner of the colony, bracketed by high buildings and the rampart walls. She leans upward and cups a hand around her mouth, breath on Hornet’s ear.

“I can’t speak of it here,” she whispers, wavering. “Meet me outside the base, over near the treeline. I’ll tell you what I know there.”

Then she slips away, sliding back into the fading group of colonist girls who can’t seem to keep their eyes focused. Matilda’s head goes down like the rest of theirs and she disappears around the corner of the building.

Hornet makes it out of the base with little issue. Unsurprisingly, the colonists are all too busy either avoiding the soldiers or attempting to fix up the bullet-battered buildings that the batarians attacked earlier. Part of Hornet expected them to try to repair the broken biotic barrier generator in the base’s centre, but no one dares approach the thing. They all keep a wide berth around the cylindrical contraption, keeping far away from it like the plague.

The commander reaches the treeline, spotting Matilda’s blonde head peeking out of a growth of branches. The girl waves her over.

“Commander, over here.”

Sticks crack underfoot, large boots hitting the dirt with heavy thumps. Matilda anxiously cracks her knuckles as she spies about the space. She only stops once Hornet is in front of her, body blocking her from the view of the field behind.

“Is the secrecy necessary?” asks Hornet.

“Yes. No. Yes. I’m sorry.”

God, colonists. Hornet barely manages to not sigh before motioning with a hand. Continue.

“You’re looking for our leader, right?”

“If you mean the deceased one, no,” Hornet says, an inch from continuing her questioning. But before she can spout another word, Matilda wrenches Hornet’s neck down to her height and bids her to be quiet with a long shhh.

Matilda whispers quickly, “We have to be fast. It’s hard to say where he is— his ears are everywhere.”

“Who?”

“Our leader’s. Otto.”

Otto. That name rings a distant bell.

“Otto? Isn’t that the last leader’s name?”

“Yes,” Matilda says, nodding. “Our current leader is the same man.”

“But he’s dead, isn’t he?”

A head-shake. “It wasn’t ever confirmed. Otto left two weeks ago to figure out how to fix the barrier as it was demolished by a batarian attack, and the Alliance wasn’t responding to our calls. But Otto never returned from his search. We assumed he died, or went missing, or something. I don’t know. Someone confirmed his body was in a cavern. People kept going to check, but people kept going missing or dying, just like Otto. Then, a few days ago, Otto came back— alive and breathing.”

The galaxy is a strange place, but this isn’t something Hornet has ever heard about. People randomly coming back to life? Without proper technology and a billion credits at one’s disposal, people stay dead, no matter where or who they are.

“Otto never trusted the Alliance,” Matilda continues. “Said they were all back-stabbers, deserters, leaving behind Valhalla while other colonies like Elysium and Eden Prime flourished even after the Blitz and the geth. And— well.”

“Well?”

Matilda purses her lips. Her hands release Hornet’s collar as she shrinks, shoulders folding inward like a dying flower. She wilts, saying, “We trusted him. Otto was right, for a time; the Alliance never came to our call, and left us to defend ourselves. We lost so many people over the years, and the only thing the Alliance ever said was that was the business of colonies— people died sometimes. We rallied behind Otto; and when he seemingly came back from the dead, it just made everyone trust him that much more.

“I don’t trust it, though. Otto is a nice man— was a nice man. But ever since he’s returned, he’s been weirdly demanding, ordering us around and telling us to keep quiet. He doesn’t even want to look into the other missing colonists. Now, with you and Commander Quirrel around, he’s been hiding out in his office and telling everyone to not say anything… unless we want to face the consequences. He’s also refusing to let anyone work on the barrier, even though we need it if we want to survive without Navy assistance—”

Something cracks. A twig, a stick, a pebble. It doesn’t matter what the sound is. All that Hornet cares about is who produced it.

She turns on her heel, shotgun at the ready. It takes all of her instinct to not fire at will, spotting only with a second to spare and her finger on the trigger that Commander Quirrel is raising his hands in the air. A look of surprise decorates his face, as if he didn’t think that sneaking up on a trained military officer would result with him having a barrel aimed at his head.

“Check fire!” he shouts before Matilda clambers from behind Hornet, a finger to her lips. “Oh, I’m sorry— I’ll be quieter. Please, check fire; it’s only me.”

Hornet lowers her gun. Her heart’s pounding in her throat, blood beating a harsh tune in her ears. Though the adrenaline is fading as fast as it came, it doesn’t change the fact that she’s now wired from it.

“God. Don’t do that.”

“Copy that, Commander Hornet. I only followed you out here since it looked like you were making some headway and our lieutenants are currently fighting.”

Hornet would love to address why the lieutenants are fighting, but she knows that there are far more pressing matters to deal with. Quirrel obviously wants a sitrep, and regulations state that he should definitely be getting one; and yet, Hornet’s hackles are raising at just the idea of it. Why should he get the information that she’s been given, all so he can potentially steal away with this mission’s win under his own belt?

The two are silent. A breeze whips by, mussing Hornet’s hair with windswept fingers; she watches as Quirrel’s gaze remains steady on her, unblinking and unmoving.

“Well, Commander?” he urges. “A sitrep?”

Now, he’s asking; and now, she’s obligated. Hurriedly, she gives him the low-down of what’s been happening in the colony, quoting Matilda as best she can while her anger grows from a simmer to a boil. By the end of the report, she’s practically fuming. Her hand’s been forced, and she’s an unfortunate slave to Alliance standards.

“Otto should be questioned, then,” Quirrel concludes.

“Obviously,” Hornet scoffs. “I will do it.”

“Oh, no. I will do it, Commander. I believe it’s best if only one crew mans this mission now that we know what must be done.”

Hornet narrows her eyes. “But I was the one to gain this information— should it not be my crew’s responsibility?”

“But my crew was the first to land here. It is fine, Commander; you and your Lieutenant Lace are free to leave this with me.”

His voice isn’t dismissive— far from it. The way he says each word is weighted with a benevolent caring, wisdom effused into each sentence like this is just another, everyday mission. He’s giving her the perfect out.

Fat fucking chance.

“I,” Hornet hisses, “insist, Commander Quirrel. We are both the only people who know about the colony’s situation, and questioning unwilling participants often goes better in pairs.”

Quirrel chuckles, “Like good cop, bad cop?”

“If that is what you want to call it.”

“Who’s the good cop and who’s the bad cop?”

Hornet is the bad cop.

No one is surprised.

“I’m telling you, Commanders, that there’s nothing left to worry about here.”

Otto is a short, squat man in his early forties. His receding hairline gives way to a greasy forehead that shines dully in his office’s lamplight. He types away on a datapad with his feet kicked up on his desk, complete dismissal in his voice and attitude.

“And I’m telling you, Otto, that we have an obligation here as soldiers to assure the protection of Valhalla’s colony. We need to know everything about the batarian attacks, the barrier, and the disappearing colonists,” Hornet bites out. “So talk. Now.”

“I’ve told you all I need to, Hornet,” Otto says and— fuck.

Hornet sees red.

Who does this guy think he is, referring to her so casually? She’s an Alliance Navy commander, and while she’s not the type to demand the utmost, ass-kissing respect from civvies, she’s sure as hell not going to let some little weasel act like she isn’t working to protect the galaxy. A galaxy that they all live in, including his ungrateful self.

Hornet is about to rip into Otto, teeth bared and fists at the ready, when Quirrel places a hand against her shoulder. If he’s trying to stop her, then he’s got another thing coming because no one demeans her after all she’s done to get where she’s at in her career.

But then, something unexpected happens.

“Otto,” Quirrel says, low and metered. The office seems to drop in degrees, a chill blanketing its inhabitants. Hornet would shiver if she weren’t so captivated by the sudden seriousness in Quirrel’s voice; though even-toned, there’s no doubt that an underlying anger is bubbling to its top. “I believe you meant to say Commander.”

Quirrel takes her side.

In response, Otto narrows his eyes. He must be smarter than he looks because he takes one good look at both soldiers before gritting out, “Right. Commander Hornet.”

Quirrel nods. “Good. I’m glad we’re all in agreement here. Do what the good commander asked you, please. We’d like to do our jobs, and do them well.”

That gets them nothing more than a puff of air, an exhale of frustration. “If only the rest of your military thought like you do, Commander Quirrel. Valhalla thanks you for your assistance, but there’s nothing left for either of you to do here. I’ve told you all I know.”

“Which is apparently nothing,” Hornet spits.

“Exactly. Now, I’d suggest you two get moving on.”

“But what about the missing colonists?” Quirrel pushes, hand on the desk. He leans close to Otto as he says, “Aren’t you worried about them? Where they might’ve gone?”

Otto shakes his head, sighing. “Of course, but that’s colony business for you. You’ve got to crack a few eggs to make an omelet, no?”

Hornet grinds her teeth. Her jaw tightens are she stares down this little man, replete with his haughty, holier-than-thou expression and bored eyes.

“No.”

“Well, Commander Hornet,” he laughs, “then you must be a pretty shit cook.”

Hornet won’t go into detail about what happened after that. There was barely-hidden rage and a few choice words thrown as Quirrel corralled her out of the office. Her heavy boots dragged hard lines into the wooden flooring as she shouted, fist raised and waving as she spewed a colourful string of swears. Although definitely against standards, Quirrel allowed her to get all her anger out and listened to her rant even when they were finally outside and away from Otto.

The anger now begins to fade. She’s left with an empty feeling in her chest, a hole that is only ever filled when she’s spitting with vitriol. If she were not so accustomed to that special type of rage, she might even be heaving breaths to get the oxygen back into her system.

Yet all through her tirade, Quirrel watched and agreed with her. Even now, a small smile sits on his face, apologetic.

“I’m sorry he treated you like that,” he says. The moons are now high in the sky, heralding the coming night. A soft glow settles over the land, and it makes Quirrel appear all the more kinder in the dimness. “You don’t deserve the disrespect.”

“I—” Hornet is unsure what to say. She takes a second to settle on a firm, “Thank you.”

Calm gradually returns back to Hornet. It’s slow-growing, a wash floating over her as she takes in the air. It’s warm out, a light breeze tickling her skin; Valhalla would be a nice place to rest and take in the sights if it wasn’t filled with paranoid colonists who were indoctrinated by their Lazarus-like leader. Hornet runs a hand down her face— she needs to think.

“This might not be anything,” she says. “As much as I hate to say it, colonists dying isn’t out of the ordinary. Even on a planet as seemingly calm as Valhalla, shit happens.”

“You trust what Otto says?” Quirrel guffaws.

“No. Definitely not. But I’m saying that we could be overthinking this. Perhaps one crew should remain planetside while the other heads back to the Citadel with a preliminary report. Wartime mission standards and whatnot.”

If things truly are as Otto says, then this colony just has a case of bad trust and a bad leader. A few recommendations from Hornet will sort the colony out and replace Otto, but that doesn’t mean that both her and Quirrel’s crew needs to stay here.

As it pains her to admit, only one of them needs to remain. And while Hornet wants to fight tooth and nail for her crew to be the one to stay, the incident in the office has planted the seeds of respect in Hornet’s mind. Commander Quirrel might be… an unconventional leader, but he is no doubt a good one. He keeps his calm, he steadies his aim; his approach to everything seems to be with great thought beforehand, as if hindsight were his only choice of vision.

This isn’t Hornet giving in— it’s not her bowing out of the race. But it’s her acknowledging that she’s been beaten in this department. At the very least, she can admit when she sees that she’s not the right person for a mission.

“Respectfully, I’m going to disagree, Commander,” says Quirrel. “I believe it may be best for both crews to remain, quite especially while the barriers are down.”

On cue, the barrier generator spits a frenzy of sparks before spluttering.

“I can repair it, but it will take most of the night,” he continues. “Would you be willing to keep your crew stationed here while I work?”

Hornet doesn’t need to think about her answer for very long.

Keeping watch is boring, but thankfully Hornet doesn’t have to do it for much longer. One last look over the ramparts reveals nothing of note; the fields amble out and around the base, grasses swaying just slightly in the night’s cooling air. A few soldiers are making rounds near the ships, and the colonists inside the base have almost all retired for the night. When Hornet shuffles away from the edge, she sees Lace sidling up next to her with a rifle in hand and a sigh prepared.

“Shift change,” she groans. “Can I go back to the ship?”

“No,” Hornet says, rolling her eyes. “You just got here. Don’t kill Lieutenant Tiso— he’s on watch, too.”

“No promises, Commander.”

Hornet expects nothing less of her reluctant lieutenant and gives her a pat on the back before heading down from the ramparts. The only thing Hornet has on her mind right now is exactly how much of a waste this mission has been. At this point, she’s not even sure why she thought this would have been the one to put her on the Council’s radar. If anything, it’s become just a simple defense job, which is something that any basic crew could deal with as long as they had one finger on the trigger and half a functioning leg. Hornet sighs when her boots hit the dirt, hand on the rampart’s metal wall.

She moves to leave through the gates when she feels a vibration echo through the air. Like the quiet quakes of a meteor breaking up upon entering the atmosphere, it shivers in waves, hitting Hornet’s biotic implant deep in her brain.

“Ah, rats,” says Commander Quirrel, who is knelt at the base’s biotic barrier, tool in hand and tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth in concentration. The sight is comical, in a way— the Alliance’s very best, kneeling at a machine while he fiddles with brightly-coloured wires and buttons, not unlike the ones you might see attached to a child’s toy. Only, this is no toy, but a device that has the ability to defend even the largest of settlements with the right tweaks.

Another ripple vibrates through the air. This time, it hurts, a lovely trait that biotics have to contend with when around sonic disrupters,  similar to the biotic barrier generator.

Hornet huffs, walking up to Quirrel. Her hands go to her hips as she dips down to meet him halfway. He cranes up to look at her, smiling.

“Good evening, Commander.”

“It’s night.”

“Ah.” Quirrel looks up at the sky. “So it is.”

He turns back to the generator. His tool digs deep into the panel compartment, twiddling with wires that Hornet has no clue what they do. She’s rather tech-savvy, able to put her guns together in mere seconds when pressed, but she has never been able to wrap her head around the technology that allows her biotic abilities to work. It’s a higher plane of understanding entirely.

Yet, Quirrel, the Commander, is twisting neuron wires and sparking connections without breaking a sweat. And while wearing his armour.

“How are you so good at that?” Hornet asks before she can stop herself. The question spills out her mouth like it’s been numbed at the dentist, unable to keep anything within her jaw.

Does she actually care about where Quirrel learned biotic engineering?

No. Probably not.

So, why is she asking?

“This?” he asks back, gesturing at the panel. “University, of course. Biotics have always fascinated me; the first class I ever took on the subject— my God! I think I fell in love right then and there.”

Quirrel is a smiley person, Hornet has noticed. How could she have not? He always has a grin decorating that face of his at any moment. Even when they were interrogating Otto, he still kept that cheery demeanour up, though chilly it may have been near its end. But right now, his gentle smile radiates a soft warmth like a sun, drawing planets into its pull. Hornet feels like one at this moment, magnetised by him.

“You’re fitted with an L5n, no?” he asks.

“Of course. I’d settle for nothing less as a Vanguard,” Hornet confirms.

“Would you… ah, no. Forget I said anything.”

He waves a hand, although that only serves to make Hornet more curious about his request. She insists, “No. Ask your question.”

“Do you promise not to be offended?”

“What are we— children?”

“Please, I don’t want to be making a fool of myself in front of you, Commander Hornet. You’re a decorated veteran, well in the Alliance ranks; my respect for you is very great, and I don’t wish to disrespect you.”

Honest. Honest and smiley. Hornet cocks her head, a lopsided grin unwittingly forming on her lips as she watches Quirrel busily tug at panel wires. A small spark flies from inside the machinery when he pushes slightly too hard on the tech.

Something like affection forms in her chest, moulded by kind hands. Hands that hold pliers, hands that hold sniper rifles. Hands that command Alliance ships and crews, and hold lives. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, one she’s only grasped for those close to her, like her family and friends; and yet Quirrel seems to bring it out of her with that font of genuineness that seemingly flows endlessly unless staunched by duty.

Even then, Hornet thinks that he would be terribly honest on a battlefield. Almost to a fault.

“I promise,” Hornet says, even though she feels a bit like a fool.

“Ah, then… may I see your implant?”

Oh. That’s a bit unexpected. Hornet grimaces and Quirrel backpedals. He stammers and stutters and tries to explain himself as his tool goes clattering to the ground. Hornet’s not sure what the hell he’s trying to say and so she schools her expression into one of minute neutrality as she asks him the dreaded question that every biotic has to ask a guy.

“You’re not one of those guys, are you?”

Translated: you’re not trying to get into my pants because I’m a biotic, are you?

“No!” Quirrel exclaims. “No, no, no. Absolutely not— no. I assure you that my interest in biotics is completely scientific. I’ve just never been able to study L5ns often attached to subjects and, God, listen to me ramble on and on. Just disregard everything I’ve said—”

“You can see it.”

Huh?

“Huh?”

Yeah. Huh is right. Why did she agree to it?

And why is she letting it happen?

It doesn’t matter anymore. Not when Quirrel’s minuscule nod brings a quick heat to Hornet’s face, him rounding around her as she pulls away the few short strands of hair that cover the back of her neck.

Quirrel’s hands are warm on her, fingers just brushing against the external implant on her neck. It’s a small, boxy thing embedded deep in her skin, cold titanium pressing up against where her spine meets the top of her back. Gently, Quirrel lingers on its sides, skin touching metal, metal touching skin. Something sparks. Not physically, not tangibly; but a fiery intimacy has just caught flame on dry tinder, now spreading afoot.

The atmosphere grows hot as Quirrel continues dragging his touch along her. Hornet has to hold back a soft sigh when his fingers connect with the stitched skin attached to the implant, the nerves sensitive in spite of how long it has been planted within her. Though, he must have caught the small intake of breath that manages to break through Hornet’s lips because he suddenly backs away.

Quirrel’s voice is quiet when he finally speaks. His touch has disappeared from her and yet Hornet longs for it to return. Now, it feels as though he’s simply looking at the implant, eyes glued to where Hornet’s pale skin melts into the tiny device. It’s a burning sensation, either way.

“Why did you enlist?” he asks.

“My mother,” she says, featherlight, “fought in the First Contact War.”

“Wow, she must have been quite the woman, then.”

Hornet lets a small laugh escape her. “Yes. Commander Herrah.”

Suddenly, Quirrel ‘rounds to Hornet’s front with eyes wide and his smile even wider, exclaiming, “You’re Commander Herrah’s daughter?”

“I believe I just said that, yes.”

He laughs, “What a small galaxy this is. My mentor worked with her— Dr. Monomon. She was the ship’s medic, alongside the pilot, Lurien. Ah, but you may not know that; I recall from Monomon’s stories that the good commander retired shortly after the war and had a child.”

“Didn’t retire for long,” Hornet scoffs. “She was back to active duty once her maternity leave was up, and not a second later.”

In her memory, her mother is little more than a set of armour and the sound of a blitzing shotgun. She can recall the black and red of her helmet, colours melding into one another by the hazy dreams of childhood; and in her hands, she always held the amorphous shape of a heavy gun. For some reason, Hornet wants to say it was a Claymore. She’d always been a fan of Krogan makes, according to Captain Vespa.

But what really stuck in Hornet’s mind was the jingle of medals attached to the cloth uniform of her mother’s breast. Chest candy, she had said in the days before her death, right on the brink when Hornet was barely old enough to start remembering full faces, conversations, bits and bobs of people’s idiosyncrasies.

These medals mean nothing, Hornet. What really matters is what you do— not what people know you for or as.

“Dr. Monomon was like that, too,” Quirrel hums. “What a busybody. She retired and worked on Earth for a bit, which is where I met her.”

“You were a researcher, right?”

“Yup, specialized in biotics, if that wasn’t obvious enough,” he says, laughter evident in his words. “Monomon passed away a few years into my tenure and, well…”

Quirrel trails off. He turns away for a moment, eyes searching above at the three moons that hang heavy in the sky. Two are in the far distance, while the other sits closer to the planet. Time slows as Hornet affixes her gaze onto Quirrel. She collects the small details of him while lit in the dim shine of the biotic barrier’s blue glow.

He has a small nick on his eyebrow. The cupid’s bow of his lips is pronounced, poised to shoot its arrow. His face is round and soft, like he’s been fed well all his life, although his body is lined with hardened muscle that the Alliance demands of its soldiers.

He has the look of a civilian, Hornet thinks. He looks too kind— almost cute, in a way— to be a cog in the warmachine.

“And well, I enlisted.”

“What made you enlist?”

Quirrel shrugs. Hornet half expects him to shuffle back and move to her neck. Instead, he remains where he is, though his gaze is torn away from the lake of stars above and sent toward her now. His eyes soften more, if that’s even possible, as he speaks.

“Something Monomon said to me before she passed. I think she knew I wanted to see the galaxy beyond Earth.”

“I don’t think the Navy is the best place to do that. You could have been part of a research vessel, you know.”

“I know,” he hums. “I know. But I wanted to make a difference. Save lives, uplift others. A bit romantic sounding, I guess. The Navy definitely wasn’t the optimal choice; alas, here we are, so many years later in the middle of a galactic war. At least I know how to protect myself— and others.”

That, Hornet can relate to. Many in her crew— and honestly, many in the Navy— think that she enlisted merely because her mother was part of it. And while that is partially true, Hornet has her own reasons for climbing the ranks all the way to commander, and hopefully Spectre. That need to protect, to hold the galaxy close and her friends and family even closer, is something that beats hard through her blood. She’s seen how battle breaks a soul. All she wants to do is be the person to shield others from that.

“I know the feeling.”

She can handle it. God, she can handle it all.

The air around them is charged with words unsaid, eyes locked in understanding as the half-lit lamps that dot the base shine happily. Half of Quirrel’s face is brightened by it while the other is steeped in shadow. Silence grows, and Hornet knows that when quiet settles over a pair it can lead to certain outcomes— if the atmosphere is right.

Quirrel’s eyes are half-lidded, and then he’s leaning toward her. It’s not insubordination, but it’s highly inappropriate. They’re on a mission. They’re commanders of opposing ships. They’re supposed to be rivals, fighting their way to a title that only one of them can hold. And yet— and yet! And yet, Hornet feels herself drawing near him as he does the same.

A singular second flitters as Quirrel leans, leans, and leans. Hornet follows.

And then, he’s kneeling on the ground with his eyes still partially open, hands patting the ground as he huffs annoyedly.

“Ah, damn,” he curses. “My contact fell out.”

Oh.

Ohhh.

Shit.

Hornet is sure her face is positively glowing with embarrassment. There must be something in the air, some kind of dust that’s making her brain frazzled and mind just as addled, because there’s absolutely no way she was about to— to kiss her fellow commander and Spectre rival because she momentarily thought they had some kind of connection. And because she thought he was cute, all softness and light in the gentle garden-planet heat. Yeah, no. Definitely not.

To stave the blooming mortification in her stomach, Hornet joins Quirrel on the ground in his hunt for his contact. Now that she’s level with his face, she can tell that he’s actually squinting. That intimate hazy gaze he had earlier? Yeah, that was just him trying to keep his contact in his eye.

Great.

They pat around the dirt as Quirrel bemoans his lost contact. A few times, they bump into one another; shoulders brush and hands connect. Hornet can’t feel his fingers over her gauntlets, but she imagines they’d be chalky with dirt and dust, though warm from his hovering touches on her neck. The thought alights her anew and she puts her head down, looking around once more.

Eventually, they find it. Quirrel’s fingers pick up the contact with a delicate pinch, and he holds it up to the light.

“Aha! There it is!”

Click.

Cool steel kisses the side of Hornet’s head. She belatedly curses herself for not keeping her helmet on, oxygen-rich atmosphere be damned.

“Commanders,” says that smarmy, oil-dripping voice of Otto’s, “you should have listened to me when you had the chance.”

Hornet takes the chance to look up at Otto as her mind begins to calculate all the ways she can get out of this less-than-ideal situation. Currently, Otto is standing above her with his pistol to her head; an Executioner, her brain supplies. Heavy and packs a punch when aimed correctly, such as point-blank at someone’s head.

Behind Otto is a group of colonists. They’re armed, but that’s not what worries Hornet. Instead, she narrows in on the strange way their faces wobble in the blue biotic light that the barrier generator is now giving off since it’s nearly repaired. There’s a shift that warbles in the colonists’ skin that Hornet doesn’t trust. It’s most evident in Otto, whose face is practically melting in the biotic glow.

Something isn’t right.

There aren’t many exit plans here. With a gun pressed up on her temple and a small army surrounding them, there’s quite literally nothing Hornet can do unless someone incapacitates Otto. Lace and Tiso must have seen the group already, if Lace’s chattering in Hornet’s comms is anything to go by.

“Hornet, do you copy?” she presses.

But Hornet can’t do anything without risking a bullet being lodged into her brain. She instead remains still and silent.

Otto drawls, “You could have left— it would have made putting you down all the more easier. A bullet in the back and all that. But, no. You just had to stay and repair the barrier. And I can’t let that happen.”

“The barrier is what drives off the batarians,” Quirrel says. His hand is shuffling toward his sidearm, an action that doesn’t go unnoticed by Otto. He turns his pistol to Quirrel and forces the commander to stop reaching for his own gun. “You sent out two distress signals— two Alliance ships responded. Is that not proof enough that you need it repaired?”

Otto tosses his head back with a cruel grin. “Two Alliance ships, two chances for opportunity. Weapons, supplies, ships! I just want my colony to flourish, Commanders. And if the Alliance won’t provide it, then I’ll just have to force them to.”

The gun clicks and Hornet moves into action. She lets her body take over, instinct effusing through her veins as her neurons blink with activity. Her hands explode with sky-blue shields, shoving Otto and his militia back with all the force she can muster. The biotic fields blow them across the base’s centre, crashing into the other unprepared colonists behind them.

Their skin melts, sluicing like it’s been burned off. Hornet can’t hold back the gasp in her throat when she skitters away, Quirrel helping her up, when she sees Otto’s face— or lack thereof. All appearances have faded away to reveal an empty, featureless face, amorphous and shifting beneath the biotic waves.

Quirrel has taken to calling them shapeshifters. Hornet is too busy taking fire to bother calling them anything else.

She risks a peek around a girder, her helmet’s visor locking in on one of the shapeshifters. The guns that they have aren’t the best, just basic colony-issued firearms; however, in the hands of an unknown enemy, they can be deadlier than one expects. And as luck would fuck them, the shapeshifters seem to know how to handle them with more precision than the colonists. Hornet desperately wants to blast them with her biotics, but unless she’s prepared to deal with unclear variables, it’s best to keep shooting from afar.

She narrows in on one and aims down her sights. Before she has the chance to squeeze the trigger, its head explodes in a burst of inky blood. The body crashes into the dirt, squealing like a deflating balloon as it disintegrates.

The barrel of Quirrel’s Black Widow is steaming.

“Good shot,” Hornet says.

Quirrel just blinks and squints. “Could have been better. My vision isn’t the best right now.”

Even with his vision impaired, Quirrel is still a deadly sniper. Hornet’s initial assessment of his kit was correct. Placed upon the top of the girder, eye close to the sights, his rifle is poised with unbelievable stopping power. If anyone even moves a millimetre into his line of sight, they’re going to be nothing more than a smear of viscera.

It’s kind of hot.

Focus, Hornet reminds herself. You’ve got colonists to wrangle, and a base to secure. Deal with the threat first and address your weird crush later. Not that it’s a crush. Just admiration. Stop thinking and shoot.

“Damn,” Quirrel breathes, lungs heaving, “there’s too many of them.”

He’s right. Even with two crews, not all members can work on whittling down the shapeshifters’ numbers. There are medics, researchers, the pilot and co-pilot— people who aren’t meant to be on the front-lines. Of course, both lieutenants and the sergeants are gunning down all enemies they can see, but that’s not enough as even more shapeshifters keep crawling out of the woodworks. Some still wear the faces of colonists that Hornet assumes were those that mysteriously disappeared not long ago.

The only way they shed those faces is if Hornet hits them with her biotics. That makes their skin sizzle like a snail drenched in salt, their true forms revealed. It also deals considerable pain to them, Hornet’s noticed— enough that a firm blast could potentially wipe them out in one shot.

Hornet grabs onto Quirrel’s collar and pulls him further down their protective barrier. She calls over the gunfire, “My biotics affect them more than bullets. We should—”

Quirrel cuts her off. “A brilliant idea, Commander! We should try to repair the barrier generator. If we do this correctly, it will fan out from the base’s centre, and hopefully push them back and out of the area.”

That isn’t quite what Hornet has in mind. She thinks that it’s best for everyone to cover her while she just blasts the living hell out of the shapeshifters, but Quirrel’s confidence surges, overflowing into Hornet. In spite of herself, she believes him that their best chance is to get that generator up and running again.

But still, skepticism reigns. Before she throws anyone into the line of fire, she asks, “Is that even possible?”

“I don’t know!” Quirrel says as he squints and takes another shot from behind the girder. His bullet flies true. “But unless you want to personally take them all on, it’ll work better if we push forward altogether and wipe them out in one shot.”

That’s all Hornet needs to hear. She gives the Commander a singular nod, hand going up to her helmet’s comm.

“Lace, I need you to cover me and Commander Quirrel as we push through to the colony’s barrier generator. We’re going to try to fix it.”

“Copy that, Hornet! Don’t die!”

Hornet grumbles, “You’re supposed to make sure that doesn’t happen, Lieutenant.”

“You doubt my aim?”

“I doubt your work ethic. Pushing forward.”

“Copy!”

Their advance is met with a fair amount of resistance, but thankfully having both Lace and Tiso on their side makes things smoother. Hornet can hear them bickering— borderline fighting— over the comms, although they manage to settle their differences as each soldier continues to put more shapeshifters into the ground. Bullets whiz by, grenades explode. The blast no longer jars Hornet like it used to when she first enlisted, years of experience built deep into her instincts. She rallies against it all as she and Quirrel make it through the throngs of enemies.

Upon reaching the generator, Quirrel kneels down and taps a few things into his Omni-tool. He needs a few seconds, he says. A few minutes. He needs to calibrate things, make sure it won’t explode on them in a giant blue blur.

“Just do what you need to do!” Hornet shouts as her shotgun’s kickback thrusts into her. She digs her heels into the ground and covers Quirrel’s turned back, a totally unchecked six.

Seconds and minutes wear by. Hornet’s shotgun is running low on ammo until it click, click, clicks. She goes to dig for another mag to manually reload it, but in the chaos of the firefight, she’s left it behind in the Alamo.

In that moment— those few precious seconds— one of the shapeshifters gets the jump on her. Fists go flying, aiming for the side of her face. Quickly, she dodges the hit and forces her shotgun in between her and the snarling shapeshifter, pushing the weight of her firearm against them.

She shoves them to the ground and with a single blast of her biotics, the shapeshifter is down. But distractions are a dangerous thing on the battlefield when you have one goal, and when Hornet turns around to check on Quirrel, she sees him on the ground, wrestling one of the shapeshifters. Tools lay discarded on the ground. Quirrel’s helmet is torn off.

They’re a smudge of armour and ink, rolling about on the ground. Hornet dives to separate them before she realizes with boiling horror that she can’t tell them apart anymore.

Soon enough, there are two Commander Quirrels. Both stand in the struggle, arms tangled and fists dug deep into armoured plating.

“Kill him!” shouts the Quirrel on the left.

“No, kill him!” shouts the Quirrel on the right.

Fuck. Hornet raises her fists, though she’s not sure who to go for. They look identical, from the freckles (why Hornet remembers he has freckles, she’s not going to look too deep into) to the hair. Their armours are carbon copies of one another’s, N7 black and red and white in the night.

There’s no time to deliberate. Either she hits one of them with her biotics, or both of them are going to go down. The left Quirrel has his hands around the neck of the other, hidden beneath the metal collar. The right Quirrel chokes and splutters and tries his damndest to get the hands off of him.

But he seems to miscalculate, fingers missing where the left Quirrel’s wrist is. Like his depth-perception is fucked.

Without a second thought, Hornet pushes all her power into her hands and throws the left Quirrel off his feet. He goes flying back, skin trembling until it becomes nothing more than fleshy dust.

Quirrel leans over, fingers brushing against his throat. No doubt it’s bruised, but it’s better than being dead. He croaks out, “How— how could you tell?”

Hornet points at her eyes. “Contacts.”

In that moment, he nods, though Hornet knows it’s much more than just a simple acknowledgement. It’s a thanks, an appreciation, and a holy-shit-you-saved-my-life all in one.

Climbing back to his feet, Quirrel fetches his tools and types a litter of code into his Omni-tool. Then, he yanks hard on a bundle of wires and the world disappears into fractals of blue.

The SSV Alamo landed on the colony planet Valhalla at 2100 hours, following a batarian attack approximately four hours prior. Commander Hornet and Lieutenant Lace attended to the colony alongside fellow Alliance Commander Quirrel and his crew of the SSV Warsaw. It was unclear as to why there were two Alliance ships summoned to what was presumably a standard SOS distress call.

The colonists were initially unresponsive to investigation attempts from both crews, particularly regarding the colony’s new leader. One colonist, Matilda, eventually revealed to Commanders Hornet and Quirrel that the new leader was supposedly mistrusting of Alliance Navy members, on account of their lack of attention and protection toward Valhalla. She also claimed that the previous leader, Otto— whose death occurred an estimated two weeks prior— did not actually die, as he was currently hiding away in his office.

Commanders Hornet and Quirrel mutually decided to question the leader. Otto was not forthcoming with information and implied that the Alliance should disregard Valhalla entirely.

Both Commanders concluded that it was in their best interests to repair the biotic barrier before leaving the colony as all visible threats had been cleared, as per regulation standards during wartime. Both crews remained until at 0200 hours the leader threatened Commander Quirrel and Commander Hornet at gunpoint and demanded that they and their crews submit to the colony leader’s demands.

Valhalla was, in fact, not completely uninhabited; a race of creatures with shapeshifting abilities were discovered to have taken over a number of the colonists’ lives, including the leader. This is presumably what caused the disappearances of the colonists prior.

The biotic barrier was repaired during a firefight between the shapeshifters and crew members. This seemed to drive off, if not entirely kill, the shapeshifters. Alliance researchers have since been deployed to the planet to further investigate the shapeshifters. Early reports note that these shapeshifters are not an intelligent form of life, but rather a parasitic-like creature that subsists off the neural matter of intelligent life.

Signed,

Commander Hornet, N7, Alliance Navy

A week has passed since Commander Hornet and Commander Quirrel’s crew assisted the colony of Valhalla with their body-snatcher problem. Her report’s been sent out, she’s back on the Citadel for a mandatory fuel-up for the ship, and she finally has a free evening to relax.

Except, she doesn’t want to. She’d normally spend this time in the range or at the gym, yet her body is thrumming with unspent energy that feels wasted on training. She sighs long and stares up at the ceiling of her Citadel apartment before grabbing her keycard and leaving her sparse home. Better that she gets out than stays inside mulling about it, she figures.

The Citadel is abuzz. Hornet notices none of it. As much as she’d rather focus on the bodies moving around her, the strange conversations of turians and asari mingling, her mind is instead stuck on thoughts of the SSV Warsaw’s kind commander and his interest in biotics and his bright smiles. She thinks of his hands on her neck, hands pulling her from the ground, and his firm handshake at the end of their shared mission. He bid her goodbye and well wishes, and all she wanted to say was let me come with you.

As if she didn’t have her own ship and crew to deal with.

“Keep yourself safe, Commander. I’d hate to see such amazing biotic work to go to waste.”

“So I’m just a biotic to you? Nothing else?”

“You’re far more than that. So much more, Hornet.”

The way he said her name almost had her blushing. Her, the feared and respected Commander of the SSV Alamo, wilting like a untouched virgin at the slightest lilt of affection when her name was said. Even as Lieutenants Lace and Tiso snickered at her clearly noticeable hitch, Hornet couldn’t help but let the pleasure form on her expression with a firm smile. The colonists gawked. The crew watched on.

Neither of them have reached out since then. For Hornet’s part, it’s mostly because she wants to keep up professional appearances and it doesn’t serve her well to be fawning over a fellow soldier. Not that she’s fawning over him, no. She just has the utmost respect for his abilities. And his aim. And she maybe thinks he’s kind of cute and a little hot and his combat prowess really makes her want to—

“Thank you. I’ll just pick out a frame, then.”

Hornet turns on her heel. Somehow, she’s made it to the retail section of the Citadel where shoppers linger around stores and make their best attempt to haggle with the shopkeeps. But all of that means nothing when Hornet’s locks onto where she heard that voice, finding herself lightly jogging— not running— to a glasses store with only two people inside of it.

The optometrist…

And Quirrel.

Her boots click against the tiled floor, and if she were in a cartoon, there’d probably a big cloud of smoke and dust kicking up behind her. Crowds make way for the great Commander Hornet who is doing her best to still look respectable while pushing her way up the escalator and into the store. She takes one step past the shop’s treshold, and then a familiar though unexpected voice rings out.

“I’m Commander Shepard, and this is my favourite store on the Citadel!”

The optometrist and Quirrel startle, both turning to see who walked into the store and triggered the automatic tagline that Commander Shepard has probably recorded for every single shop on the Citadel. Quirrel and Hornet lock eyes.

“Hi,” Hornet says dumbly.

“Oh, Commander! Hello!” Quirrel replies cheerily.

And that’s all that they need. Maybe Hornet should have reached out. Maybe she should have sought out his Alliance-issued e-mail address to ask him how his report looks, or how his crew has been after the mission, because the conversation flows faster than water between the two of them as they catch up on everything. Quirrel says he’s been well, his crew is stationed for a short stint of shore leave, and that he’s looking for a new pair of glasses and an updated prescription since the Valhalla mission drained him of all his daily-wear pairs.

Hornet tells him she’s been good, and that her crew is ready to take on the Reapers if they’re ever called to the front. She also finally admits, though she’s under no pressure to, that she only took up the Valhalla mission because she similarly wanted to gain the Council’s attention.

“Ha!” Quirrel laughs. “I knew it. You have that look about you, Commander. You don’t back down from anything.”

Hornet laughs, too. It’s so easy to laugh around Quirrel, she finds.

“Yes, well, I may have to take a step away from this one,” she confesses. “Valhalla, it… I think I realized that it’s wrong to accept missions with the mindset of gaining titles. Perhaps I should have listened to my mother more often. I am here to help the galaxy, not find glory.”

Quirrel nods solemnly. Valhalla taught them both much, that is true.

“I know what you mean. We both should have been thinking of the colonists.”

“All’s well that ends well, yes?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

The truth is that neither of them are ever going to get that Spectre title. It’s not as if their Valhalla mission isn’t impressive— it definitely is. But it was no Skyllian Blitz, it was no Reaper discovery. It was simply another mission that the commanders had to attend to, and attend to they did.

Just another workday.

The two of them fall into an easy conversation as their attention shifts toward the rows and rows of glasses. The store primarily serves human customers, so most of them are catered toward their head shape. The amount of choices is almost dizzying as Quirrel rattles off all the kinds he’s worn in his life, never having found one that he actually likes to wear. His longest pair, a rectangular set of spectacles, aged him like hell, he says.

Hornet’s eyes land on a circular frame. Unbidden, she reaches out and grabs it from the display. The frames are lightweight and tinted a dark navy blue; they almost have a rectangular shape, but the edges are rounded in a way that softens it somehow. Quirrel is still talking, gabbing on and on about his first pair of glasses, when Hornet slides them onto his face.

And— oh.

“You’re perfect, Quirrel,” she says without thinking. She quickly corrects herself with a flurry of words. “I mean, they’re perfect, Commander. The glasses. On you.”

The commander’s laughter is lighter than clouds, a nebula of chuckles that sparkle in the humming drone of the Citadel.

“I’m perfect, am I?”

“Please, disregard what I said,” Hornet blabbers. “No, what I mean is that you are a great man and a great commander and I’m measuring your perfection in terms of the battlefield and the glasses on you—”

Quirrel leans close, the frames almost touching her own face. He’s wearing a smile, as he always seems to do.

“Copy that, Hornet.”