#the lore's mostly in flashbacks and esp. mordin's infodump

[athelari]

4. second shot

Day 4/7 of the Mass Effect Trilogy Week : Lore. 890 words; angst? not really?; ME2 (Grunt: Rite of Passage); Shepard’s a Sole Survivor, expect mentions of Akuze; cw: trauma/mild panic? just to be safe.

Mikaela Shepard wipes the sweat off her brow before grabbing another handful of thermal clips from the ammo box. The supply is dwindling, but she reckons there’s still enough for a few more rounds. Some of the available cover is dented, and the last Harvester soaked up a fair amount of their firepower before going down, but they’ve got this. She reloads her rifle and chances a questioning glance at Garrus; he nods at her and hunkers back down behind his designated spot.

Then, the ground wobbles under their feet.

“Feel that?” Grunt mutters, glancing around him and sniffing the air. “Everything is… shaking.”

He steps into the open ground, shotgun at the ready. She knows that glint in his eyes: not quite blood rage, but as close as he could get without compromising his tactical side. Whatever is coming, he's ready for it. He doesn't yet know what it will be, but his mind and body are prepared to tackle it headlong.

She, on the other hand, knows what it is. And she isn't ready to face it again by any means.

Pitch black. Everything is pitch black. “Dyatlova! Report!” Tremors, like fighting in an earthquake. Heart thunders against ribcage, rapport of a thousand cannons. Foot slips on something wet, and she falls. Smell of blood, metallic, stomach-turning. It's coming back. It's coming back. “Jamaal! Toombs! Anyone, say something!”

Gunfire. She startles, turning just in time to see Garrus firing into the distance. A single bluish… tendril? Tentacle? Appendage, at any rate—has emerged and is wriggling like an oversized worm. No, not a worm; like the light on an anglerfish's head. Is it a lure? Do they lure their prey? A laugh, bilious and brittle, gurgles up her throat. Is that what they are? Mere prey, baited into being that monstrosity's next meal?

Grunt cocks his shotgun and heads toward the appendage. She darts forward and seizes him, fingers clenching around his armour. “Don't bother,” she hears herself say, as if from across a room. “It'll come to us.”

He shoots her a quizzical look, but, to his credit, complies without complaint. Garrus nearly fires another round at the appendage before it vanishes, slinking back into the subterranean. Does he recognise what they're up against? He probably does, she realises. They've faced a few together, back in the day, but always in the Mako. Never on foot. Why would they face one on foot? What kind of industrial-grade insanity is it, facing one on foot?

Her hands are shaking. Her boots, nailed to the floor. She looks straight ahead, but she can't see a thing.

“Prefer habitats with little to no atmosphere, diet consists of ores and minerals consumed directly from terrain, spores capable of surviving interplanetary transit…” Fingers tapping against table, punctuated by a sharp breath. “Fascinating. Also, did some minor datamining, found this in Cerberus archives. Thought you'd like to know.” Datapad exchanges hands. One glance at the title, and her heart plummets.

A deafening rumble. The ground ahead splinters, severs, separates. Acid climbs her throat, and then she hears it: that rushing in her ears, like waves breaking against jagged rocks. Her breath solidifies in her lungs. Her hands turn to lead.

“Hey.”

Garrus' face swims into view, ice-blue eyes searching her with undisguised concern. She swallows, but her throat is dry as sandpaper and she nearly chokes instead. “We got this, Shepard. We're krantt, remember? We've got you covered.”

She glances at Grunt, ducked behind a concrete pillar and entirely oblivious to the scene playing out behind him; at Garrus, his mouth pressed shut and his trigger finger twitching idly against the side of his rifle. The thought douses her like a bucket of ice water: she's not alone, not this time. She has her krantt with her. And not just any krantt, either, but the best in the whole damned galaxy.

(The first time it happened, she watched her squad die. Not this time. This time, they've got her back, and she has theirs. For years she desperately wished for a second shot, to turn back the hands of time and fix what went wrong. This is it. She won't back down now. And she’d sooner die before she lets any harm come upon her krantt.)

Head bowed, hands clasped. People swarming like rachni, flitting and criss-crossing beneath garish neon. Voice a soft susurrus, barely afloat over the bustling din. “Amonkira, Lord of Hunters, grant that my hands be steady, my aim be true, and my feet swift. And should the worst come to pass—”

“—grant me forgiveness.”

Just as the last word leaves her mouth, the thresher maw spills forth, breaking through the ground like a whale breaching the surface. Its carapace glimmers in the bright Tuchanka sun; its fluorescent blue tongue flailing wildly against the sky. It emits a loud roar, rattling the pebbles and reverberating in her skull.

She hears Grunt laugh, loud and wild, like a child with a birthday present. Garrus catches her eye, and she returns his sharp nod. Gone is the terror that settled in her gut and petrified her limbs. There's no fear, no rage, not even the thrill of anticipation. There is only cold, glassy focus, and the knowledge of one more target to kill.

She raises her rifle, peers through its scope, and fires.