Chapter Text
Spirits, the rumors are true. Shepard’s alive and just as gangly and wide-eyed as she ever was. Even now, he doesn’t understand why she was made the first human Spectre. Her pitiful race never deserved the honor of having one, but Shepard is exceptionally pathetic even for her species. Scrawny, too concerned with do-gooding to make the hard choices, and seemingly the type to shy away from speaking with anyone not on her crew, which included the Council. Speaking with the Council is a fundamental, basic tenant of the job of Spectre. Other humans didn’t even struggle with that. How Shepard could and yet was still chosen as a representative—
The only consolation Saren has is that she looks equally as uncomfortable standing in front of him now, face set in a frown and shoulders faintly hunched as if her posture can protect her from her own teammates. He recognizes the old, scarred salarian as Dr. Mordin Solus, famed even among turians for his brilliance, but the little hooded human standing to Shepard’s side is unfamiliar to him.
Judging by Shepard’s miserable expression, she’s unfamiliar to her as well.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Shepard mutters at the sight of Saren, the dismay clear on her face.
“Ah, Shepard,” he drawls, making sure his displeasure with the situation is well-known. “I was under the impression that the Illusive Man was delusional, but I see that he was somehow speaking truthfully. Pity. It was a pleasure to hear of your untimely demise. Foolish of me to assume something as minor as death would stick to the great and mighty Commander Shepard.”
Shepard’s brow furrows with displeasure. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous of the Collectors for managing to do something you couldn’t. Kill me.”
“Hmph.” He bares his teeth a little, wishing he was permitted to tear them into her throat.
Shepard just sighs, some of the annoyance melting into sheer tiredness. “Not that I’m not absolutely delighted to see your face again, and to see that you’re somehow still alive, but what are you doing here? What the hell did the Illusive Man tell you to convince you to join this project?”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business, Shepard,” he sneers. “All you need to know is that I’m a part of your venture, and I’m not going to kill you. Yet.”
“That’s reassuring,” she says, tone dry. “Seriously, though. What’s with the codename? I got a dossier for ‘The Reaper,’ and I never would have thought that was you.”
“I had no say in the matter,” Saren says, only to be interrupted by the little human throwing her head back in a laugh. The noise causes Shepard to redden in apparent embarrassment for her teammate’s appalling manners.
“Well, Shepard, many of us doubted you, but you ended up being right. The Reapers do exist. He’s a little smaller than you made him out to be, though.” The hooded human seems utterly fascinated by Saren, grin broad and bright and unrepentant towards the trouble she’s causing. Small, yet bold, curvier than Shepard and graceful with every small movement. Saren dislikes her on sight.
Shepard’s blush somehow deepens further to an angry crimson, just as bright as the stripe on that hideous armor she used to wear. Her jaw is tight as she turns to glare at the hooded figure. Saren never thought he’d agree with Shepard on any matter, but he finds himself echoing her glower.
He snorts. “Mighty words from one so puny. Isn’t there a human phrase applicable here? Something about stones and glass houses?”
The hooded human just snickers. “Oh, I like this one, Shep.”
“You won’t soon,” Shepard deadpans.
“I’m merely impressed you managed to find me at all,” Saren says. “You were much quicker about it than the last time.”
“Just take it as a sign that you’re losing your touch—”
“Amusing as this is, hideout is structurally unsound,” Dr. Solus cuts in, narrowing his eyes at first Shepard, then Saren. “Should make haste to get out of the area before it collapses.”
Shepard issues another sigh, the exhale tight and angry. “As much as I love our chats, he’s right. You really know how to pick your lairs. Wouldn’t be one of them without the imminent threat of death to me or my crew.”
“Lends a certain charm to the place,” Saren says. The hooded human grins as though she finds this entire thing amusing. The one positive thing he will say about Shepard is that she does have a certain straight-laced professional dedication to getting the job done that he can appreciate. She doesn’t giggle.
He doesn’t get a name for the annoying human until they’re walking through the docks of Omega, his few bags of possessions slung over both his and Shepard’s shoulders.
“Shep, if you don’t mind, I have a small business transaction I’d like to complete before we leave,” the little human says, decloaking abruptly next to Shepard. She’s been cloaking periodically during the walk, occasionally commenting on something that Dr. Solus has prattled on about before disappearing again. Saren finds it juvenile and obnoxious and if she were under his command, he would have swiftly given her a talking to about wasting suit power in such an inconsequential and frequent manner.
Shepard is a weak commander and seems to have already lost control of this squad, because she just sighs again. “We’re undocking in an hour. Just don’t be late, Kasumi.”
The now-named Kasumi nods, grinning, then cloaks and presumably darts off.
“Kasumi. Unusual name for a human,” Saren says.
“Yeah? And what great experience do you have with the variety of human names?”
“More than I’d like.”
“Yeah, well, you’re about to get more, whether you like it or not.”
Kasumi. If he remembers correctly, this was the name of Jordam Bau’s obsession. He never understood why he could never catch a simple human thief—Bau’s not awful as far as abilities go—so it’s somewhat amusing that Saren managed to find the woman before he did.
He didn’t expect that Jordam Bau couldn’t catch a human that giggles, though. Really, that’s a damn disappointment.
When they arrive at the Normandy’s bay, Shepard punches in the code to unlock the door, sealed tight against the miscreants of Omega. He’s been watching her—from how she hauls one of his bags, she’s not as weak as she once was, even though she’s as underfed-looking as she always has. He wonders what exactly Cerberus has done to her, and he suspects they have given her implants to make up for her natural weaknesses. The medical advancements they spoke of with regards to his own health problems seemed fantastical, but Shepard is living, unfortunately still-breathing proof that Cerberus is capable of doing the impossible. As much as he is reluctant to admit that such a pro-human organization as Cerberus has good qualities…
Well. Shepard’s alive. That’s something he will give them credit for. It is impressive even if it is disappointing.
Cerberus is human organization, so he isn’t surprised when he’s greeted by yet more humans—the fragile pilot from the Normandy who sputters in adamant dismay at the sight of him, and then a muscular male and a female who has the same coloration as Shepard, although she is curvier and objectively less painful on the eyes. The latter two are professional, which he appreciates, and they grant him the courtesy and respect to pick his own quarters. Shepard leaves him to it with a muttered, “I need to speak to our illustrious leader about why exactly he thought this was a good idea.”
That makes a second quality he appreciates about Shepard—her clearly overwhelming desire to fuck off. A rare trait in humans. While it’s embarrassing by proxy to witness that with, say, the Council, it does mean she will leave him alone. He has little doubt that she will do her level best to ignore him as much as possible on this mission, and he is more than happy with that.
He eventually decides on a rather sparse lounge with a massive window overlooking the glory of space. To his annoyance, Kasumi has claimed the other lounge and has cluttered it with all manner of no-doubt stolen possessions. That lounge has an equally acceptable view and admittedly luxurious couches and would have made for nicer quarters, but these will suffice. “Leave me,” he commands the timid Cerberus crewmember who was escorting him around, and they flee without further encouragement.
Good. Let them be scared of him.
To his dismay, he runs into the younger Vakarian while accepting absolutely ghastly dextro rations from the shaking hands of the Normandy’s chef.
“Oh, spirits, it’s you,” a dual-toned, notably turian voice says from behind him. If it didn’t belong to one of his kind who he disliked so much, he would have considered practically melting into the ground in relief at the sound of his own species.
Saren turns and can’t quite help his mandibles’ slight flare of surprise at the sight of Vakarian. “What happened to you?”
“Rocket to the face,” he says, scowling. Thick bandages cover an entire half of his face, fresh and white. Despite the cleanliness of the dressing, Vakarian smells strongly of blood and antibiotics and nanobot electrolyte slurry.
Saren regards him. “You should have ducked.”
“If only I got credits for every time someone’s made that joke,” Vakarian mutters, looking distinctive surly. “Even though I’d rather you be anywhere but on this ship, as a professional courtesy, I’m going to warn you that the food here is bad.”
“That much was apparent from the brand,” Saren says with a sneer at his film-covered tray. It’s notorious among turians for being one of the cheaper, terrible ones, and his mood had instantly worsened when he saw what he was given. He supposes he should be grateful that Cerberus deigned to feed them at all, the self-absorbed, human-obsessed organization it is. “I will be speaking to the XO about this.”
“You, facing off with Miranda? I’d pay money to see that.” Shaking his head, Vakarian picks up his own tray of rations from the now-glaring chef. “I’ve only been here a few days, but even I can see that she can be a bit of a hardass. The two of you will be well-matched.”
“How thrilling,” Saren says, not looking forward to the prospect. The dark-haired human did seem more competent than many he’s encountered, which speaks to the potential success of the mission and makes it less likely that he’ll be able to cow her into his demands.
Doesn’t mean he won’t try, mind.
A faint ripple in the assembled humans in the mess signals Shepard’s arrival to dinner, and even if that hadn’t been enough of an indication as to who showed up, the distinctive hum of subvocals from Vakarian would.
“Pick your jaw up off the floor and handle your disgusting little crush sooner rather than later,” Saren mutters, earning himself a squawk of protest from Vakarian. “Spirits know we don’t need that interfering with the mission.”
He ends up eating in his quarters alone, contemplating the stars. It’s strange to be in such a quiet environment with only the faint thrum of the drive core in his ears, and nothing but his thoughts in his head. In the aftermath of Sovereign, the silence in his head drove him nuts. Where once there had been whispers, tugs of influence and desires not his own, it was only him. It had been years since that was the case.
Part of him can’t help but wonder if such barren quarters are good for him. Too much emptiness, too much of his own thoughts. Omega had been grimy and loud and chaotic and dangerous, but those were good qualities when he needed distraction.
For the moment, it’s just him, and Saren didn’t think he’d ever see the day where this particular type of isolation could be called empty rather than peaceful.
So it goes, he thinks. So it goes.