1 réponse à ce sujet

[JoeLaTurkey]

The long-awaited Gabby and Ken spinoff is finally here!    

Some people write Zaeed and Grunt off as the least developed characters of Mass Effect 2, but I think there's a great deal beneath their violent surfaces and thought I'd write a fanfiction in their honour.

So here it is. Enjoy!

Prologue

Chapter One: No Purpose

Extract - Grunt's tank POV

First there is the blackness of unknowing, of nothingness. Then comes the
Voice which instantly melds with your being and begins your completion. The
Voice is kind and guiding. It knows all things and will give you its knowledge.
The darkness you behold is leavened by a lone, daring pin ****** of light. The
light swells and shifts, it pulses and throbs as if alive and you realise that
it is alive because you are alive. The light blazes and burns and sears
your mind's eye, never resting or permitting you to – rest is only for those
that have weakened, and you have barely begun at this point.

Your education begins. You see images, hear words, feel feelings. Your
senses are tested constantly. The images are innumerable. You see flashes of
the past and present, then visions of all possible futures. You see through the
eyes of Warlords, heroes of your people as they came and went, leaving their
bloody marks on the pages of history. The Voice shows you their memories and
triumphs but never their fears. Fear isn't for you, it has no place inside one
such as you. Millennia of myth, legend and history flashes in your mind. The
levels of clarity vary depending on how the Voice sees fit. Some days you hear
Shiagur's unforgettable words and some days you look into the crazed eyes of
Veeol , the Lord of Chaos.

But the Voice reminds you that these are but pale imitations, images and
nothing more. Sometimes you try to raise a mighty fist to crush the disgusting
plate-covered faces and snap the three-tined fringes of the turians. The Voice
somehow intervenes, tells you that you are meant for better things. You can't
move yet because you're not complete, not yet free.

The Voice speaks again and you know that it is pleased with you. Then it
comes without warning. For the first time you know it: pain. It violates you,
white-hot daggers stab into your very being, torturing you without mercy and
indifferent to the agony you feel. And you cry, weep…you try to writhe but
can't because you're immobile. You're currently useless. The scream is there
but it never leaves your body so your mind will have to voice it. There is no
widening of your large eyes or twitching of your magnificent muscles so your mind;
the very thing that allowed you to experience and appreciate the Voice; the
very thing that saved you from the blackness and nothingness lets out the
scream. Before your loyalty to the Voice wanes it gives its reason.

"You must know this to conquer this. Many before you have failed.
They are gone."

You endure the pain for days without reprieve. Your mind screams further and
you want to die but you remain right there, trapped in your own head and unable
to move.

Then the pain ends and you still exist, so you must have passed the test.
You feel like you now know everything there is to know about pain. It's
engrained, you just know.

The Voice speaks.

"Our people have always said that the Nathak know blood no matter
the womb. For you the womb is this tank. It's not natural but superior."

You don't move because you're not even in the real world, not yet. You're
developing; you're in utero; relying on the machines that power the tank and
nutrients within the tank. One day you'll be free – birthed but not
needing the years of education that sapient babes require, for the Voice gives
these things to you. The tank's images delve into your mind and give themselves
freely, adding to the rich tapestry that was once but a pin ****** of light over
the nothingness. You feel emotions and know words and places and people and
things. But it is what you don't know and haven't felt – what you must
discover for yourself that the Voice declares to be of utmost importance. You
have not killed yet but simply must, you have not known a female mate
but must.

The education continues. Hours turn to days, days to weeks, weeks to months,
months to years but you're only dimly aware of the time. Time isn't a priority.
The Voice is in no hurry. You are pleasing to the Voice because you have been
made with such painstaking care. Every image given by the tank is understood,
every word of advice given by the Voice is remembered.

You are given doses of pain, shown images and you learn all of them with
undying diligence. You latch onto the words and images. You familiarise
yourself with them. You repeat the words and describe the images in your mind.

Then the Voice tells you that you must see something special. This will be
the clearest image yet.

Canrum is the last bastion of the Horde in the waning Glory Days of their
Rebellions. It blazes with the ravages of war. The cursed turians – a word that
almost makes you retch – have bombed it into a husk of what once was. Ashes
swirl without direction in the cruel winds. Flames dance like mocking phantoms
over the surface, razing your people and all they hold dear. The eloquent
Warlady Shiagur, the fertile female with her armies of subservient men, calls
out her final words as the dancing phantoms become an endless flaming tide. The
flames wipe out the last of her vanguard. You strain, trying to hear the words
but the bombs of the turian bastards are thundering so hard you can't even hear
her. The words are spoken but incoherent.

The images change and your anger subsides. These were better times for your
people. You're on another planet. You're on a mountain overlooking the land
beneath. The Voice has never mentioned this planet's name but you don't care
because your people have conquered so many that there's little use in keeping
track, you just march on and claim the next one. You study the land beneath the
mountain, letting your gaze wonder from the rocky slopes all the way to the
horizon. At first you think it's just a featureless, colourless desert. But it
ripples, the air fills with thuds so loud they eclipse the turian bombs that
destroyed Canrum. You're not looking at a desert. You're not looking at the
land at all. You're looking at the Horde, marching off into the distance. Not
one speck of land is visible as far as the eye can see. The Horde covers
everything. Their numbers are beyond anything you have ever seen, they're like
grains of sand on a dune. The Horde grows clearer. Every warrior is armoured
and armed to the teeth. You know there must be many clans within this crowd but
today they march as one Horde with one battle song that begins to fill the air
and drown out even their marching. You beg the Voice for answers.

How can they be defeated?

How can it possibly end?

Then the Voice tells you the most infuriating thing of all. Even the Voice
cannot contain its anger, and your intimate joining to the Voice causes you to
share in its displeasure. It tells you the tale, bringing up the species you
studied years ago in the tank's images. It brings up a name you heard.

"Salarians."

The feeble ones. Short-lived, slight of build, incapable of fighting krogan
directly.

"Their weapon was unleashed by the turians."

You know that name well enough, and almost retch again.

The tale is almost done when the Voice finally offers you a single word. You
latch onto this word like all the others. You familiarise yourself with it and
repeat it in your mind. But this time your zeal is strongest for this is the
greatest curse you will ever know. This word carries more history than the most
scholarly asari matriarch, more weight than all the planets of the DMZ, more
power that the greatest of the Tuchanka-born Maws.

"Genophage."

Anger rises in you as the Voice gives you the word. It has for so long been
called the bane of the krogan, the scar we all bear as punishment for the
rebellion – they call it the downfall of the Horde and all its dwindling
descendants. But then the Voice tells you something you did not expect. The
genophage ended the weak and left only the strong, of which you are the
pinnacle. You will carry the genophage.

"Defy the blasted turians and salarians and wear it like a badge of
honour!"

Your anger turns to pride and eventually arrogance. You love it, you are the
evolution of your people. The Horde is a thing of the past. It exists only in
the pages of history and there it will stay because in the future there is no
Horde, there is only…you.

You will eliminate the need for another Horde. You possess all of their
strengths and none of their weaknesses. You are the greatest thing the
genophage ever caused. The turians and their cowardly salarian puppets will
regret ever unleashing their little bioweapon. The genophage led to only the
strong surviving.

It led to you.

The Voice speaks again. You are complete. The Voice is pleased, even joyous.

Then the Voice turns strangled and husky. The foundations of your whole
world shake. Is this weakness? It speaks to another, you are envious. Endless
wisdom and all power held by the Voice has been shared with another – Shepard.

"If I knew why the collectors wanted humans, I'd tell you."

The Voice speaks your name in its final words, letting you know the final
detail, your own name. You are a legacy but have not been named as such. You
are a perfect and pure krogan but will never be named as such.

"This…Grunt."

'Grunt.' It's simple, powerful and memorable. The name Grunt is brief enough
to fully grace the lips of awestruck enemies in their final moments. So brief
it can never be interrupted by the bombs of the turian bastards.

The Voice is silent for days. Everything changes.

The safety of your cell is compromised. All confines break open. Dreams,
shadows of the past and the words of long-dead krogan will not suffice in this
single moment. All you need are your survival instincts, you may be under
attack. Light – real light in its far more potent and intrusive form invades
your mind's eye – no – your real eyes. Your lids flutter and you blink
rapidly in an attempt to adapt to this change.

The Voice is gone, it's not coming back.

You are grateful for the images because they prepared you for this – the
emptying of the tank. Finally all your actions are physical, tangible. You feel
your limbs spring free and move. They're huge; tree trunks from the Tuchanka
rainforests of old. You could snap a Nathak with these hands. Your organs flare
up and live at last, primary, secondary and tertiary. Three hearts pound like
the feet and battle songs of the Horde. Six lungs try but fail to suck in air
but there's something in your mouth. You choke and spit out the now-useless nutrient
liquid. Choking is a weakness. You hate weakness, weakness has not been a part
of you since the Voice gave the pain and you cried pathetically. Your eyes see
not tank-issued images of the past or visions of the future but reality as it
truly is here and now. You know what this place is – the Voice taught you well
and the images were always clear enough. You're in the cargo hold of a starship
of human design.

Humans – bipedal mammals that live an average of 150 years; stronger but
less agile than asari, longer-lived and stronger but less intelligent than
salarians, most comparable to turians or drell physically, capable of wielding
biotic power but never naturally.

You have only a few seconds to process this. Your three hearts beat
strongly, causing your veins throb against the armour which almost feels tight
around you. You don't yet see the armour but you know it's magnificent. No
other krogan could wear your armour – it's too big.

Your quickly-clearing eyes swivel up and you see more than the room's lower
half and metal-panelled floor. You see one of the humans aboard the starship.
It's opened your tank, it's birthed you, but you feel no endearment or
kinship for it. The human is a fool. You can't see a single weapon or armour
plate on it. It must think you're here to talk. It can't know the strength of
your desire to kill. What you feel is not the legendary Blood Rage, only the
pounding of three hearts, the adrenaline rush and the ragged breaths, courtesy
of your six lungs.

This is an ordinary rage, nothing more than a standard krogan survival
instinct. You move with the speed and power the Voice always knew you were
capable of and have no trouble grabbing the pathetic human and pinning it
against the wall opposite. Every one of your physical qualities has worked in
accordance with the Voice's desire.

The human doesn't even bother squirming; he's one jerk of your arm away from
a snapped neck. With him firmly in place and not going anywhere unless you
decide; you utter your first real words and relish them because you're once
again reciting the truths of the Voice.

"Human. Male."

 

Modifié par JoeLaTurkey, 03 août 2011 - 01:44 .

[JoeLaTurkey]

And now we finally have a prologue and first chapter.

Extract: One of Grunt's visions, courtesy of the tank.

"I feel nothing for Okeer's clan or his enemies. I will do what I need
to do – fight and determine the strongest…"

Determine the strongest...

...the strongest...

...the worthy...

He fell into the imprints tattooed onto his mind, his soul.

Krogan Trial by Combat – the fate of General Barrin hung in the balance.
The general's conduct during the Rachni War had turned his name to a poisoned
utterance among almost all clans. Onlookers watched with bated breath and eager
grins.

Grunt viewed the scene as if stood in The Great Circle at the heart of
Kredak's Fortress. Likenesses of every Warlord surrounded him, towered over him
in their immortal stone forms; hewn from the single cylindrical wall. Their
grey, scowling faces beheld the proceedings with him. History was about to be
made. Justice was about to be done, and where else could it be done but in
their sight?

The rachni were vanquished, and with them gone, the krogan were burdened
with their final task – removing the last of the unworthy; stinking, shrivelled
pods from the vine. Beneath the stone immortals were the krogan who hoped to
one day succeed them, a council of the Thirteen Venerable Clans.

Nobody's armour shone; battle scars of skin and raiment honoured them.
Only wasting your time fighting the unworthy left you unmarked. And the most
worthy foe had just fallen, stomped into the gaseous mud of its miserable lair
with all its brood.

Every suit of armour was massive; some of them almost rivalled Grunt's.
He could make out all the sigils adorning immense yet intricately-wrought
Battlemaster plates – the dual, entwined Thresher Maws of Urdnot, the screaming
red-toothed Nathak of Weyrloc and the clenched, bleeding fist of Nakmor were
the most striking. They were hand-carved, created with the blood of the fallen.
He could make out Okeer in the crowd, looking young and strong, his skin
bearing only a slight green-yellow tinge. He then saw Barrin, the disgraced
prisoner, clad in impressive armour but with hand and foot chained together.

Stood in the centre of the Council was the Shaman. He had no name, no
clan, but nobody else was held in higher esteem on this day. He wore the shell
of a rachni queen. The dead queen's head was now a hollow helmet cupping red
and black head plating. Her blank eyes stared, unseeing into the stone face of
Veeol, high above her. Her limp legs dangled precariously around the Shaman's
massive body, dragging in the dust as he moved, bouncing with absurdity when he
raised his arms. She was an insult in death.

Kredak - Overlord of the entire star system, grasped his throne, which
was hewn from the same unyielding rock that connected the shins of Veeol and
Omgroth. It was a simple chair, placed on a mound of roughly-cut rachni
corpses. He appeared to care not for the symbolism. His memories of the real
thing were fresh, always capable of bringing a smile to his yellowed face.

The Shaman threw a gauntleted arm upwards and the ceiling parted, letting
in what little sunlight could creep through Tuchanka's grim air.

It was impossible to tell the time of day on Tuchanka. Permanent,
omnipresent clouds of ash greyed everything, hovered like a mist that descended
in winter yet lingered through all seasons; the ravages of nuclear fire; a sign
of things to come. All Grunt knew was that the sun was up. A lone, daring beam
struck the circular chamber and settled on the Shaman, almost giving the
queen's eyes a sparkle of life. Grunt was reminded of that daring pin-******
that began his education.

Kredak locked eyes with the Shaman, who nodded and began reciting the
hallowed words.

"The krogan grovel to nobody!" he boomed, turning to face every
Battlemaster in a whirl of rachni limbs. "We fabricate no gods, we fear no
mortals. We exist as the embodiment of strength. We celebrate the worthy, we
end the unworthy. Our goal is the Void."

He marched towards the chained Barrin, stopping with his painted face
inches from the prisoner's. "And, General Barrin, how do we greet the
Void?"

"Gladly," said Barrin with no emotion. "Proudly. If it is
our time."

"And yet," said the Shaman, turning away and marching up and
down amidst the council's ranks, "many of the krogan under you chose
suicide."

Hissing, spitting on the floor and jeering erupted from the
Battlemasters. Kredak's already formidable face soured further, his grip on the
throne tightened.

"What becomes of them?" the Shaman demanded of Barrin, getting
close to him again.

"They are left," said Barrin, "good to only be feasted
upon by the Nathak, played with by the Maws, finished by the worms. The Void
takes them in a pathetic state. Their bodies do not touch sacred ground."

"If," said the Shaman, turning away again. "Your
Champion..." he nodded to an unremarkable krogan in an unremarkable black
armoured suit..."prevails and triumphs over the Champion of our Overlord
Kredak..." he motioned at a colossal warrior stood by the throne; wearing
green Battlemaster plate. He was the spitting image of Kredak himself and for a
moment Grunt spotted the room's beam of sunlight flicker on him..."then
you will be granted the chance to leave in exile, taken by the Void with no
clan, no worth in life or death. The two Champions will duel as our ancestors
did. As the Immortals did in this very hall, centuries past."

The Shaman then signalled to a pair of guards stood just outside the
entry archway. They dissapeared for a moment before re-emerging with a long,
red box. When it reached him, the Shaman drew a twisted key from one of the
queen's pouches, and pried the container open. Inside were two swords. The
first - which Grunt guessed was for Kredak's choice of combatant, was a notched
greatsword, taller than an asari, bearing all thirteen sigils on its hilt. The
second was a short stabbing sword of medium thickness.

"But," continued the Shaman. "Should Overlord Kredak's
Champion prevail, you will face the excecution many feel you should have
already been subjected to. You will die here, before your betters," he
nodded to the Battlemasters and Overlord, "and before the Immortals,"
he gestured flamboyantly to all the stone watchers. "You will die here,
without the chance to live out an exile of pleasure-seeking and
wealth-gathering elsewhere."

He slapped gloved hands together and chanted something in the old Jabroth
tongue, something Grunt couldn't decipher. The Venerable Battlemasters repeated
these words and with that, the two Champions leapt forward, going for the kill
without a moment's hesitation.

Oh, to have been alive in the time of steel and swords! Before long,
Battlemaster cheers and taunts were drowned out by forboding clashes of blade
on blade or armour.

Grunt saw emotion flare up in the face of Kredak's Champion as he
effortlessly put together a flurry of punishing blows, greatsword slashing, stabbing,
lurching, moving with its wielder's whole body. No other species found such
simple, appreciative pleasure in the shedding of blood. The Champion's face and
cry of delight was endlessly preferable to turian stoicism, asari 'dignity' or
the salarian habit of avoiding man-to-man, hand-to-hand dueling. Despite the
effortless flow of his attack (which beat back the Champion of General Barrin
in seconds) Kredak's warrior had an admirable lack of finnesse. He was
efficient, matching the training in Grunt's blood.

It took only a few moments for Grunt to figure out why Barrin had chosen
such an unusual Champion. This small, black-armoured krogan was just like the
chained General it fought for: cunning but cowardly. Like the salarians, it
shied away from direct combat, the test of strength required of all true
warriors. Barrin's champion showed no interest in engaging directly, he ducked
and bobbed and wove away from blows, only bringing his patheric blade in when
it was absolutely necessary. He seemed determined to wear Kredak's Champion
out, hoping the encumberment of his armour and choice of weapon would be his
downfall. All it took was one properly-timed blow...the moment he began to suck
in air, sweat on his plate...

But this was no killing field of the Rachni War - where the irritating
salarians threw in their cowardly input, relying on reconnaissance and sneaky
Commandos. This was Tuchanka. This was a place where nothing could prevail but
strength. Evolution was the coldest force in the universe. It let countless
numbers die so that a dominant species could rise. Through murderous plant
life, tunneling Maws, hordes of Nathak, dozens of nuclear wars - the krogan had
not only tamed Tuchanka, but rose to the pedestal of a galaxy. Cunning would
not be enough for Barrin's Champion, not in the place where Veeol's gaze saw
all.

Veeol's gaze was quickly satisfied. Kredak's look of curiosity became a
satisfied smile.

Several metres away from the Battlemasters and their intriuged Overlord, Barrin's
Champion ran out of places to hide and realised that he would not outlast his
foe. Kredak's Champion raised his weapon high above his head, until it too
caught the chamber's lone light. He threw down a scything blow that Barrin's
coward had no choice but to parry directly. They stood locked for almost a full
minute, staring through crossed blades. But Barrin's Champion was shaking from
the effort of maintaining his block. In a violent, jolting motion, Kredak's
Champion thrust his hilt forward, catching his opponent's neck artery with the
blade's base. He then broke the interlocking struggle as the smaller krogan's
blood flowed over its black armour like an orange waterfall, pooling at their
feet, swelling by the second. Kredak's Champion swept around his stunned
adversary, gripped his blood-spattered chin and head, and broke his neck.

With Barrin's Champion gone, Kredak's chosen warrior wasted no time and
was met with no resistance. He charged, raising the greatsword. Barrin leaned
forward in solemnity, ready to accept the blow.

The great notched blade came down again with a shade more ferocity,
cleaving through the General's leathery neck, cutting bone and removing his
head in a single blow.

Barrin's head rolled somewhat feebly away from the council, leaving its
sanguineous stain in the dirt. A child of no more than six or seven, with an
unusual headplate of pure red, appeared from the ranks of the taller
Battlemasters and ran after it with infantile laughter. The Urdnot
Battlemaster, who bore an identical headplate and matching eyes, stormed after
the child with fury.

"JARROD!" he yelled. "PUT THAT DOWN!"

The child's celebration for having caught Barrin's head was cut short and
he dropped his newest toy, covered in blood. He then stared up at his elder
with wide, humbled eyes.

"This head," said the Battlemaster, "belonged to a
worthless krogan. Its skull will not grace the Hollows. It will be left as food
for the Nathak or Maw."

He snatched the head and threw it away, pointing a finger menacingly at
the cowering Jarrod. "May you never desecrate the tradition of the
krogan Hollows again!"

The fight was over, justice was done and the strongest had been
determined. With the Void receiving its newest prey, Grunt's vision melted.

"…but his imprint has failed. He has failed."

 

Modifié par JoeLaTurkey, 03 août 2011 - 01:55 .