Aboard the Excalibur, En Route to Central Observation Deck
The message came in quietly. No alarms, no flashing red holo-displays—just the subtle flicker of an incoming command priority signal on the periphery of the bridge's status feed. But Sors Bandeam noticed it at once. His mind, like a coiled spring, had been tensed ever since the envoy meeting. He reached forward and opened the feed with a touch of his gauntlet, the voice of his recon operations officer filtering through.
"Captain TR-172 reporting: the recon Munificent-Class Frigate dispatched to designated coordinates (GX-07-421 / TS-Delta-5) has failed to report. Final telemetry suggests heavy impact and hull breach prior to blackout. Secondary analysis by the frigate confirms proximity to a Batarian patrol formation. Recommendation: Hostile engagement likely. Compensating for disparity in technological prowess suggests either a second fleet, or implementation of new tactics against our ships."
Sors didn't speak at first. He stood still—so still the bridge crew did not even dare to breathe loudly. For several seconds the only sound was the low, ambient hum of the Excalibur's reactor cores pulsing far below the deck.
"…Confirmed," he muttered at last.
His steps echoed across the command walkway as he turned away from the display and began heading toward the main bridge viewing chamber. With a gesture, he opened a private line to the Red Queen.
"Convene the Imperial Knights," he ordered.
The Red Queen's voice flowed from the deck's audio field—elegant and clear, the echo of an aristocratic woman in a silk robe who could command an armada with a whisper.
"By your will."
He didn't respond. The force churned as his eyes glowed yellow, but he contained his outburst, ensuring he did not damage any equipment on the ship, explosions of compressed air ringing out within a limited range as he contained them... perhaps he should take a turn towards the prisoner cells before attending the meeting. Let off some steam and TEAR something apart before formulating a plan.
A faint crackling nose took his attention as he raised his hand, a few twitches accompanying it as he frowned. He had cracked the lightweight exoskeleton in numerous locations.
A sigh escaped him as he turned to leave the bridge.
=========================
Ten minutes later
The chamber curved high above him in a crescent of immaculate durasteel and crystal-sheen paneling. The viewing port glared outward across the void. Dots of faint stars, a sea of dust and darkness. Below, the primary galactic map shimmered into place, holographic in three dimensions, projected from a central spire controlled by one of his tactical droids.
A flicker of static, then clean focus.
The glowing spiral of the known galaxy unraveled before them in countless strands—major hyperlanes, local system clusters, known fleets and newly marked Empire-scanned regions. The Citadel was there—sharp and pristine—and the border territory surrounding it. The Crescent Nebula sat tagged in crimson, and farther south... the Omega Nebula, thrumming faintly with coded telemetry.
As the Red Queen began dispatching location orders to the incoming Knights, Sors stepped forward, hands behind his back, staring into the sprawl of starlight.
This was not what he had wanted. Not yet.
The Council had been stalled. Carefully. With effort and subtlety. Matriarch Althanis might be skeptical, but she was bound by the limitations of diplomacy. And through that, Sors had bought time—precious time—for the Expedition Fleet to expand, to probe, to entrench. And now… a Batarian formation. A recon skirmish. A missing frigate.
No message. No recovery. Likely no survivors.
His gloved hand curled into a fist behind his back.
The Batarians are entrenched within Council space. Sparatus will never give them up—not without the veil of law and sovereignty to protect his pride.
He could see it already—how the Council would wring their hands, pretend to disapprove, but hide behind regulations and treaty designations. It would take weeks of petty negotiations and even then, extracting the names of those responsible might not be possible, if such a route was even conceivable.
It was most certainly not, though outright conflict was also not a solution... Sadly to some this might seem as a sign of weakness... especially to a certain entitled princess.
And most unfortunately, it went exactly as he predicted.
A delicate hand smashed the console on the meeting room, leaving half the console destroyed and taking the poor tactical droid's hand, still connected to the console, with it.
"YOU WANT TO LET THIS GO?!" A furious Leia spoke as her eyes glowed yellow, while the two other knights merely watched from their side.
"You might not have much of a brain, but you do have ears. I suggest you use them." Sors responded as he narrowed his eyes.
She nearly reached for her blade right there and then, but Laris was faster, a force grab yanking it off her hip as his other hand pulled his own lightsaber from his own hip and ignited it, delivering it into his hand already at full length, and pointing directly at Leia's throat.
"...YOU..."
"I suggest you listen... and listen well, Leia Skywalker." Sors said as he also glanced subtly at Alan Spacer.
"Whatever your opinion may be, I am the Imperial Knight in Charge of this Expedition, and whatever you may think, my word is his will made manifest for as long as he deems it so. Another attempt to undermine my authority, to undermine the Crown's auhtority... and i will have you put down, for good if I need to."
Leia's chest rose and fell as she took a deep breath. Her jaw clenched, the golden hue in her eyes slowly dimming—though the defiant glint remained. That fierce, untamed spark in her spirit had always made her a weapon of conviction, even if it made her insufferable at times. With her hands at her sides, tension still coursing through her form, she muttered—
"…Understood."
A small flick of Sors' chin was all it took for Laris to lower his saber. With a smooth, almost reverent motion, the silver blade hissed back into its hilt, and with the other hand, the knight used the Force to lift Leia's saber from the floor. It spun gently through the air, before locking magnetically back onto her hip. Her hand twitched, but she did not reach for it again.
Alan Spacer remained still. He never moved unless necessary. The opaque black visor of his helmet betrayed nothing—no judgment, no emotion, just the heavy presence of a soldier who obeyed orders and questioned them only when the consequences demanded it.
Sors took a step forward, and as he walked toward the shattered console, he waved his hand. A new interface blossomed from the nearby wall, a flickering holomap of the outer Council territories and the chaotic region beyond—The Terminus Systems.
He spoke calmly, evenly. A tone sharpened by discipline, not anger.
"Whether we like it or not, the Batarian Hegemony is under the Citadel Council's umbrella. Direct military engagement would compromise the entire Expedition. The Council will posture, stonewall, delay… and while they talk, the Batarians laugh in their dens, secure behind their legal shields."
His hand hovered above the map, and the image zoomed in, spiraling inward toward a dense, chaotic cluster of systems: the Omega Nebula.
"But the Hegemony is not the true strength of the Batarians. Not anymore. Their wealth, their reach, their very soul is anchored here… in the slave trade. Omega is the artery through which their blood flows. The slavers are nominally independent. Smugglers, pirates, criminal lords. On paper, they're not Hegemony forces."
He turned to Leia now, watching her eyes narrow as understanding began to dawn.
"That fiction has protected them for centuries. Because the Terminus is a lawless zone, there's no accountability. The Council won't touch it. It's a shield. But one we can crack."
Sors stepped back and folded his arms behind his back, pacing slowly.
"We strike at Omega. Fast. Precise. We seize it—choke it. And from there, we unravel the Batarians' entire economic foundation. Each slave convoy, each den of filth, every staging ground they use will be purged. Let us see what excuses they will use to intervene."
Leia's lips parted slightly, her earlier rage replaced with focus. Her tone was still sharp, but more calculating now.
"And if they do actually retaliate? If the Hegemony sends their fleet?"
Sors smiled.
"Then they give us what we need. They crawl out of their Council cocoon and show their hand. The moment they cross the line—they become fair game. And we obliterate them. With justification. And with the Council helpless to intervene."
Laris gave a small nod of approval, folding his arms.
"They'll have to choose—remain silent and watch their empire bleed, or reveal themselves and die for it."
Alan finally spoke, his voice distorted behind his helmet, but deep and grounded.
"We'll need speed. Once we start, the slavers will scatter. If they make it back to Batarian space, the plan collapses."
Sors gestured to the tactical droid, who brought up additional data feeds—Imperial probe telemetry, scout ship reports, suspected pirate hubs, slave convoys, known Batarian warlord caches—all centered around Omega.
"Which is why the hammer must fall in a single blow. A cleansing. The Red Queen is preparing the logistical scaffolding now. The Fleet will jump in three days. We make Omega ours in three hours. The other gateways fall within the day. After that—nothing leaves the Terminus System."
Leia's smile was thin. Predatory.
"They'll scream. But no one will come for them."
Sors nodded, satisfied that the fire in her had finally been given shape. Direction. Now she could prove useful.
"The Batarians made their move. We'll make sure it's their last. In a way this provocation... gave... us..." his words left him as his eyes narrowed.
He turned back to the galactic map. The Omega Nebula pulsed ominously, soon to be the center of the Empire's wrath. His thoughts churned suspicions as he filed them away to investigate them later.
And deep in his mind, Sors whispered to himself—
Let the Council watch. Let them squirm...
The lights dimmed as the meeting adjourned, and the Knights left the chamber one by one. Preparations were already underway.
The first true campaign of the Imperial Expeditionary Force had just been born.
And it would begin in blood.
===========================
S.S.V. Normandy – Shepard's Quarters
One day later
Shepard flopped onto her bed like a sack of Alliance-issued potatoes. The dull hum of the Normandy's engines vibrated faintly through the floor beneath her, but she hardly noticed. With a sigh that could only be described as soul-deep, she planted her face firmly into the pillow and let gravity claim her pride.
This week had been… something.
First, there was the fruitless attempt to get any kind of meeting—any—with someone from the Empire. Someone who could maybe explain the hulking fleets and had the entire Citadel bureaucracy either jittery or quietly losing their minds in boardroom meetings. Shepard had pulled strings. She had tapped Anderson. She'd even worn her good armor to the embassy, which, frankly, should have meant something.
Nada. Zilch. Not even a "we'll get back to you."
Apparently the Empire didn't take calls. At least not yet.
"Of course," she muttered into the pillow, voice muffled. "Mysterious authoritarian megastates are so trendy this year."
Anderson hadn't been able to do anything either. To be fair, he tried. But according to him, the Council themselves were still waiting to even see an envoy, and they were the ones technically in charge of the entire galactic government.
To make matters worse, her street cred had apparently plummeted. She hadn't realized that being temporarily dead and then working with the technically terrorist organization known as Cerberus would turn her into the galaxy's Most Wanted Woman… by absolutely no one.
"I save the galaxy once and I'm a hero. I die, come back, and suddenly I'm two steps away from being on a 'Please Report to C-Sec If Seen Breathing' poster."
Apparently, being "resurrected by a morally grey black-ops human-first organization" had side effects.
"Terrorist. I'm not a terrorist," she grumbled to no one in particular. "I didn't blow up a moon or poison a planet. I punched a reporter once, that's it."
Okay, twice. But she deserved it.
Still, it stung. She didn't ask to be brought back to life with bonus space trauma. Cerberus had basically scooped up what was left of her crispy remains and said, "Hey, let's spend a few billion credits reanimating this sludge on the ground and see if she likes working for us." Like some kind of DIY necromancy project.
Now she was unofficially blacklisted, unofficially famous, and very officially tired.
She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.
Then again, it was necessary, and she didn't have much of a choice. Hell, if the Empire was willing to do something about the Reapers other than talk/disregard, she could see herself signing up for it... at least part-time.
"Do they even do part-time?" she muttered. "Was there a W-2 involved? An internship? Did they hand out capes? Do I get to go on a crusade?"
She stared up at the ceiling again, now imagining herself in a ridiculously dramatic red cape.
'A girl can dream.'
"I could check on Jacob's 'derelict' ship. Could be something interesting. Could be a trap. Could just be Jacob trying to drag me into another one of his melodramatic personal traumas."
She pulled the blanket over her face. "Why do all of my crew have tragic backstories? I need someone boring. Like a krogan who just wants to garden. Where's that guy? ... Then again... that would be tragic in its own way."
Still, there was a chance that chasing down the derelict ship might clear her head—and give her a break from trying to rub elbows with space zealots who didn't answer their emails.
"Tomorrow," she muttered, already half-asleep. "Tomorrow's problem."
And with that, Commander Shepard, part-time Cerberus operative (terrorist), full-time chaos magnet, drifted into a restless sleep where she probably dreamed of fighting Reapers while at the same time trying to file menial paperwork.
F.Y.I: Invasion Map
A.N: I had a block while writing this. Just didnt come out right, and felt too forced at times so i had to rewrite a few times. Anyway, was feeling kind of down so i added a little humor at the end there. Makes me feel better. Hope you all enjoyed it :)