dumpster fire.

Honey, I wanna race you to the table If you hesitate, the getting is gone I won't lie, if there's something to be gained There's money to be made, whatever's still to come

nihlus, saren, her—they’re the very same, in most ways. ghostly apparations traversing space. shadowy figures looming, threatening, ending. bloodied hands washed and scrubbed in the bathrooms just outside the council’s hallway; and if anyone sees, or smells, or breathes so much a word, they don’t see the citadel for a while—or much of anything, anymore.

they are meant to be hidden, subtle, leaving and entering through back doors and alleyways.

until they don’t. until it’s halle withering and screaming and rousing attention to the broken beacon burning at her brain; until it’s saren’s hand gripping, tugging her towards the ship known as sovereign, geth at his heel, reaper threads at his fingers; until it’s nihlus barging into the prisidium with loud and inconceivable claims for all the galaxy to hear.

spectres aren’t supposed to be the centre of attention or be the ones to dictate the fate of the universe as they see fit.

until they are.

“Would it be so terrible to step aside, just this once, Aveline?”

“You know I cannot allow any harm to come to the detective, Ulrich.”