Dawn broke over Rio de Janeiro in layers of gold and gray, sunlight spilling across the Atlantic before climbing the hills and concrete veins of the city. The ocean looked calm from a distance. Up close, it was relentless.
The N7 Training Facility sat inland on elevated ground—fortified, discreet, and built with the kind of budget that didn’t require public justification. Angular structures of reinforced composite and smart glass reflected the early light in controlled, deliberate angles. No wasted lines. No decorative indulgences.
Function over sentiment.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of disinfectant and recycled ozone.
Max Lee stood beneath a stream of hot water that hammered against bruised muscle and overtaxed nerves. Across from him, separated only by a frosted partition that offered modesty but not privacy, Liana T’Soni let the water run down blue skin marked by the faint biotic stress patterns of overuse.
They had survived day one.
First came the assessment trial against the N4s, second, an obstacle course designed less to measure physical ability and more to expose weakness. Zero-visibility navigation. Live-fire simulations. Psychological stress injections delivered mid-run. Instructors had watched without expression as candidates stumbled, recalibrated, adapted—or failed.
Then hours in a lecture hall absorbing the dense framework of N7 doctrine. Chain of command. Operational autonomy boundaries. Engagement protocols. Legal authorities. Consequences.
The rules mattered.
Power without rules created incidents.
Neither of them spoke.
The silence wasn’t awkward. It was exhaustion distilled into stillness.
Water shut off. Towels. Slow, economical movements. They dressed in their issued N1 fatigues—baseline trainees, not yet worthy of the stripe. The fabric was lightweight but reinforced at stress points. Embedded microfibers tracked biometrics. Even the clothing was watching.
They exited the locker room and stepped into the main corridor of the N7 barracks.
The building was massive—multiple floors stacked around a central atrium that ran the height of the structure. Walkways lined each level, sealed with transparent barriers. Lighting panels adjusted automatically to circadian rhythms, currently set to a clinical morning brightness.
Everything was clean.
Not just tidy. Sterile.
Surfaces seamless. Corners sharp. Floors polished to a low-gloss sheen. No clutter. No personality. Climate control held the temperature at a neutral median optimized for mixed-species occupancy.
Liana scanned the space, hands clasped loosely behind her back.
“This feels less like an elite military barracks,” she said, voice dry, “and more like a hospital.”
Lee blinked, glancing around again as if he’d missed something.
Liana continued, tone lightening. “At the Asari Commando High Command facilities on Thessia, there’s art. Murals. Sculptures. Historical battle scenes. Poetry etched into the walls. It’s meant to inspire the spirit as much as discipline the body.”
Lee looked genuinely puzzled.
“Inspiring art,” he repeated, as if testing the structural integrity of the concept.
“Yes,” Liana said. “Reminders of who you are. What you represent.”
Lee’s gaze drifted up toward the sterile ceiling panels.
“On Tuchanka,” he said evenly, “training grounds are rocks and dirt. If you survive the rocks, you get promoted to larger rocks.”
Liana’s lips curved despite her fatigue.
“That,” she said, “was a joke.”
Lee turned to her, confusion unfeigned.
“I don’t understand.”
She studied him for a moment, then folded her arms.
“You were joking. About the rocks.”
“I was describing the rocks.”
A beat.
Liana exhaled softly through her nose. “I was joking. About this place feeling like a hospital.”
Lee processed that.
“Oh.”
They resumed walking along the atrium’s perimeter. Other trainees moved below. Conversations were muted. Footsteps measured. Everyone carrying the same first-day stiffness.
Lee spoke after a moment. “Krogan don’t really have a sense of humor.”
“That’s not entirely true,” Liana replied.
“They laugh,” Lee conceded. “But usually right before something explodes.”
She tilted her head, studying him again. He walked with the grounded balance of someone accustomed to unstable terrain. Shoulders slightly forward. Steps economical. Eyes always mapping exits.
He wasn’t particularly outspoken. He didn’t fill silence. He didn’t posture. He absorbed.
“But you are human,” Liana said carefully. “Right?”
Lee hesitated.
“Yeah,” he answered. Then, after a fraction of a pause: “But.”
The word hung there.
But I wasn’t raised here.
But I don’t feel like them.
But I don’t know the references.
But I don’t laugh at the right times.
Liana’s expression softened.
“Don’t worry, partner,” she said, injecting deliberate optimism into her tone. “I’ll help you become more human.”
Lee looked at her sideways.
“Thanks,” he said after a moment. “I guess.”
They reached the far end of the atrium where a digital board displayed the day’s upcoming schedule. 0600 physical conditioning. 0830 tactical simulations. 1300 biotic harmonization drills.
No murals.
No poetry.
Just expectations.
Liana leaned slightly closer as they studied the display.
“For the record,” she added quietly, “humor is usually about contrast. Expectation versus outcome.”
Lee nodded once, committing it to memory like doctrine.
“Understood.”
She smirked. “That wasn’t a test.”
He glanced at her again, uncertain.
The sterile lights hummed overhead. Somewhere in the building, a whistle blew, sharp and commanding.
Max Lee and Liana T’Soni stepped aside near a load-bearing column and activated their omni-tools. Orange holographic interfaces bloomed around their forearms, text scrolling in crisp Alliance-standard font.
Lee blinked once, focusing past the residual fatigue.
T.A.C.M. — Team Assimilation Combat Maneuvers
Training Sector Delta-4
Report Time: 0600
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The previous night was a blur of regulations, indoctrination briefs, and muscle soreness deep enough to feel structural.
Liana finished reading first.
“I suppose that’s us,” she said.
Lee nodded. “Yes. As Commander Lira stated, we are now a team.”
He said it the way he approached everything else—direct, unembellished, operational.
Team meant shared evaluation metrics. Shared demerits. Shared survival probability.
Liana angled her omni-tool and glanced at him sideways.
“So I have to stare at your mug for seven years,” she said lightly. “Maybe more?”
Lee processed the statement at face value.
“I guess so.”
She stopped walking.
“That,” she clarified, “was another joke.”
He looked at her, expression unchanged. “Understood.”
“You didn’t laugh.”
“I was not aware laughter was required.”
She exhaled, shaking her head. “Jeez, lighten up, Francis.”
Lee halted.
“Francis?”
There was a measurable pause.
Liana blinked. “Ugh.”
Lee’s eyes stayed on her, steady and analytical.
“It’s a reference,” she said quickly. “Old human military film. Means you’re… intense.”
“I am intense?”
“You are structurally disciplined.”
He considered that.
“On Tuchanka, lack of discipline leads to death.”
She studied him for half a second, then nodded once. “Fair.”
They resumed walking.
The doors hissed open, releasing Lee and Liana into the T.A.C.M. sector. The air smelled faintly of ozone and lubricants—modular training terrain recalibrating around them. Elevated platforms, collapsible barricades, and tactical projections hummed quietly under the fluorescent glow of the chamber.
They stepped forward cautiously, scanning the chamber. Movement caught their eyes immediately. A figure approached, stride precise, posture calculated. Not human. Not krogan. Something else.
It was a salarian.
Long, gangly limbs with exaggerated joint angles. Skin a muted green-gray, taut over angular bone structure. A narrow face with high, jutting cheekbones. Bulging eyes, yellow with black irises, scanning the room with rapid, flickering motions. Head slightly tilted, as if every microsecond was a computation. Fingers long, dexterous, each joint hyper-articulated—capable of micro-manipulation humans couldn’t hope to match. The whole frame carried the aura of intelligence in motion, not brute force. Every gesture calculated for maximum efficiency.
Lee and Liana stopped, involuntary, taking the measure of him.
“I’m Zornim Risu,” the salarian said, voice rapid but controlled, edges clipped as if cutting away excess. “Salarian STG. Here to train you young ones in team combat.”
Liana raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise breaking her usual composure. “I did not think a Salarian STG would be training at the N7 facility.”
Zornim’s eyes darted between them, pupils narrowing briefly. “Yes. Sur’Kesh has sent me here. Commander Shepard left an impression in us. We would like to help make many little Shepards. That would be good. Good for the galaxy. A team of Shepards working together.”
Lee processed the words, jaw tight. He’d heard the name Shepard countless times in reports and commendations, but the salarian’s phrasing—“little Shepards”—was unsettling in its calculated optimism.
Liana tilted her head slightly, lips twitching into a half-smile. “Little Shepards, huh? Sounds ambitious.”
Zornim’s limbs shifted imperceptibly—subtle micro-adjustments that suggested attention to detail even as he spoke. “Ambition is necessary. Coordination is mandatory. Efficiency is expected. You will learn, young ones. Or the simulation will adjust you until you do.”
Lee clenched his fists lightly, muscles still sore from the previous day. He had survived Tuchankan training grounds, but this… this was something else. Precision, intellect, timing—everything he’d learned would be tested against a machine of thought encased in flesh.
Zornim’s gaze swept across them both, unflinching, and held for the barest moment, a silent assessment.
“Now,” he said, voice snapping into the cadence of instruction. “We begin.”
The lights dimmed, environmental modules activated, and the first wave of obstacles and simulated adversaries appeared in the sector. The T.A.C.M. had started.
And the salarian STG was already calculating every possible outcome.
The doors sealed behind them with a pneumatic hiss. Sector Delta-4 hummed alive, the hum of servo motors and magnetic locks layering over the faint scent of ozone. Modular terrain shifted subtly around them—walls rising, barricades sliding into place, platforms adjusting height with mechanical precision.
Zornim Risu moved to a corner of the chamber, long limbs folding neatly as he watched, eyes flicking from Lee to Liana with computational speed. Every movement, every micro-expression, he cataloged.
Lee stepped forward first, boots barely making a sound on the reinforced flooring. His stance was solid, controlled, weight balanced, eyes scanning the room for tactical advantage. Liana mirrored him, smooth and deliberate, a fluid grace born of biotic training and battlefield awareness.
Alone, each was a machine of efficiency. Lee’s structural discipline paired with focused strength. Liana’s reflexes, judgment, and spatial awareness were near-perfect. But together… they faltered.
The first wave triggered without warning. Small drones dropped from ceiling chutes, spinning in erratic arcs. Liana reacted first, biotic fields flaring to intercept several midair. Lee moved instinctively, using his body to block and neutralize others. Individually, flawless execution. But timing, coordination, spacing—they collided, doubled back, and left a brief but exploitable gap.
Zornim’s voice cut through the chamber, crisp, analytical. “Sub-optimal coordination. Probability of mission success: low. Adjust. Repeat.”
Hidden traps activated next—pressure-sensitive plates, automated turrets, wall panels that slid to create choke points. Lee’s eyes flicked to Liana’s, but the timing misaligned. He ducked to avoid one trap just as she redirected another, and a drone slipped past their defensive coverage.
“Your field placement is substandard,” Zornim observed. “Compensatory actions detected but delayed. Risk propagation: high.”
Liana gritted her teeth, adjusting her grip. “We can—wait—on my signal—”
Lee’s body moved before the signal could synchronize. The drone made a grazing strike on a training barrier, clipping the reinforced panel. Sparks flared. The noise was minor, but it was enough to throw off rhythm.
Zornim’s eyes narrowed. “Disparate timing. Single point failures will cascade. Predictable if uncorrected. Execute coordination drills under continuous stress.”
The chamber shifted again. Barricades rotated, creating a narrow corridor flanked by false exits. Drones swarmed in patterns designed to split focus. Lee’s muscle memory screamed forward, holding the line against incoming attacks. Liana moved laterally, compensating for his blind spot. They were impressive individually. They were spectacular together in bursts—but the bursts didn’t synchronize.
“Lee,” Zornim said, voice clipped, “anticipate partner response. Predict delay. Adjust in real time. Biotic and kinetic coordination required. Simulation will punish failure.”
He released a volley of micro-drones from floor vents. The pair stumbled into misaligned movements, one blocking a shot the other could have intercepted, leaving a third to graze past. Lee’s jaw clenched. Liana’s brow furrowed.
“Again,” Zornim said. “Do not underestimate the cost of poor coordination.”
Lee took a breath, counting milliseconds in his mind. Liana adjusted her field, timing the activation with his slight backward lean. The next drone volley came. Their actions overlapped almost perfectly—too early, too late—but for one instant, the synergy appeared. Sparks flew, fields flared, drones fell in a controlled cascade.
Zornim tilted his head, satisfied. “Improvement noted. Potential detected. However, consistency: absent. Continue.”
The floor shuddered as more obstacles activated. Hidden panels slid out of the walls, dropping new hazards into the corridor. Lee and Liana moved together, dodging, attacking, reacting—but always one beat off. Every minor success revealed another gap.
By the time the final wave fell silent, both were breathing hard, sweat dripping from temples and hairline. They stood amid a field of scattered drone husks and dislodged barricade panels. Individually, performance had been flawless. Collectively… flawed.
Zornim approached. Limbs folded again, eyes flicking in rapid micro-calculations. “Individual excellence is insufficient. Survival is team-dependent. Each failure is traceable to delayed prediction or misaligned action. Your strengths are evident. Unity is absent. You will learn.”
Lee’s shoulders sagged slightly. Liana’s chest heaved. Words weren’t necessary—they both knew the evaluation.
Zornim’s gaze lingered a fraction longer, processing, predicting, already calculating the next drill. “Reset. I will double obstacle density. Coordination failure probability: 95%. You will improve.”
And just like that, the chamber shifted again. New barricades, new drones, new traps. The T.A.C.M. exercise restarted—relentless, precise, designed to teach two elite warriors that in N7, strength without unity was wasted potential.
The sector fell quiet as the last simulated drone collapsed. Sparks fizzled along the floor vents, and the faint hum of environmental systems returned to background noise. Lee and Liana stood side by side, muscles tense, eyes fixed on Zornim. He moved to the center of the chamber, limbs folding neatly, posture precise.
“Assessment complete,” he said, voice clipped, deliberate. “Individually, both of you are… good. Above average in reaction time, precision, and situational awareness. As a team…” He paused, letting the words hang. “…horrible. Misalignment, delayed responses, unanticipated overlap. Risk propagation through inaction and improper synchronization is unacceptable.”
Lee’s jaw tightened. Liana crossed her arms, lips twitching in a half-smile.
“Your being nice,” she said.
Zornim’s eyes flicked toward her. “We Salarians are never nice. But we are fair. Potential detected. If synchronization improves…” His posture shifted slightly, the merest tilt. “…your performance may be legendary.”
Lee blinked. Liana’s smile faded into a mix of awe and challenge.
Zornim extended a long, dexterous arm toward a large display panel embedded in the far wall. The screen flared to life, and a holovid filled the chamber with dynamic light.
The footage showed a team of three: one human in sleek black Onyx X N7 armor, an Asari operative, and a Quarian in reinforced combat plating. They moved with flawless precision, engaging a tide of Reaper husks. Coordination was near-perfect. Each maneuver anticipated the other: flanking, suppression, simultaneous strikes. Their synergy turned chaos into choreography.
The human moved forward—immediately the asari shifted left, creating a biotic corridor. The quarian deployed suppressive fire exactly where the human’s movement predicted enemy approach.
Massive Reaper brutes surged forward. Even so, the team moved as one. They dispatched the brutes with fluid efficiency—no wasted motion, no hesitation. Every strike, dodge, and counterattack was executed with exacting timing.
The human drew the brute’s attention. The asari destabilized it with a perfectly timed biotic strike. The quarian hit the exposed joint with concentrated fire.
The creature collapsed.
Lee’s eyes widened, muscles relaxing despite exhaustion. Liana’s gaze sharpened, following each movement with recognition.
“I… recognize that armor,” Liana said quietly, voice catching slightly. “That’s Commander Shepard. And…” she hesitated, “…that’s Liara T’Soni. My mother.”
Zornim inclined his head. “Correct. Both exceptional. Their coordination… legendary. It is a demonstration of what a properly synchronized team can achieve. Strength alone is insufficient. Unity is the multiplier.”
Lee glanced at Liana, processing the weight of the revelation. The personal connection didn’t soften the lesson—it sharpened it. The example wasn’t abstract anymore. It was family. A standard to measure against.
Zornim’s elongated fingers tapped the panel, pausing the holo-frame on Shepard delivering a precise synchronized strike with the Asari and Quarian at the flanks. “Correct. Commander Shepard. Leadership, coordination, adaptability. Observe how independent strengths become a force multiplier when properly aligned. Timing, spatial awareness, trust, and anticipation. None of you will be perfect individually. None of you alone can replicate this efficiency. But together…” He let the words linger. “…that is what makes an N7 team exceptional.”
“Commander Shepard was not strongest alone.”
He zoomed in on the positioning of the team.
“Shepard never went solo. Never.”
Lee blinked.
“Shepard understood something many elite soldiers fail to learn.”
Zornim turned slightly toward them.
“He was strongest within a team.”
Lee’s mouth was slightly open. Liana’s expression mirrored his astonishment, admiration tempered with self-reflection.
“Every action,” Lee murmured, almost reverently. “Perfect.”
Liana’s lips pressed into a thin line. “We… we could be that good one day.”
Zornim’s gaze swept over them, unflinching, analyzing. “Perhaps. But only if synchronization is prioritized above ego, reaction, and instinct. Only then will you approach this level of operational excellence.”
Lee and Liana exchanged a glance, the weight of the lesson settling in. Words were unnecessary. The display had spoken: this was the standard, the apex.
“Commander Shepard,” Liana repeated, nodding once. “That’s… incredible.”
Zornim inclined his head. “Correct. Now, do not emulate blindly. Learn to anticipate each other. Learn to act as one. That is your next objective.”
He paused, letting the weight of the holovid settle between them. Then his voice shifted—still precise, still clipped, but carrying the faint undertone of encouragement that only a Salarian mentor could deliver.
“Do not lose heart, little Shepards,” he continued. “I will be here to help. Anyone else would get it wrong.”
Lee tilted his head. Liana’s lips twitched. Both caught the subtle homage hidden in Zornim’s phrasing. Mordin Solus—still resonant even years after his legacy.
Zornim extended a hand toward the empty display panel. “Now,” he said, “we must give your team a designation. A name that will anchor identity and cohesion.”
Liana leaned forward, tapping on her omni-tool, her face lighting with ideas. “The Blue Barracudas?” she offered. “No… Red Thunder… no wait—Azure Storm!”
Lee’s suggestions were quieter, pragmatic, lacking flourish. “Team One.” “N7 Alpha.” “Tactical Unit.”
Zornim’s gaze lingered on both of them. Then, almost imperceptibly, his eyes narrowed as he processed their roots, their histories.
“Lee,” he said deliberately, “raised on Tuchanka under red skies. Liana, from Thessia with seas of azure. Deep roots, ingrained resilience. Balance of strengths, a unity of extremes. Your designation shall be: Team Indigo.”
For a moment, silence. The chamber, the drones, even the hum of environmental systems seemed to pause.
“Team Indigo,” Liana repeated, a slow smile spreading across her face.
Lee inclined his head once, firm. “Team Indigo. I like it.”
Zornim’s posture shifted subtly, just enough to suggest approval. “Then it is settled. Team Indigo. Prepare. You will need this name. And each other.”
Lee and Liana exchanged a glance—exhaustion softened by something heavier: purpose.
The T.A.C.M. sector lights dimmed to idle. Outside, the morning sun over Rio de Janeiro climbed higher. Shadows of the day ahead stretched long and precise, just like the path they would walk together.
Team Indigo.