Chapter 2: The Weight of First Steps

Citadel-bound Civilian Shuttle – Transit Corridor 3

A mechanical chime whispered through the shuttle's cabin, subtle and sterile. Sebastian's eyes opened to that chime, as if the universe were striking a tuning fork and testing whether he still resonated with its frequency. Outside the star-speckled window, the Citadel loomed closer, no longer a crescent of distant chrome but a hulking silver bloom stretching across the void.

The lights inside the shuttle brightened in careful, artificial increments. Blue-white, soft, clean. No disorientation. No room for awe. Yet awe pressed in anyway. His chest rose with a breath he hadn't meant to take. This wasn't a cutscene. This wasn't fiction.

It was arrival.

"Stand by for final approach. Please secure all belongings and prepare for customs clearance."

The voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once—automated, feminine, unconcerned. Sebastian checked the strap across his torso, fingers steady but coiled. The others in the shuttle stirred: a turian civilian, silent and impatient; a salarian engrossed in a datapad; two humans discussing docking fees. None of them knew what he carried inside—what he was. Or what he had left behind.

He reached down to the compartment beside his seat. Empty. Of course. He had no belongings. No luggage. No identity, beyond the one embedded into Citadel systems by SAS-C in the moments before the shuttle launched.

"Prepare for docking. Gravity normalization in progress."

The shuttle gave a quiet lurch. Inertia field modulation. Docking clamps hissed. Then came the low groan of metal on metal, the sound of travel becoming transition.

The airlock opened.

A corridor unfurled before them—glass and steel and sterile lighting, the welcome mat of a space-faring civilization. Sebastian stood, his legs catching the unfamiliar gravity curve with nanite-enhanced compensation. The others filed out ahead, datapads in hand, ID chips ready.

He stepped out last.

His foot hit Citadel alloy for the first time.

The moment slowed.

He paused, the sterile air brushing against skin that wasn't quite his, lungs expanding in a rhythm they had learned but never lived. His gaze tracked upward. Ahead, the corridor curved toward the docking terminals, where security scanners waited.

"Executor. Karmic resonance spike detected. Would you like me to stabilize—"

"No," he whispered aloud.

A few heads turned. He looked down, as if adjusting his collar.

"I need to feel this," he continued inside.

> "Understood. Suppressing endocrine modulation."

The smells came first. Filtered air, cool metal, distant synthetic polish. Then sound: the low murmur of multilingual announcements, the footfalls of boots and shoes and pads across tile. Beyond that: the Citadel's subtle hum, the noise of gravity fields, kinetic barriers, and life-support infrastructure.. so seamless the locals had forgotten it existed.

But he noticed.

Because it wasn't just noise.

It was rhythm. It was pulse. It was order or the pretense of it.

He advanced down the corridor.

Citadel Docking Bay 43 – Customs Entry Node

Two Alliance officers flanked the customs station. Between them, an asari administrator scanned credentials. The queue moved quickly. Citizens. Contractors. Tourists. Sebastian approached with what looked like calm, his pulse steeled by nanites and will.

"Identification, please," the asari said, not looking up.

SAS-C executed the handshake. A digital pulse slid into Citadel databases.

Sebastian Dalton.. Human.. Civilian Systems Engineering Outreach Contractor. Status: cleared for temporary Citadel residency pending standard evaluations.

The asari frowned at her screen. "Your arrival was flagged as expedited. Humanitarian routing. You came in with a supply runner?"

"Yes," he said. "I hitched a ride after an offworld systems failure. My home colony's infrastructure was compromised."

"Which one?"

"Franklin's World."

Her eyes flicked up. Sympathy. Pity. Verification.

"I'm sorry," she said, almost automatic. "Proceed to Level B2 for onboarding and medical clearance."

The Alliance officer next to her gestured him forward. A scanner passed over his body. It beeped green.

He kept walking.

Citadel Sub-Level B2 – Medical Administration Wing

The walk to medical felt longer than it should have. He wasn't tired, not physically. But the Citadel's size pressed inward. It was a world. A city. A machine. The lights never dimmed. The pathways never ended.

His name was called as he entered the waiting room. He had barely sat.

A tall, wiry woman in navy medical scrubs waved him through a door. Her features.. human. She wore glasses, though she clearly didn't need them.

"Dalton, Sebastian. That's you?"

"Yes."

"Dr. Renn Volari. Citadel medical contractor. I do your intake, you get your room key, and we all get to pretend we're satisfied with bureaucracy. Sound fair?"

Sebastian blinked, then nodded. Her tone was clipped but not unkind.

He sat on the med-table as she activated a scanning drone.

"No implants," she noted. "No augmentation tags, no past Alliance ID records… You're new. Fresh off the boat."

"You could say that."

She eyed him.

"You been scanned since arrival?"

"Yes. Docking customs."

"Good. Means you're not carrying any Citadel-banned pathogens or contraband. But that doesn't mean you're healthy. Lean forward."

He complied.

The drone circled him. Infrared, EM resonance, blood oxygen, DNA scan—all within seconds. She tapped her pad.

"You've got the healthiest vitals I've seen all week. And I just scanned a turian triathlete."

"Good genes," he said.

"Mm-hmm."

She stared at the readout longer than necessary.

"Tell you what, Sebastian Dalton from nowhere: these nanite repair markers in your blood? They're not commercial. They're not Alliance. And they're not supposed to be here."

His heart didn't skip a beat. The nanites kept it smooth.

"I volunteered for biotech testing back on the frontier," he lied. "They were trying out immune-response enhancers in colonial youth populations. Some kind of pilot program."

She considered. Then shrugged.

"Better you than someone who'd misuse it. I'll write down enhanced immunity and cellular repair marker. Won't trigger any alarms that way."

Sebastian exhaled. Quietly.

> "Executor. Reminder: Your cover only holds if discrepancies remain plausible."

> "I know," he answered.

Dr. Volari handed him a thin datapad.

"Congratulations. You're now a medically cleared civilian. Housing voucher's in there. Bottom bunk and shared kitchen privileges until your status upgrades."

He nodded. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me. Thank the bureaucrat who didn't triple your waiting time."

She smirked, then waved him off. "Next!"

Citadel Promenade – Outer District Gate

Sebastian stepped into the promenade's edge, the artificial skyline rising above him like a cathedral to civilization. Holograms danced across the arcologies. Skytrams hummed overhead. Aliens of every description flowed past him.

He had passed through the gate.

The universe, chaotic and unbound, awaited him. But the gate hadn't opened for just anyone.

He had opened it.

> "Executor. Awaiting next directive."

He didn't answer right away. He just stared upward.

The world didn't feel like his.

Not yet.

But it would.