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Survivor	By : logsig123 Category: +M through R > Mass Effect Views: 1627 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Mass Effect series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from this story.

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- 1-Survivor
- 1
Survivor
So… this is Akuze. Not much to look at. Can't imagine being a colonist and having to convert this lifeless ball of dirt and rock into civilization. Two of my cousins are colonists, but the pioneering spirit skipped over my branch of the family. Shooting at things is more my line of work. Farming, mining, building--I was never any good at any of that. Not building anything useful, anyhow. Historically-accurate scale models of armored military vehicles probably aren't much in demand in a struggling young colony.
Paw, an old cavalry man, was the one who started me on model tanks, after Mom died. Guess I would have been about twelve. He'd watch me put them together, a fond smile on his face, till he dozed off in his armchair. Maw always told me I was wasting my time: "Stop playing with those silly little toys of yours and go do something helpful, Marcus Toombs." Well, Grandma. For your information, those silly little toys helped get me laid last week. Okay, it's not like I would actually tell her that…
We were in barracks after dinner and I was showing Sanchez my new World War 2 German Panther 1/16 scale model. Sanchez was trying to pretend he was interested, asking some lame-ass question about the main gun that only demonstrated the extent of his ignorance, when Lt. Shepard walked into our common room. Officers, even junior ones, don't generally hang around that much with the enlisted men, but Shepard's different. Not big on protocol, made that clear right away.
"More like 75 millimeters, Sanchez," he said. "They didn't make them that big, back in the early 20th." And then he winked at me.
Yeah, I'm not ashamed to admit, my heart skipped a beat. Shepard is N7. He's the real thing. And damn, he's hot. Every morning just before breakfast he works out: 5-mile run, weights, then 20 minutes on the heavy bags with light gloves. That's the main event. His speed and sheer power are amazing. I swear you can feel the roof shift each time he hits the bags. And his intensity--I don't think he even notices the stares he gets. He gets plenty. I'm pretty sure half the people in the gym are there just to watch him. I know I am.
So he sat down across from me and Sanchez, and we got to talking about the evolution of armored vehicles through the ages. Well, me and the LT did anyway. Sanchez mostly had his mouth hanging open. I guess it hadn't occurred to him that the Alliance's best could know something about military history. After a few minutes, Sanchez started giving us funny looks, and then after a few more minutes he excused himself, went over to the other side of the room where there was a poker game going on.   I guess there's a brain somewhere in that thick skull after all.
After Sanchez made himself scarce, the conversation took a different track. Shepard stopped talking. He turned that smile on. Just looked at me. Shit, those eyes. It feels like he can look right into your head, see what you're thinking. What you're hoping. My throat went dry and I stopped talking too.
He said softly, "I've got a few models of early naval vessels in my quarters. You're welcome to take a look, if you like." That smile again. Shit.
It did cross my mind to admit I didn't have much knowledge or interest in ships. But the part of me that wasn't a complete dumbass seized control and said "I'd like to, very much."
He grinned and got up. He started talking about ancient ships, about the age of sail and the development of square-rigged masts. Even if I wasn't so shell-shocked, I couldn't have contributed anything intelligent to the discussion. But he carried the conversation for both of us and nobody paid any attention as we walked out of the room.
I concentrated on just breathing and putting one foot in front of the other as we strolled down the corridor, out the enlisted section and across the atrium to the officers' quarters. He was saying something about lift to drag ratios, his hands drawing shapes in the air as we passed other Marines, on their way somewhere else. It didn't really register. He could have been making up random shit for all I knew, or cared.
The first thing I saw when he opened the door to his room was a shelf on the opposite wall, full of actual model sailing ships with complicated rigging. For a moment I was afraid that I had seriously misunderstood. But then I heard the click of the door being locked behind me, and--god--his lips were on the back of my neck, his warm breath on my skin sending shivers through my whole body. God, yes. I must have twitched or made a noise because he pulled away and my heart dropped like a rock.
He moved around to face me, looking into my eyes. Looking for something. I don't know what he saw there, but I was past the point of hiding anything from him. I guess he found what he wanted, because suddenly my back was up against the wall and he was kissing me, hungrily. His hard cock ground against mine and I moaned into his mouth.   His hand was between us, under my shirt, moving over my chest, around my back. I moved my own hand down and gripped his cock through his pants. His tongue thrust into my mouth and I gripped him tighter.
The hand that was under my shirt slid down my spine, slowly. I could feel the calluses on his palm and at the base of his thumb. His fingers slipped into the back of my waistband, onto my ass, and I let my body drop, continuing that movement, onto my knees, my other hand fumbling with his belt buckle. With something close to desperation I got his pants open and yanked them down. I heard something from him, it might have been laughter, but whatever it was became a gasp of pleasure as I sank my mouth down around his cock. I felt his hand go to the back of my head, not pushing, not forcing. Just holding, commanding. I leaned in and began a slow rhythm, taking him deep.
For several long moments there was nothing but the sound of his heavy breathing and mine, the slick slide of his cock into my throat. Then, softly, he said, "Marcus, stand up." His hands on my arms, pulling me to my feet. His mouth on mine again, our bodies pressed together, his fingers undoing my pants with a great deal more dexterity than mine had his. Somehow I was flat on my back, on his bed, staring at the ceiling, and holy fuck his tongue was on my cock, teasing the head, swirling, making deep, long strokes down the underside, sucking the breath out of me. My hands reached out, searching for his cock. "Please…" I moaned blindly, hoping he would understand what I needed.
He rolled us both over, his body shifted and there it was, in front of me, hard and still slick with my spit. I took him back into my mouth like a starving man and at the same moment I felt my cock sink deep into his. We groaned together, and then the urgency took us both and we moved with each other, in each other, for long heated minutes, until I came, an explosion of pleasure whitening my vision. Seconds later he thrust hard and I tasted his cum in the back of my mouth.
As we lay together, still breathing hard, he moved up and kissed me almost tenderly on the lips. I tasted myself on his tongue and I wondered if I was dreaming. Can you taste, in dreams?
"Ready for round two?" he asked. I could hear the grin in his voice.
I opened my mouth to answer, but whatever words I was planning to say died away as the beep of an omnitool sounded, unbearably loud.
"Shit," Shepard swore. He sat up and ran his fingers over the interface. He sighed. "Major's calling a staff meeting for Bravo company. We're probably shipping out tonight."
I nodded. "Duty calls."
He was already pulling his pants on, smoothing his shirt, checking himself in the mirror, making sure he was presentable.
"Still hot," I said, smiling.
He returned my smile and said, "Hold that thought. Maybe when we get back from wherever we're going, we can continue this conversation?"
I nodded. Found my pants, pulled them on.
"See you, Marcus." He slipped out the door. I waited ten minutes, then headed for my bunk.
Around midnight they rousted us, told us we were heading for Akuze. They said the colony went silent. Sent us here to check it out. I know what my guess is. I heard the navigator on our drop ship say something about dust storms being common here. He wasn't kidding. It's been blowing nonstop since we got here. Gritty dust that gets up your nose and into your eyes and stains everything it touches red. Can't imagine it would be any good for your health.   Or crops. Or electronics. Anything, really. I sure as hell wouldn't want to spend the rest of my life here.
As far as we can tell, there's no sign of the colonists anywhere. But the storm is severely degrading sensor range. They could be hiding in a bunker, or in a cave somewhere, waiting the storm out. Which is what we should be doing, instead of stumbling around half-blind in this shit. Somebody's likely to get hurt. How about that for an exciting combat story: "And then I walked off a cliff and broke both legs."
Hmm. There's some sort of commotion over there. Maybe second platoon found the colonists. Wait. The ground seems to be shaking. Does this planet have earthquakes? And what the hell is all that yelling about anyway--

**Begin encrypted transmission**
Series of transcripts of conversation relating to Corporal Marcus Toombs between [redacted] (1) and [redacted] (2), as retrieved from Cerberus files located at [redacted].

Date/Time: [redacted]
1: There was another survivor? Besides Shepard?
2: Yes. Corporal Marcus Toombs. We have him.
1: Amazing. How'd he manage it?
2: Don't know. Don't know how either of them survived. But this one's badly damaged. Acid burns over 90% of his body.
1: That should have killed him. Maybe some sort of innate resistance? Some healing factor?
2: The knowledge we have about this subject could fill a very small box. Your guess is as good as mine.
1: We should run some tests. If there's a way to survive thresher maw attacks, we need to know about it.   We've lost operatives to those things before.   Maybe there's some kind of chemical control--
2: Whatever. He's all yours. Do your worst.

Date/Time: [redacted]
1: You remember Toombs--that Marine you sent me a while ago for the thresher maw study? My scientists say they've run every conceivable test. Dr. Wayne believes we've learnt just about all we can from him. Permission to terminate?
2: No. He can be useful in other ways.
1: Like what?
2: As a weapon against certain other parties who have lately grown in influence and power.
1: Fine, don't tell me.
2: You'll find out when it's time.
1: Whatever. But I'm not sure how useful he can be. He's pretty… broken. Unstable, too.
2: Fix him up enough to pass for sane.
1: What? How the fuck I am supposed to do that?
2: You broke it, you fix it. Your problem, not mine.

Date/Time: [redacted]
1: We've done the best we can. Nowhere near 100%, but he can wipe his own ass. That good enough for you?
2: Is he coherent?
1: Sort of. In between fits of cussing and crying, anyway.
2: Good enough. Transfer him to our facility at [redacted]. Arrange for him to escape en route.
1: Fuck. Another damn 'escape'? The logistics are a fucking nightmare.
2: Are they?
1: Shit. It can't be too obvious, right? But it has to be obvious enough for a fucking brain-damaged subject to see it? And the route has to be difficult enough to be convincing, but not so difficult that his weak-ass half-dead body can't handle it? And any operative that sees him has to pretend to stop him, but not actually impede him in any way? And what if he gets out and run straight into some slaver? Or trips and falls off a damn balcony, like the last one? Or he fucks up a civilian and gets arrested? Do you have any idea how many things can go wrong? How much fucking planning and extra expense and goddamn babysitting your 'escapes' involve? Has any of this crap even occurred to you?
2: Your problem, not mine.
1: Yeah, yeah.

Date/Time: [redacted]
1: It's done.
2: Everything went smoothly?
1: If you ignore two critically-injured operatives and about two million credits' worth of property damage, then yes.
2: Sounds like he has some fight left in him.
1: He did survive the thresher maw. And years of Dr. Wayne's tender ministrations. He's… tough. A survivor. You sure this is a good idea? Toombs is a loose cannon. No telling what he'll do.
2: My problem, not yours.
1: Well, that's a change.
**End encrypted transmission**

---END--
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Survivor