A/N: Bioware owns Mass Effect and everything in it, I'm just hoping to improve my writing. I left Javik's fate an open ending in Better Angels because I didn't quite know what I wanted to happen to him. Happy ever after does not suit him, but even so, the thought of cutting him down in the street like a common grunt did not sit well with me. So I offer this little tale to resolve the mystery. It's... somewhat different from my usual tone.

Much credit and much gratitude (thank you, you rock!) to BA Tanglepaw for reading the first draft and providing some badly-needed perspective and constructive crit.

Content warning for suicidal themes, adult themes including non-consensual, and, to a lesser extent, language. Please do not read this if such content will distress you.

I sit on a pile of rubble, a crude barricade on a broken, dust-choked street, watching the first free sunrise I have ever known. The first sunrise I have ever, in my long and bloody life, taken the time to simply sit and watch. Duty is an unyielding master, and I have ever been an obedient son of the Empire. My dedication to the Adamant Throne is unsurpassed among my peers; I am an Avatar, the chosen instrument of our vengeance. Commander of armies, leader of warriors, scion of gods and generals. Heir to an Empire. Even had I had the inclination, I have never had time to waste watching the sunrise... until now.

It is over.

The war is over.

The Reapers... are defeated.

The red fire swept across the battlefield, immolating, cleansing, and every last one of them fell, perfectly choreographed, into death. I didn't believe it. I couldn't. I am still uncertain, if I am honest. To see them end so suddenly... it could not be true. I checked dozens, hundreds, depleting the charge in my particle rifle, making sure. Making sure. The Reapers have ever been cunning enemies, insidious and destructive as jealousy or treason; they must be given no opportunity to deceive us.

The humans watched me from a prudent distance, their stares incredulous, even pitying. I care not. They cannot possibly comprehend my just fear. This war, no, this skirmish they have fought has taken no time at all, the blink of an eye. They have not seen what I have; the slow death of planets and civilisations wrought by deceit and trickery, the turning of lover against lover, brother against sister, parent against child. The grinding attrition of surrendering worlds and systems stripped of all resources and population, year after year, decade after decade. They do not know the full extent of our enemy's duplicity. But in spite of myself, after hours of walking among the dead thralls, I began to feel that perhaps... perhaps... my caution was unwarranted, that perhaps this time... this time... they are truly gone.

Perhaps this time...

Perhaps Commander Shepard has kept her word to end it.

The irony of that hope makes me bark a laugh. A human, barely evolved into a sentient, achieving what the might of the Prothean Empire could not. If I did not know the Commander, I would deem it a fantasy, a bad joke shared around the sentry post in the deepest watches of the night, a farce to light a candle against the darkness: "Did you hear about the human who defeated the Reapers?"

But I do know Shepard.

The human is irritating and ignorant, but she is strong and stubborn, brave and fierce - a good leader, a soldier without equal in this primitive cycle. (Though the turian pushes her very close. Either of them could have served adequately under my command as auxiliary troopers. I might even have made them centurions; they could never be true officers of the Empire, but authority over other vassals would have been permissible.)

She is also lucky. Many of my peers, the cream of the Prothean general staff, would scoff at the superstitious bent of that thought, but I have fought long enough, as a soldier and as a strategist, to know that sometimes, there is no other deciding factor than blind chance. Maybe Shepard's luck, skills, and stubbornness have combined in a perfect storm to permit her to rid the galaxy of the Reapers. Using Prothean technology, of course. The Crucible was not of this cycle's design; it is a firearm wielded by cave-dwellers, one they are lucky has not backfired and killed them all. They know nothing, the races of this cycle; they are selfish, petty, too concerned with the needs of the individual.

I recall the first real inkling I gleaned of this cycle's moral weakness, its complete failure to grasp the immutable truth of the galaxy, that evolution must be served, that perfection and the harmony that stems from it must be striven for, bled for, sacrificed for. That the universe is stronger when it speaks with one voice; that the need to believe all are created equal, that individual rights are sacrosanct, is a dangerous fallacy.

Shepard had stopped by my crude living space to talk to me, an annoying habit I could never break her of, no matter how rudely I tried. It was early in the morning, ship time, and as Shepard had approached, I had noticed her scent was different. Blended. As though...

"You and the asari... you are joined?" I blurt out in surprise.

Shepard glares at me; apparently I have violated some ridiculous social taboo. "You could say that," she concedes icily.

"I don't. Your pheromones do." Standing this close, the human reeks of the asari; it is a slap in the face to my sensitive olfactory system.

The human cocks her head to one side, considering. "Yes," she relents, tone still chilly. "Liara is my lover. What of it?"

I am amazed; outraged. Shepard commands the ship; for her to take sexual gratification from among her crew is shameful, doubly so to fornicate with a mate from another species. Illegal, in my time, in my Empire, on both counts. But the look of bridled anger on the human's face forestalls my outburst. "Nothing. It does not matter," I say carelessly, biting down on my true feelings. "I was merely surprised. But should you someday have to make a choice regarding the asari's life, remember your morality and friendship do not matter any longer - your allies are simply resources to use against the Reapers. If copulating with the asari helps manage your stress, there is benefit in it; she is an asset to you. By all means, use her as you must. But attachment is for the weak. Do not fool yourself into confusing physical release with idiotic sentiment; you must not let emotion make you less."

Shepard shakes her head in disgust and walks away. "My emotions make me more," she shoots over her shoulder as she leaves. Stupid human.

Shepard did not, or more likely did not want to, understand; the strong grow stronger through conflict, and the weak, those who cannot or will not adapt, have no right to life. There are no inalienable rights to survival. Extinction is the natural order of the universe, written for all to see in the failed species that litter every life-bearing planet, snuffed out before ever achieving sentience. And yet, these primitives cling to their superstitious fantasies, castrating their resolve to do what must be done before they can even conceive of the necessity.

Stand in the ashes of a trillion dead souls and ask the ghosts if honour matters.

I asked Shepard that question once, determined to provoke her into a reaction, curious to see how wedded to her primitive code of ethics she was. She hadn't reacted, had dodged the issue by letting her pretty pet of an asari loose on me with her questions. And ancestors have mercy, there were so many questions; science, politics, strategy, culture - there was no topic off-limits to her impertinent nosiness. I complained to Shepard, not long after arriving aboard the ship, after a debriefing session in which I was sure the asari's droning inquisitiveness was about to drive me mad. "Your Liara asari asks many questions."

The human simply laughed and replied, "Welcome to the Normandy, Javik."

I had expected Shepard to tell the asari to desist, but she did not. Liara's infantile curiosity is insatiable. Giving offence, I discovered eventually, was the only way to silence her. It is an unbecoming trait her shipmates are far too tolerant of; they dread being caught in her web, but do nothing to correct her behaviour, and when one among their number is snared, it is cause for much hilarity. Truly, I will never understand these primitives.

Shepard did eventually answer my question, albeit obliquely, by stating that she believed it the duty of the strong to protect the weak. "Everyone has something to offer," she asserts.

"Yes. Even if only as cannon fodder, like these krogan," I retort contemptuously. "They are strong in body, but they are weak in mind - stupid, reckless, little better than animals. They should have been put down as the rachni were. In the Empire, they would have been purged. There is no universal right to survival, human. As a soldier, you must know this."

"As a soldier, I know my job is to defend those who cannot defend themselves."

"Your job is to kill the enemy," I correct her bluntly. Her idealistic view of her chosen profession holds her back as a fighter. She could be so much more if she could accept this truth. "You are a paid killer, Shepard, nothing more. Your leaders tell you to fight, and you do. Your leaders tell you to kill, and you do. Should your leaders tell you to die, no doubt you would do that too. These mercenaries you have secured from this Aria asari – you are no different to them, except that they will run rather than die at their post - which simply makes them smarter." I had previously made this assertion to James Vega in a similar conversation, and the brainless oaf was close to attacking me, stalking away in a fit of barely controlled rage. Shepard has better self-control, and she is far more intelligent; she does not become visibly angry, though she does tense.

"In broad terms, I can accept that," she concedes, as though I need to hear her acceptance of such an obvious truth. "I get paid to kill people, so do they. So do you. But let me ask you this, Javik – what makes you right? If we're all just here to kill the enemy, what does it matter what I think, as long as the job gets done?"

"It matters because it makes you inefficient," I insist. "It makes you less effective, less able. The war against the Reapers is the only thing that should concern you. Victory, no matter the cost, should be your only goal, conflict should be your way of life. Those who cannot assist in achieving that goal should be cast aside."

"For the greater good, yeah, Javik, I've heard that before. But it doesn't work, does it?" Shepard counters, her expression troubled but her eyes determined. "You said it yourself. You fought the Reapers as an Empire, it was the all-consuming objective for the Prothean race's very survival. In the application of that logic, you cast aside billions as useless, designating them simple cannon-fodder, surrendering the worlds and systems of those you deemed weak as a delaying tactic. And all you achieved was to make the enemy stronger, denying yourself territorial advantage and handing the Reapers billions of reinforcements. You made the fight unwinnable with your slavish dedication to your cosmic imperative. Your Empire failed, Javik, so I ask again – what makes you right and me wrong?" Damn her, she has an infuriatingly valid point. I know I am right, but as I flounder for an appropriate response, she pushes off from where she's leaning against the bulkhead, hands shoved in her pockets. "Until you have a better answer than sacrificing allies for the greater good, we're done with this conversation. And if you ever compare me to those mercenary scum again, you'll be top of my list come the next dance night."

I had to resort to asking the turncoat, Williams, what a dance night was, since Vega was avoiding me; she is another problem aboard this ship, with her disobedience and her insolence. I would have shot her on the Citadel; she is a liability with her constant questioning of Shepard's orders. Shepard should not tolerate her. I would not, were it my command; I would have had her tongue torn out for her first offence, spaced her for the second, but Shepard is soft-hearted, accepting of a degree of insubordination from all of her crew that no Prothean officer would ever countenance. The Lieutenant Commander, still in possession of her tongue, delighted in explaining and then informing me that I would top most people's lists for a partner. She meant it as an insult, but I was pleased by the notion - I am not here to make friends, I am here to fight Reapers. If the others were angry with me, perhaps it was because I was imparting harsh truths to them. They will thank me, one day. They could not afford to be weak, and anger made them stronger. I have seen this time and time again. Anger, correctly channelled and applied, can drive mere mortals to acts of greatness. Williams of all people should appreciate this; the faithless, impudent bitch is angry almost all the time, but she lacks the control necessary to apply her rage, and so she burns friend and foe alike with her wrath.

Anger turned Shepard from a soldier to a force of nature on Thessia; it was the only time I saw the human stop fighting her animal nature and let her instincts drive her. For a brief time, I saw her reach her full potential as a warrior, and she was magnificent, but it was ruined as the asari broke into her flow, forced her back into the restrictions of her misguided beliefs.

Irritation stirs as I recall the aftermath of our failure to prevent the theft of data by the Cerberus assassin, Kai Leng (one of the few humans I had respect for, in spite of his flawed cause - he understood that one must commit wholeheartedly to one's chosen fights. Leng is perhaps the most Prothean being I have encountered in my time with these primitives). Liara had stormed into my cabin, trembling with uncharacteristic rage, all pretence of patience and tolerance finally stripped from her. I could see her fury boiling, and it pleased me to know that I could provoke such emotion within her, that she could be roused to such primal passions. She threw accusations of lies in my face, desperate in her desire to avoid facing the truth, and I almost laughed in her face. I do not lie, and the insult to my honour was grave, but I could forgive it in the face of such a rare opportunity to get through to her, break past the straitjacket of her hopelessly romantic ideals. Continuing to taunt her while I revelled in imparting the cold truth, I watched in amusement as her biotics began to flare. I was entirely ready to defend myself, ready to defend the truth, eager even. In a brief moment of exultation as she hurled irrational, unfounded accusations at me, the sweet fulfilment of breaking the asari's infuriating holier-than-thou naiveté was the only thing I cared about; likely the experience would irreparably damage her, but I wanted to see her so-called understanding deconstructed. Only then could it be rebuilt, giving her new purpose, new focus. War is our sculptor, but other hands may sometimes assist in shaping the stone.

And then Shepard had ruined the moment, stalking through the door just as the asari was building to fever pitch. The effect on Liara was instantaneous. Her rage remained, but she complied immediately with Shepard's quick order to desist, quelled by the commander's word alone . I was disappointed, determined at first to refuel the confrontation, but something about Shepard's demeanour warned me not to push, so I reluctantly backed down, offering the final piece of the puzzle to the asari, the final piece of truth, as a bolster to her confidence rather than as the blade to sever the final threads. I close my eyes, the better to recollect...

Shepard watches the asari go, then turns to me, surprise clear in her expression. "That was unexpected," she says softly, gratefully. "Thank you."

"We still need her talents," I shrug dismissively. I do not need, or want, Shepard's juvenile gratitude. For all her weakness in battle, the asari's gifts in intelligence gathering and analysis are a precious resource we can ill afford to have squandered. If I am not to have the chance to remould her world view, I must make do with the tools I have to hand."If grief overcomes her, she will be lost to us."

Irritation settles around Shepard like a swarm of tiny insects. "So did you actually mean what you said?"

I snort derisively."Does it matter?" The human's pheromones are pathetically easy to read.

Shepard's jaw tightens. "Liara means a great deal to me... so yes. It matters."

"Then I will tell you what you want to hear," I sneer dismissively, disappointed in the human in spite of myself. She is better than this, or so I had hoped, to be so vulnerable to the asari's emotions. I warned her this would happen if she persisted in fraternizing. "I meant what I said."

As I start to turn away Shepard steps in closer, her expression cold and hard, but flames of fury burning in her sharp glare. "You listen to me, Javik, and you listen well. I've had enough of your bullshit. You could be one hell of an asset to this crew. You are damn near peerless as a soldier and a tactician, but you are a lousy comrade-in-arms, a drain on morale, and a constant threat to my team cohesion." Ah, so the anger that drove her in battle today is still present, bubbling beneath the surface. Good. "That stops, right now. Y'know, I get that you're angry, I get that you're lonely, I get that you're disconnected - I have some experience of that, though nothing like on the same scale - but you don't damn well take it out on other people, especially those who rely on you in the field." She steps closer, deliberately planting one hand on my chest; instantly I feel her burning, righteous fury, product of a blend of distinct emotions: the bright, burnished wrath of the warrior defeated; the frost-rimed steel of the officer disobeyed; the brute, predatory rage of the lover affronted. "Your conduct today was a disgrace. Maybe you'd better think good and hard about leaving the ship the next time we stop at the Citadel, because if you fuck with one of your teammates in combat like that again, I'll shoot you myself. I will not tolerate with what happened today a second time. Am I making myself crystal-fucking-clear?"

I regard the human coolly, grudgingly impressed. Perhaps she is learning, after all. Perhaps she may even have learned enough. For all the irritation these fools present, it is clear from our missions and actions that this ship is the vanguard of the assault against the Reapers. To be removed from the heart of the fight is not acceptable. I must be mindful of my goals. "You are," I confirm reluctantly.

"Good." Shepard holds my gaze for a moment longer, then nods, shoulders bowing slightly as her burdens re-assert themselves in the wake of her anger. "I'd hate to lose you, Javik, but you are fast becoming a luxury I can't afford. Think about it."

As she reaches the door, I call after her, "Do not concern yourself with Thessia's fate, Commander. The loss of a planet is insignificant next to the loss of the galaxy." It is as much of a platitude as I am able to offer. She pauses for a moment, then steps out, doubtless going straight to the asari's cabin.

The asari.

The asari, always the asari.

Damn her anyway, with her questions, her ignorance, her useless compassion. Her fawning over her human mate and protector, her weakness in the face of the enemy. Damn her for pitying me - I do not need pity; I do not ask for charity of any kind. And damn her, above all else, damn her for her beauty. Arousal washes through me suddenly, carrying with it the predictable snarl of tangled emotions and desires that thinking of Liara T'Soni's physical charms inflicts upon me at every opportunity. I imagine the soft curves of her body, remember her delicate scent. The desire to possess her, dominate her, consumes my thoughts suddenly, as it has done so often since I met her.

Too often.

Lust stirs as I imagine stripping her naked, tearing her clothing from her with biotics, watching apprehension war with arousal in her glorious eyes. I imagine her, mine to command, broken to my will, abasing herself before me if not willingly, then obediently. A groan escapes me as I envision her writhing beneath me, her movements begging me for her pleasure, her words begging me to stop, mind and body deliciously at odds. In moments such as this, the need to possess her is an ache in my fingers, in my groin, in my mind.

And then, inevitably, guilt rears its head, the constant companion to my lust. My desire for her is my greatest shame, my greatest weakness. She is not Prothean; to even contemplate such a union disgraces me. Succumbing to my base instincts, the urge to rut like a common beast, with one from a lesser race is contrary to everything I am, everything I stand for. The entire Prothean Empire watches me, judges me as the tenets and beliefs I have clung to unbendingly through over a century of war are assaulted once again by this unquenchable thirst, this unbearable hunger.

At first it was an abstract concern, but as time passed, with the certain knowledge that no woman of my own species will ever be available to me, my desire has grown. I saw many other asari I deemed attractive, but none that held the draw of Liara. There is an aspect of challenge to claiming her that is absent elsewhere. To have taken one of the chattering sycophants who flocked to me every time I boarded the Citadel would have been so easy, and so joyless. I was not tempted. Better by far to tend my needs myself. But Liara... she is so much more worthy an endeavour.

She does not like me. I do not require her to. We may have reached a grudging detente, and she is never less than polite, but her body language betrays her. She stiffens when she feels my eyes upon her, and my words of truth on Thessia have opened up a gulf I can never bridge. She takes care never to be left alone with me. And - much more of a barrier - she is Shepard's, committed and wholehearted. Her eyes follow the human everywhere, she stinks of the human's pheromones, she shares the human's mind and emotions, she shares the human's bed.

My thoughts spiral to carnality once more, but this time it is Shepard the asari writhes helplessly beneath in the images I see, Shepard she begs to strip her naked, Shepard who commands her willing lust, and Shepard that she kneels eagerly to pleasure, memories taken from the human's mind as I read her nervous system shortly after we returned from Eden Prime. The taste, the scent, the wet warmth of the asari's sex were all imprinted upon my consciousness, memories sharpened and made almost my own by my oft-repeated recollection as I fantasized, seeking to relieve my own tensions. Even as I think of it, the conditioned response of my traitorous body forces another groan past my lips.

Closing my eyes, I suck in a deep breath, trying to restore reason, but all I achieve is a heightening of my recall. Fingers driving into her tight, welcoming heat; her back arching, her limbs and stomach trembling with building pressure, euphoric anticipation; her biotics flaring, rippling along her sensitive skin. I curl my fingers within her; her coiled tension snaps, her muscles clamping around my fingers as her body shudders and her wordless, husky cry of release tears the quiet around us.

Agitated beyond my ability to remain still, I launch myself to my feet, opening my eyes and starting to walk, looking around at the devastation, seeking any distraction from this self-inflicted, torturous frustration, dwelling on what I must not want and cannot have. Even if Shepard is now dead, the asari's slavish devotion will not change, and jealousy sharpens my frustration to futile, impotent rage. To find myself jealous of a human, likely a dead human at that, is an intolerable affront, and yet I cannot help myself. I am jealous of Shepard, because up till now it has been her unquestioned right to take Liara, to touch her body as she sees fit, stake her claim over the asari's willing, pliant flesh. That she has done so often is testified to in her memories of Liara's lust, in her intimate familiarity with the touches that make the asari scream her name.

Ancient Gods, I want her. I want her to scream for me, I want to feel the soft silk of her sex embrace me, to bury myself inside her and take my pleasure from her, use her until I am spent.

And I know I can never have her. Not because of her infatuation with the human, not because she is currently Gods know where, and not because of her dislike, or my eternal frustration with her wilful blindness to reason. These things do not matter to me; my desire is for her body, not for her worthless emotions, her useless compassion. But I am Prothean.

Stand in the ashes of a trillion dead souls and ask the ghosts if honour matters.

I so desperately want to believe it does not, take as certainty the harsh words I hurled at Shepard. But in my heart I know the truth: honour matters.

Honour matters.

It mattered to my mother, the warrior; to my father, the statesman. To every ancestor of my noble bloodline, none of whom would ever lower themselves to even considering such an act. I am an Avatar of the Prothean race, a paragon chosen and lauded for my deeds, elevated above the common by my prowess and intellect, hand-picked by the Emperor to lead my people into a new Empire.

The Palace is ancient, built over the ruins of a city of the Inusannon, indelibly stamping Prothean supremacy over the past. Reinstated as the heart of the Prothean Empire after the fall of the Citadel, the antediluvian complex has borne witness to generations of Prothean rule, seen the might of our civilisation reach out and claim the very stars.

As I cross the polished onyx floor to stand before the doors to the throne room, pride suffuses every atom of my being. Not pride in myself, but pride in the Empire that I serve. The massive, beaten gold portals swing inward silently. The Imperial Throne Room is ablaze with light and colour. The colossal crystal chandelier is hung with diffraction gratings, splitting the light into rainbows as it dances around the enormous room. Priceless works of art adorn the walls, adding their own grandiose touches of colour. All around the upper balcony and at every door, Praetorians in burnished breastplates and helmets reflect the light back, pitching their watchful faces into inscrutable shadows. The gold and silver threads in the war banners hanging from the ceiling sparkle as they undulate gently on the rising warmth from the sea of nobles below. The full court is gathered, generals in scarlet and gold, statesmen in purple and bronze, scientists in green and silver, the cream of the Empire, Avatars all. The flower of Prothean civilisation, called to one final gathering, radiant and resplendent. My mother and father are here somewhere, but the gathered nobility number in the thousands, and it is hard to pick out one or two individuals.

Beyond the throng, a raised dais supports the Adamant Throne, smuggled home from the Citadel in a desperate attempt to retain the authority of the crown. Its polished facets blaze with a cold internal light at odds with the warm golden glow of the throne room - it draws the eye, compels the attention. On the few occasions I have been alone in this room, I could swear I heard the throne whispering, a high-pitched mutter that made me strain to hear. Foolish nonsense brought on by anticipation, I don't doubt, but I find my eyes drawn to its shining beauty once more as I step into the room and march down the central aisle to kneel before the Emperor.

The herald announces me, his voice booming effortlessly through the room. "Javik, Avatar of Vengeance." No other title is required. The Emperor knows who I am.

"Rise, my brother," His Imperial Majesty intones softly. As I stand before him, raised to the level of an equal, he raises his voice to address the whole court. "Let it be known throughout our dominions that our brother-in-arms, Javik, has been chosen by us to fulfil a mighty destiny. By our decree, set this day by our hand and with our seal, we name Javik, Avatar of Vengeance, heir presumptive to the Adamant Throne, his accession to be enacted upon the execution of our project Rebirth. When the Reapers are gone, our people will rise anew to reclaim their birthright as rulers of the galaxy, and our heir Javik will lead the Prothean Empire to a new and glorious dawn. Lords and Ladies of the Empire, kneel before Javik, first of his name and house, Emperor of the Protheans!"

The glorious dawn the Emperor foresaw will now never come to pass. The bitter truth is that this simple sunrise, standing alone on this primeval world as the sky above me turns from steel to gold, is the best that I can hope for. The sacrifices of my people can never be honoured as I would wish; our Empire is dust and bones, and while it will be remembered, it will be simply as a footnote to this cycle's unlikely triumph. I am the last of my race, and my final duty to my family, my people, my throne, has been fulfilled. To struggle on, seek purpose in this miserable excuse for civilisation, holds no appeal. Taking ship to find my dead comrades among the stars is impossible; I have heard the humans talking of massive damage to the relays.

My thoughts return to Liara, boiling over. I have dreamt of her, fantasized, relieved my sexual urges with her fixed in my mind's eye. And I know that is all she can ever be, a fantasy. There is no hope that I can ever possess her. I will not defile myself, insult the memory of my family, by lowering myself to couple with any other species, no matter that she is a thirst I cannot quench, a splinter in my mind that will ultimately break me if allowed to do nothing but fester.

What, then, do I have left to live for? My people are gone, my culture, the points of reference that define who I am. The Empire, the imperative of my service, my life, my very soul, is all but extinguished, except in me. War is my sculptor, and I am prisoner to its design. There is no solace to be had in this new galaxy of primitives, with their endless bickering, their paralysing indecision, their futile need to reach compromise and accord on every tiny detail. Shepard is just as bad as the others, if she has even survived, and without a war to drive her, she too will diminish.

Peace will make them stagnate.

Peace will weaken them

Peace will be their doom.

A line of human poetry flashes through my mind suddenly, relic of an overheard conversation between Shepard and Williams. I could not love thee half so well; loved I not honour more. Williams had considered the words appropriate to Shepard, but the sentiment resonates with me. Duty to the Empire is my honour; I need no personal ideal to aspire to, no individual code. The final victory of the Empire, the ultimate ascension not of individuals, but of civilisation as a whole, this is what I and my kind understood to be the pinnacle of existence. This was the accepted moral truth of my cycle, and these primitives will never comprehend. I would not be who I am, what I am, were I to accept any other path. So now, to me, the last remnant of the Empire, falls a choice; to uphold the honour of my people and my service, or to accept a diminishing, living out my days forever at odds with the people around me, forever at odds with myself, forever condemned to suffer guilt for actions and feelings that would never have arisen in my own time, my own place.

It is no choice at all. I will not live as some sort of historical attraction, relic of a glory these primitives can only dream of. I will not be pitied by these fools with their bleeding-heart fake compassion, their false sympathy, their empty platitudes. I will not surrender to the dangerous stupidity of this society's mores.

The Empire will die as it lived. Unbending, unbroken, and in the end, undefeated. To choose to end in victory, the perfect purpose of my life and civilisation finally achieved... yes. I will not sully either my own name or the legacy of my people by deigning to remain in this corrupt shell of a society.

I draw my pistol and press the muzzle to my temple. I do not fear death. I never have. Now is the time to return to my people, to join them and tell them that the war is won. Our time is over, and we stand triumphant. I am victorious, and I remain righteous. My finger tightens reflexively, and in an instant, I ascend to glory.