'You know this is going to be the big one,' his mother said.<br/><br/>John frowned. 'I know.'<br/><br/>He looked out one of the station's viewports, staring down at Earth below. How peaceful it looked, a serene orb of cerulean oceans and gray, bustling hive cities. Down there, people continued with their ordinary lives, so many heads buried in the sand like ostriches. This was wrong. All wrong. They should have prepared for the coming storm--humanity, the Council, all the Citadel races. Only now were the fleets mustering. He knew they didn't have time.<br/><br/>'And you know nothing we muster here will be enough,' she continued.<br/><br/>'I know. We need the galaxy. We need the Exalted.'<br/><br/>John's dad shook his head. 'More than that. The Protheans<span style="font-style: italic">had</span>Exalted. They had everything--the originals, hypertech, a united galaxy, and all manner of superweapons, and they still lost. This will be a long shot, kid, no matter which way you look at it.'<br/><br/>'Then we'll have to make sure this cycle goes out with a bang and not a whimper.'<br/><br/>'Damn right,' his father said. He checked the time. 'Alright, we have to get back to work. Take care, alright?'<br/><br/>John smiled despite the circumstances. 'I'll try not to do anything stupid,' he said.<br/><br/>His mother snorted as she donned her helmet. 'Don't make promises you can't keep, Juanito.'<br/><br/>They parted ways, leaving John alone on the viewing deck. To reassure himself, he checked his omni-tool's storage unit one more time to ensure he had his old armor and Gold Experience stashed Elsewhere. The artifact gear was by far the superior choice, but in the event of emergencies, a set of standard N7 armor would attract less friendly fire than an unfamiliar suit of artifact plate. Besides that, most civilians had never seen the Exalted or the relics they wielded. Reassuring and directing panicked civilians would probably be easier in his military-issue rig, even if Gold Experience had received a small splash of Alliance blue after its repairs.<br/><br/>For lack of interesting things to do, John made his way to Mombasa Spacedock's shuttle port to wait out the last couple of hours to boarding. The station's commercial quarter contrasted sharply with the military section. In the former, neon lights, tightly packed crowds, and walls abraded and tarnished by the constant brush of bodies dominated one's sight. The odors of cheap food, sweat, and halitosis were reminiscent of the overcrowded megalopoleis of the homeworld's surface. Once he passed the security checkpoint, the crowds gave way to crisp, orderly patrols and the occasional passage of an intel officer. Stark, gunmetal gray paneling and the ubiquity of armed soldiers underlined the air of professionalism and urgency present in the spacedock's military quarter. He gave a nod of greeting to 042, who stood in the back corner in its smaller, unobstrusive Jade platform now. None of the other soldiers present were familiar faces, which came as no surprise. His old unit, the 103rd Marine Division, was garrisoned at Arcturus Station along with the majority of the Alliance navy, and many of his old comrades perished aboard the SSV<span style="font-style: italic">Manila</span>only a few months ago. How strange, then, that the ship's death felt like an eternity ago.<br/><br/>John pushed such thoughts from his mind. He could grieve the dead later. In the grim darkness of the near future, there would only be war.