John watched in horror as the black cloud made its exit. Taking a moment to compose himself and cycle a new heatsink into his shotgun, he cleared his throat.<br/><br/>'Well, that was fun. Now we keep on with the plan. Kill everything that even looks remotely insectoid or husk-ish and set the station's power plant to a timed self-destruct. We'll figure out the time delay once we get to the reactor core.'<br/><br/>He stopped in midair to retrieve a handful of extra heatsinks from the biological "pockets" in the exoskeleton of a dead Drone, slightly disgusted by feeling of those pockets' rather unpalatable lining and the wet, squishy noises the flesh made as he dug for the heatsink. It was like jamming one's hand into the innards of a raw Virmire pod crab, except without the promise of a seafood dinner. He grumbled, cursing the Alliance military-industrial complex for phasing out the old heatsink model of the pre-Reaper era in favor of the archaic "thermal clip" bull proposed by Wealthy Arms Corporation #7. Kicking off from the Collector corpse and anchoring his mag-boots to the true floor, he made for the doors to the station's inner reaches.<br/><br/>John froze as he caught his reflection on the side of a reflective piece of fallen plating. He'd never noticed his anima until now. Blazing with the light of a star, it manifested in the shape of a cobalt, upward-opening crescent with a three-pronged length of light jutting up from the center. The entire display was encircled by a mandala of gold starlight, haloing his form in the dull lighting of the Collector station. His Exaltation whispered,<span style="font-style: italic">Starbird</span>. His human mind recalled the myths of the ancient phoenix. An icon of rebirth for the Solars of the post-Prothean age. But it was more than simple rebirth. He was Zenith Caste. His anima was a flag to rally behind. A symbol. A symbol of hope. He smirked. Or just a symbol that he was a huge nerd. What? Can't knock the classics, even if the prequel and sequel series were complete garbage.<br/><br/>John propelled himself forward, disengaging his mag-boots as he pushed with his legs, mimicking the void insertion on a much slower scale inside the station's cramped hallways.<br/><br/>'Hmm hmm hmm, hmm hm-hmm, hmm hm-hmm,' he hummed, 'hmm hmm<span style="font-style: italic">hmm</span>, hmm hm-hmm,<span style="font-style: italic">hmm</span>hm-<span style="font-style: italic">hmm</span>...' Not that their march was all that Imperial. It was hard to look Imperial when you wore the insignia of a group called the<span style="font-style: italic">Alliance</span>. Then again, some of those Collector corpses could pass for Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru. He wondered what Shepard would say about all this.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">NEEEEEERD.</span>Yeah, that was about right.