Note on Distribution: Please do not copy and distribute this fan fiction without my consent.

Note on Copyright: I do not own the Metroid brand, related names, ideas, and intellectual property. I am not making a profit off of this work of fiction.

Rated T for violence, gore, and some bad language.

Heirloom.

By Mild Guy.

One.

Samus greeted the most important day of the last thirty years of her life the same as all the ones before it. At exactly six-oh-hundred hours she awoke without the aid of an alarm, got out of bed, and bathed. It was the same routine every time, something deeper than habit, drilled into her by a life of strict martial discipline.

On this morning, her right elbow ached in the chilly morning air, a nagging pain soon echoed by her left ankle. With minor satisfaction she noted the sharp stabbing pain in her lower back had receded to a dull throb. That was something. Her back had been thrown out during last week's mission, an event that had seeded numerous aches and pains only now sprouting to life.

It was cold in Samus's ground floor apartment, though she supposed it would feel warm to a normal human being. Just to be sure, she increased the thermal index on her apartment's heating unit.

Bounty hunter no longer, she spent her days behind a desk, and occasionally, like last week, supervising riot control on Neotamnna. However, during this latest tour of riot duty, Samus's idea of supervision turned out to be a little more hands on than her superiors would've liked. But what were they going to do about it? Fire her? Please.

She ate a hasty breakfast of plain cereal and leftover steak. The meat was dry, but Samus wolfed it down just the same. Serving as a captain in the Galaxy Police did not pay well, and on the Federation Capital planet, Neotamnna, the cost of living was exorbitant. Fresh meat became an infrequent luxury in the balance of her tight budget.

Cleaned and dressed, Samus used her remaining thirty minutes to primp and preen in front of her bedroom mirror. It was an activity she despised, one rarely performed. But today, the day of the appeal, everything must be just so. Samus had waited thirty years for this day; she wasn't about to screw it up for anything.

At last she was ready. Five minutes to spare. With nothing else to do, Samus continued to study her reflection and made the mistake of truly seeing herself for the first time in a long while.

She had become old.

She couldn't complain. At the age of one hundred and three, she didn't look a day over fifty. Metroids lived a long time, she knew, and Chozo longer still.

That was a bitter thought, for at age fifty-three everything in her life had changed for the worse. Her long blond hair grew slivery gray from the scalp, the hairline receded from her forehead by a quarter of an inch. Deep lines of care—the kisses from years of stress and frowning creased her face, cutting away at her beauty like deep cracks in a frozen pond's surface, turning her every expression grim, eyes fierce. Beneath her skin, firm and lean muscles still flexed. Her figure was only a rough approximation of what it had been long ago; breasts somewhat flattened, hips disappeared, her belly a loose sagging of skin.

I get older, but I stay hard. I stay strong, she thought. Looking down to the lean fingers of one hand, flexing them in the dust swirled rays of the morning sun she found all the affirmation she required.

Snapping out of it, Samus grabbed her satchel and strode out to the nearest bus stop. On time.

She arrived at the bus stop as the public transit unit hovered into a standstill. The former bounty hunter picked a seat near the front, squeezing between two fat businessmen onto a seat stripped bare of all padding by the passing of a million heavy asses. Samus hated public transportation: the lack of privacy, no control over her destination, or how fast she might arrive there. Being a six-foot-three human woman got a few stares, but not as many as it used to.

It was a while before the hushed whispers began to drift through the bus's cabin. Samus shut them out and meditated on what the appeal would require.

A full third of the Galactic Federation Senate now consisted of space pirates. That was not their race's true name, but Samus would call them nothing else. She had been informed many times in the past that no grudge or bias would be held against her this day for past work. Ancient history, they said, and now, thirty years later, her debt to the galaxy paid, her crimes would be behind her as well. Samus didn't believe it for a second, not of the space pirates in any case. But there remained a good chance that the other two thirds would hear her reasoning and remember the good she had done them.

At just two blocks from her stop, a thin, middle-aged man in slacks, shirt, and tie approached Samus while she scowled at the bus floor. His clothes were cheap, hair dark and ill kept, with large, bushy eyebrows above watery green eyes to match.

The former bounty hunter felt the footsteps approach more than heard them. The instant she noticed the extra presence, her gaze snapped up to meet the man's wide eyes. A film of sweat beaded his long face as delicate, busy fingers adjusted his tie in an unconscious soothing gesture. His expression showcased great tension. "Excuse me. I don't mean to pry and I hope I don't come off as rude…but are you the Samus Aran, by any chance?" he asked in a voice that, to his credit, remained steady.

No one spoke. Every eye turned to stare.

"You wouldn't remember me," the slim man continued, "It was four decades ago when you saved our colony on Tersic Six. After the fighting was over, my parents and I left our shelter to thank you. However, we found that you had already left before we could do so, and well—"

"What are you playing at, why do you harass me? You don't even know what Samus looked like, she never left her suit. Do you go around saying this to every tall woman you see?" Samus's voice was a glacier cracking open. She did not need this distraction, on this day of all days. And she held her privacy at premium.

"W-well. It was the news. Everybody saw you on the news. Without your suit. At the trial."

The hover bus jerked to a sudden stop. Time to get off.

Samus sprang to her feet and brushed by the man, a child she had once saved, one of many, almost pushing him off his feet as she did so. There was more whispering, not so quiet now, as she rushed down the aisle and into the open air of the sidewalk. She did not look back.

Standing out on the pedestrian channel, she prayed that the man with the bushy eyebrows and the questions would stay on the bus. A handful of passengers got off with her, each adopting the un-pointed, private stare of city pedestrians the galaxy over as they dissipated into the morning rush. Mr. Eyebrows was not one of them, and for that she was most grateful. The hover transit unit lifted off and continued on its way with a buzzing of antigravity drives.

How stupid! To forget that her face, her body, had been plastered on every view screen in the Federation and beyond! Even the enforced solitude that had followed denied her the luxury of regaining the private life they had thrown to the solar winds. The cameras had covered entire walls for the sentencing. How many matrix sites on the Interior Network displayed her likeness on their front pages? It did not bare thinking about.

Collecting herself, Samus took a deep breath and gazed at her watch. Still on time.

Before her loomed the grand Federation Senate building: a spiraling tower of white and gold that rubbed shoulders with a skyline as diverse as the Federation itself. Neotamnna Prime, the capital city of this capital world, shared a common theme of antiquity. Each sky scrapper's architecture was a culture's ancient design set to modern materials and function. It had been tradition for centicycles, one that every architect and urban planner worked hand in hand to enforce. No one could build a building in downtown without pre-approved old world charm. And the Federation Senate towered above them all. Most found the vision too busy for the eyes to take in all at once. It reminded Samus of gazing at so many cheap 3D postcards plastered on the façade of a souvenir stand.

Through no less than six security checkpoints and a long elevator ride later, Samus finally walked the halls of the Federation's inner sanctum. The walls were formed from metal glass alloy, so polished and smooth that a hand placed against it would slide off like a foot slipping on a patch of ice. The motif was one of stately oranges and yellows, set in sweeping patterns of waves and reeds bent diagonal in a fierce storm.

At last Samus found the Senate Chamber entrance, great red double doors that towered a story high. Two bailiffs, clad in spotless star white power armor, motioned her inside without a wait.

The senate chamber itself was a prefect circle. All one hundred Federation Senators sat on benches that curved around the inner circumference of the room's top half, five aisles high. The walls and seats were painted the same muted red brown of rust, the gold crest of the Galactic Federation set into the high flat ceiling. A small raised platform with a podium and a voice amplifier had been set up in the room's center.

A bailiff in the same white armor signaled for her to step up to the podium and she did so. The obsidian insect eyes of the space pirates regarded her without emotion from the rightmost quadrant of the benches. Samus had to wonder if these were the sons, or perhaps the grandsons of the scum she had killed in her life's work.

The human Speaker stood then and began to deliver his prepared speech. Samus knew his name to be Ponchik. She found his flapping jowls hypnotic. He was a round man, flesh heavy with the plenty of breathtaking wealth. The Speaker told those assembled of Samus's noble service to the Federation as a bounty hunter, of the people she had saved, of the star systems liberated. He spoke of that horrible day when Samus committed her terrible crime—when one hundred and thirty nine souls, ten of them humans, holding peace talks aboard The Black Claw were killed. Samus had fired upon them, destroying the ship despite their repeated pleas for mercy. Each broadcast had fallen on deaf ears that day, Ponchik said, his voice adopting that solemn tone all great public speakers master.

Lastly, he announced to the Senate that her thirty years of service with the galactic police were complete, her traveling restraint lifted, the dept to galactic civilization paid. Her frozen assets had been given to the families of the victims in compensation, however, and would not be returned.

Samus half listened to all this, she knew it all too well, contenting herself to scan from the corners of her eyes the space pirates and their unwavering glare. They betrayed no discernable reaction to this long speech, only sat there, a heavy threatening presence that tugged at her from the right, daring her to turn and face their way.

"Now that we have granted you release, is there any appeal you wish to bring to us?"

Hearing this phrase Samus snapped to attention—her chance had arrived. The reply was quick to shoot from her mouth but resounded bold and sure. "Senate of the Galactic Federation, I lay but one humble request at your feet. Restore to me my Chozo battle armor, which you have kept these thirty years of my mandatory service."

The Speaker Ponchik turned to the chief representatives of the races, senators who spoke for all the others, and exchanged a few hushed queries. Anxious glances were exchanged, arms gripped, ears received whispers. The rest of the chamber remained silent. Samus squeezed the sides of her podium till her knuckles turned white, keeping her face still.

A final series of solemn frowns and nods passed among the chief representatives. The Speaker once again faced Samus from across the chamber and said, "We are most sorry, but restoration of your armor is not possible. Our humblest." He bowed. "However, we may return to you your ship, which—"

"I didn't ask for any ship," Samus cut in. "I appeal for my suit. It is worth more to me than anything." She regretted those last words immediately. It did not do to admit desperation in front of one's enemies. But what choice did she have now?

"Ms. Aran, the Chozo armor is the property of the Federation now. There are other models of armor on the market just as powerful. Please, take your ship. Remain in the Galactic Police to hold your position of honor, or find a new path in life. The old life is gone now. Start anew."

Samus could feel her face growing hot. She released the podium, ignoring the deep imprints her fingers left in the wood.

"I know you've run every test on my armor, made every schematic, backwards engineered everything you could. But after thirty years surely it can be of no more use to your scientists. In the past, the armor provided my living, my way of life. I have a right to return to my life's work."

From behind the Speaker the space pirate representative rose to his hind claws. He burbled and growled, a translator converting the noise into the Common Language and amplifying it back out in a deep, stately voice. "Aran. That is the crux of our denial. I speak for everyone when I say not one of us wants to see the return of the Metal Clad Hunter. You have done quite enough harm to our race as it is and many others besides. I see no reason to allow that to continue."

The space pirate senators roared their approval, joined by a scattering of verbal support from other races. Those not voicing their opinion publicly turned to their colleagues, tongues flying.

Here it was at last, Samus knew. To be denied by the pirates was expected. They were canny enough to see her for what she really was: the source of all their fears. But to be betrayed by those who had the most to benefit moved beyond the pale of her tolerance.

With both hands knotted into fists Samus hammered the podium, cracking the wooden top in half and sending a splintery thud loud enough to be heard over the din crashing through the chamber. Every eye once again turned to her, tongues stilled. She could feel her face burning red with rage and didn't care. Few that now lived had seen her like this before.

"Yes! It will continue! I sure as hell will not stop, with my armor or without," she shouted, pointing to the chief pirate representative. "The Federation may have forgotten how the space pirates executed my parent's colony. I have not. They may brush aside the evidence of your genocidal planetary sweeps and scoff at the memory of the brave soldiers you have slain. But I will not. The Federation allows you to infest its ranks, seduced by the technology you bring to it and by your false promises of peace. But I am not fooled. You can not bury me in that grave you call a 'position of honor.'" She reached into her blazer's pocket and produced her Galactic Police Sergeant's badge. With a lightening flick of her arm she threw it to the floor. The decorative metal snapped in two with a burst of orange sparks, the fragments sliding to a stop at the foot of the Speaker's chair. "The only job I accept is the executioner of my enemies—those who prey upon us all."

The chief space pirate representative leaned forward then and asked, "Is this the same speech you delivered to the crew onboard the Black Claw? Did your words comfort the innocents there as you slew them?"

Before she could reply a pirate senator leapt to his feet and shouted, "Such bigotry! She would murder us all!" Another rose to join him. And another, until a chorus of furious rebuke drowned out all other sound. "There is no repentance here," and, "She plots anarchy and genocide. As much as been said here today," and, "Throw her back into prison. For all our sakes," and so on. At last the Speaker signaled for quiet.

When he had obtained it, he regarded the tense woman below over his nose. "The Federation and its people have no more need of you, hunter, for we protect them now. What you have said here today proves the appropriateness of your retirement."

"This is unjust," Samus hissed through clenched teeth.

"On the contrary," the Speaker continued, not skipping a beat. "The Federation has bent over backwards for you. You committed a grave crime—one that any other sentient being would face death or life imprisonment for. In light of your outstanding service to us in the past, we were obliged to offer a lighter sentence. Today you have given us cause to doubt the wisdom of it. Guards, escort Aran from the Senate."

The men in white power armor stepped close to Samus, encircling her. Their helmet's black visors hid their faces. One held a raised plasma rifle. Before they could lay a hand on her, Samus spun around and stormed from the chamber, never looking back.

She remembered little of the return trip home, save that she slumped over in her bus seat the whole way back. Sitting with arms crossed over her stomach and her hair falling down over her face straight and gray as a heavy winter rain, she felt shrunken, almost nonexistent. No one stared; no one asked her questions.

Once back in her apartment she sank to her bed and took a long hard look at her reflection. Her hair was a mess, skin pale, eyes set deep in their sockets, rimmed with bruised skin. It was well past time for lunch, but she had no appetite. The rage and disgust bled from her, leaving despair and a trace of fear.

They wanted her to destroy herself, she knew. It didn't get any more cut and dry. They had taken her life's purpose, stealing her last link to her real parents, the Chozo. She was withering—sickening a little more each day. Life was harsher outside the suit, her injuries persisted without its restoring powers. What was left now to sustain her? Better to lie down in this room and wait for the end…

"No!" Samus wailed out loud, grinding her blue veined knuckles into her eyes. She bit down on her lower lip until she felt sharp pain and tasted the salty flow of blood.

Focus, she commanded herself.

For a good fifteen minutes she stood like this, face buried in fists, red dribbling down her chin.

When it had passed, Samus wiped off the blood with her sleeve and salved the bite wound. It had been a close thing. But she could not allow herself the luxury of despair, would not give up the will to live. Something would be done, she was certain. But what?

That afternoon, over a sparse dinner, there came a buzz from her doorbell. Sliding from her seat at the table, Samus took hold of her service rifle and edged her way to the apartment entrance. She flattened against the wall and slid towards the one sided viewing portal installed in her front door. Not making a sound she peered though, keeping out of sight. Seeing whom it was she opened the door immediately.

Nuvwick Syreis, Representative of Humans at the Senate stood on her doorstep, wearing the flowing red and gold robes of his office. As chief representative and senator, he had been sitting behind the Speaker at her appeal. Through the whole affair he had appeared neutral to her plight and Samus had not given him a second glance. Now he gave a small bow of courtesy and asked to be allowed inside.

Samus relaxed at once. The Senate did not send one of their own to arrest criminals. One soldier accompanied him. The escort wore a black and gray suit of power armor, the same model worn by the bailiffs, save the color. Only the elite among the Federation armed forces were issued such a uniform.

Samus bid him to enter with the bare minimal of politeness. "Justin, stay here and insure that we are not disturbed," he said to the elite soldier.

Leaving Justin posted just outside her front door, Samus gave the senator a seat in her den. "No, that's quite alright. This will be a rather quick meeting I'm afraid. No time for refreshments," Nuvwick said to her, settling in as she moved to take her own seat across the room. Samus had to smile at that: she had had no intention to offer him a damn thing. Perching on her biggest chair like a bird of prey, Samus fixed him with her gaze and waited.

Nuvwick was in his fifties, with a bald head and white nose hairs. A portly man, just short of being fat, he stood a full foot shorter than Samus. His fingers were short and plump—he occasionally used them to stroke a mole the size of a coin growing high on his right cheek. When Nuvwick saw that no words were forthcoming from the former bounty hunter, he began, "My most humble apologies for how the Senate carried itself at your appeal this morning. I don't think anyone really meant to put you on trial a second time. Yes."

Samus's eyes bored into his, dark and hard in the pale artificial lighting of her apartment. She said nothing.

"The former space pirates now form a bold and influential voice within the Federation and it does not pay to dismiss that voice in haste," he continued, circling his mole with the round tip of an index finger. "Nonetheless, I, and a select few others, see the folly of today's proceedings. Yes, and we are prepared to make certain restitutions."

"And just what would those be, senator? Make it brief, if you can." Samus's tone was dry and sullen.

"You have a personal computing unit of recent make, yes? Ah, I see it there." Nuvwick rose and reached forward, slipping a cylinder of smooth, cool metal into her hand. "Place this data stick into your computer before the night is old. Survey the information you find there. It will do you some no small good, I think."

Nuvwick stood and gave Samus's questioning expression a small smile, sweet and secretive. "There are still those who believe in your life's mission, Lady Aran. You are still needed by those depending on you. Good day." With that said, the senator showed himself out, the whisper of fine silk trailing behind. "Stand to, Justin. We depart," she heard him say just before the front door closed, and they were gone.

With a dry mouth and a film of sweat gathering on her brow, Samus inserted the data stick into her computer's port and called for the files inside. She dared not breathe, dared less to hope for what might be stored on the stick.

The information came in heaps, displayed on the holographic monitor in vivid color. Floor plans, security codes, security patrol routes, and check point locations. The senator had given her every bit of info she would need to get her Chozo armor back as well as her ship. This was a good thing because her possessions were currently stored on the bottom level of the largest military research facility on the planet.

Long before this, Samus had marked the facility, dubbed Installation #407, as the most likely resting place for her lost artifacts. Now, not only did she have proof of this, but held the key to every lock as well.

The sun had set long before she finished reviewing every document on the data stick for the fourth time. The twenty-second hour of Neotamnna's twenty eight-hour cycle ended. Samus stretched her arms and legs, leaning back in her chair with a cold smile of satisfaction.

Tomorrow, those who would seek to bury her would find an empty grave.