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Chapter Text

Shepard had memories of the Citadel for nearly every year she’d been alive, but she never got tired of the place.

Her parents had brought her here as a child, either on leave or on brief stops for supplies; the station had been an exciting change of scenery from the monotony of Alliance blue that surrounded her daily routine. Once she’d turned eighteen, those stops had become her choice, and she hadn’t stopped making them. Unlike some of her crewmates and fellow soldiers, she felt boundless curiosity about the species they shared the galaxy with, and the Citadel was the ideal location to sate that curiosity. She’d never forget the time she’d gotten way too drunk on shore leave and ended up propositioning a salarian. Poor guy had turned her down kindly, but her bunk mates hadn’t let her live it down for months.

Guess I got into the xenophilia game early. She chuckled under her breath as she stood at the railing overlooking the Presidium lake and looked up at the expanses of the Ward arms, disappearing into the purple sky beyond the ring’s simulated blue. You had to look at just the right angle to see past the illusion, but Shepard knew plenty of the ancient station’s tricks now.

That also meant she had memories of the Citadel that weren’t her own. Every so often, she’d slip sideways into the iborihe while walking the Wards, and she’d get a glimpse of what the superstructure had been like in some unknown cycle past. The people walking by her always presented a cavalcade of evolution’s finest and strangest, and the architecture was never quite the same on the surface, but the bones of the station remained… as did the Keepers, scuttling along outside of everyone’s notice.

The Keepers still really liked her, and she continued to be grateful for their generosity and allegiance. Life would be much harder without their tacit facilitation behind the scenes. They’d endured more than almost any other race, although she still wasn’t certain how aware they truly were of their surroundings.

Lord knows we don’t give them enough credit, she reflected. But I’m not sure what we could do about that even if we tried. At least they’ve stopped turning into goo if anyone looks at them funny. Mostly.

“We”. Of all the things about the Citadel that remained strange and mildly unnerving, it was the now-reflexive use of “we” when Shepard thought about the Council. She kept trying to get off that venerable arrangement of illustrious individuals, and she kept getting drawn back. One of these days, it’ll stick, and I can quit trying to split my attention in too many directions.

“Shepard!”

The call, with its well-loved accompaniment of familiar subvocals, brought her out of her reverie and back into the present. She smiled at Garrus, who was approaching with a shopping bag on one arm and Vi on the other, swinging like a pyjak.

In many ways, but not all, the Citadel was home now. Home away from home, or sometimes home after home. Double-home, when the Normandy was in port. And that felt right to her: born among the stars, she’d died among the stars, and now she was raising a family among the stars. 

Shepard took Vi from Garrus, and they headed for the nearest rapid transit platform as the majestic station swirled on through the nebula surrounding it. Here, like almost nowhere else in the galaxy, even their mixed family was simply part of the crowd—part of the hub of the galaxy in all its wonder and beauty.

Chapter Text

If it hadn’t been Garrus, it would have been you.

“Kalahira, mistress of oceans, bring this soul to your shores in safety and peace. May they find rest in your embrace, and may those they leave behind find comfort in your soothing waves.”

Shepard swallowed unobtrusively. The drell funerary rites were familiar by now, almost as familiar as Alliance customs. She’d started wondering if some aspect of the ritual chants invoked solipsism in those who heard them, because every time she did, she was right back at Thane’s service.

It didn’t help that Kolyat was the only drell on the station licensed to perform the ceremony. He didn’t sound exactly like his father, but the two were so closely intertwined in her head that she couldn’t put the resemblance aside.

She still hadn’t gotten out of the young man where he was staying. At this point, she suspected it was in the maintenance tunnels—where he’d made friends with Mouse and the other duct rats while he chased down the memories of his father he didn’t have. Shepard wanted to offer him a place to live, but she got the feeling he would turn it down. To keep his finger on the pulse of the drell refugees as Kolyat did, he needed to stay connected and available. Living in a nice apartment on the Commons, or even in a spare bunk in Alliance barracks, would cut him off from his people.

Thane had lived in the shadows, too—or at least, part of him had. A man of two lives, neither of which he allowed to touch the other lest they become entangled and damaged… and the very act of protection he had so desperately sought had been the downfall of that which he loved most. Was it any wonder that Kolyat eschewed isolation and embraced community?

He would be so proud of you, Shepard thought as she watched Thane’s son. The serenity in Kolyat’s face and movements only underlined the compassion and comfort he gave to those who came to him seeking solace. The boy had found his calling as a guide and doula to life’s harshest challenges. He would be a holy man someday, someone to whom many looked for understanding.

Maybe that was why Shepard kept dropping in whenever she found out he was around. She told herself she was keeping an eye on Kolyat for Thane’s sake, and she supposed that was still true even if Kolyat didn’t need looking after, but truth be told, she missed her friend and confidant dearly. Being around Kolyat, hearing him speak the prayers he’d offered for his father—and for her—gave her some small balm and succour in these heavy, difficult times.

Shepard wouldn’t have called herself religious, or even spiritual, until a year or so ago. She’d grown up with some minor trappings of organized religion in the wider branches of the family tree, but her parents hadn’t gone in for it. The closest thing she’d had to a spiritual experience had been her first solo spacewalk, and that memory had been throughly supplanted by the hell that was Alchera.

Thane had changed that. Their quiet conversations in the life support room had anchored Shepard in her hidden, flailing terror post-resurrection, and had allowed her to face the Collector base suicide mission with equanimity. She might not have believed in a grand unifying force existing beyond them all that you might call God, nor had she been able to wrap her brain around ‘lesser’ gods in any fashion except as myths or foci for meditative practice, but she did feel like there was something beyond the body you were born with. Which was good, because it made her feel less like a really good VI piloting a corpse.

That budding belief, that faith, often felt like it was the only thing keeping her going these days. The Reapers controlled seventy percent of the galaxy. They still didn’t know what the Catalyst was. She’d lost Mordin, Thane, and Legion within what felt like days of each other, and she couldn’t bring herself to look at a calendar and see how long it had been. Hope was in short supply, but it was still her job to point the way and rally the troops when all she wanted to do was scream and slam her fists into the bulkhead until her knuckles were a bloody mess. Garrus did his best to shore her up, but his blue eyes carried the same haunted emptiness hers did.

Thane had shown her there was more than what was here. That you could still believe in forgiveness and grace when your hands were soaked in blood, and that belief meant something. That every life mattered, every act mattered, every love mattered.

“Is there something I can do for you, Shepard?” The other mourners had filtered away, and Kolyat had finished signing the body over to C-Sec for disposal with the Keepers. They were the only ones remaining in this corner of the refugee bay.

Shepard smiled at Kolyat, no more than an upturn of half of her lips. If it reached her eyes at all, it would be a sad smile indeed. “Don’t mind me. Just missing your dad.”

The young drell accepted this with a slight nod. “I miss him too. He is always close when I send someone across the sea. I appreciate the support.”

Shepard didn’t say anything, but something must have shown in her face, because Kolyat tilted his head and pulled his worn leather prayer book out of the pocket of his coat. The pocket of Thane’s coat, she thought. It was still a touch too big in the shoulders for him.

“I found a prayer in here the other day that made me think of you,” Kolyat told her, almost casually, as he flipped through the pages. “Would it be okay with you if I read it?”

“Yes.” Shepard’s voice was hoarse all of a sudden, but Kolyat didn’t remark on it.

Kolyat found the page, and adjusted his grip on the book to be one-handed. His free hand he offered to Shepard, who took it as he began to read.

“Arashu, you call only the best of us to lay down their lives for others. These we call siha, for they are your angels of battle, to whom you give both blessing and curse. In this place and time of conflict and strife, we ask that you give your servants clarity and wisdom to better protect those who shelter under their wings. Give them courage to weather a thousand bolts, give them grace to bear a thousand losses, and give them hope to rise a thousand days.”

As Shepard blinked against the stinging in her eyes, she’d swear she saw another drell standing in the shadow of the prefab box on the other side of the docking bay, but when the tears cleared, no one was there.

Chapter Text

Days since using biotics resulted in a crippling migraine: 67.

Kaidan's gaze lingered on the ticker in the corner of his screen for a heartbeat before he returned his attention to the report he was working on. Or at least he tried to, anyway. Truth was, focusing on anything was proving difficult today, and for a very different reason than he was used to.

The last time that number had gone past 66, he'd been a pre-teen.

Not long before he'd been shipped off to brain camp, as a matter of fact. Before he'd been fitted with his first set of implants in an hours-long experimental surgery done by aliens with humans consulting.

Before Rahna. Before Vyrrnus. Before his life had really, truly changed.

He'd gone through most of his life believing 66 was his unlucky number. He'd had more than a few conversations with his Alliance caseworker about how he got more and more anxious as that cursed date drew near, so much so that he'd likely triggered the migraines himself through sheer stress. Kaidan couldn't disagree. He'd gotten halfway through day 67 once, only to be done in by a faulty mnemonic on a basic Throw in the middle of a firefight. The horrendously familiar aura had bloomed in his vision and he'd had to take a knee before he gave himself an aneurysm by trying to fight through the pain and distortion.

If he hadn't been so damn good of a biotic, he knew the Alliance would have benched him years earlier. Sometimes, he wished they had. Chakwas had been watching a tremor in his left hand since Anderson had been CO of the Normandy. They'd held it at bay, and he'd been fit for duty, but it had been a close thing.

Kaidan knew he could have asked to be discharged. He would have gotten it, too, although it probably would have taken some cajoling. More likely, Admiral Anderson would have coaxed him into taking a position at Grissom Academy, or if Kaidan really hadn't been able to continue with combat or medical biotics, a desk job. At the time, Kaidan had thought this a fate worse than death. Desk jobs were dreary dead-ends where the Alliance put soldiers out to pasture, and the idea of teaching just made him think of brain camp all over again.

Kaidan eyed the datapads full of reports and requisitions that were his lot as the Normandy's XO. He'd ended up with half a desk job anyway, after all that. Granted, his COs were his friends, which made the job less onerous—and the fact that they were also Captains Shepard and Vakarian didn't hurt, either. Not like life aboard the SR-3 could ever be called boring. Figuring out how to fill out the paperwork was usually an exercise in creative writing anyway.

And if Jack could teach a bunch of biotic kids without killing them… well, maybe he could manage, if it came to that.

Sixty-seven days. It would be sixty-eight any minute now. And for the first time he could remember in twenty-some years, he wasn't riding the edge of a headache already by stressing about when he'd be laid low by his overtaxed nervous system firing blind impulses into implants that hindered as much as they helped.

Because those implants were gone. Replaced by new ones, four generations improved.

Kaidan would never admit he was glad Minos had tried to kill him. Not out loud, in any case, and certainly not while under oath, because it would have been a lie. He'd just as soon never repeat the experience of having every nerve in his body stripped of its protective sheathing and curled like so much Christmas ribbon, mind you, but now…

He sat back in his chair and casually reached for the glass of water sitting on his desk. With no more than a soft gleaming along his palm and fingers, a hazy purple glow lifted the cup and bore it to his waiting hand. Neither the activation, nor the sustaining, nor the release of the dark energy caused pain to prickle in his arm, spine, or head. His vision remained clear. His ears didn't ring.

Kaidan Alenko had weathered the storms that had come his way. He liked to think he’d done so with dignity more often than not, although he knew his track record wasn’t perfect. But now, two years after the war he’d expected to kill them all and two months after he’d taken death to the mat himself, he felt truly alive—not only living, but also free. No longer chained to a bottle of pills and a room that was never dark or quiet enough. No longer fighting through agony not only to do his job, but just to get through the fucking day.

The counter ticked up to 68, and he found himself blinking away tears and grinning ear to ear.

Chapter Text

The first clues Suvi got that something was very wrong were the blaring klaxons and flashing lights. This wasn’t her area of expertise, but she felt reasonably certain that cryostorage was supposed to be pretty quiet. If something went amiss, surely the alarms would go off in areas with crewmembers who were awake.

The second clue was on the little display inside her pod.

Waking from cryo was supposed to be a gentle affair, where the medical VI would check you over one last time before letting you out, while the pod suctioned away all the storage medium and gave you a wash so you didn’t come out sticky. While it did so, you watched a short video about the status of the Nexus and the Initiative, and you’d see the results of your diagnostics.

All of this was indeed happening. However, even though Suvi couldn’t hear the video anyway over the alarms, she wasn’t paying attention to it—because the date in the corner said it was 2210. They’d only been in transit for twenty-five years.

The third clue, which made her blood run colder than the cryostatic fluid still glistening on her skin, was the warning she could just barely make out through the din.

“Alert. All personnel to battlestations. Hostile boarders inbound. Repeat. All personnel to battlestations. Hostile boarders inbound.”

Suvi ran the numbers in her head. The Nexus had been travelling for twenty-five years. Assuming ideal FTL conditions, they ought to be over a hundred thousand light-years from the Milky Way… in the middle of dark space.

The whole point of dark space was that nothing was there. No one was there.

Obviously, they’d gotten that very, very wrong.

Chapter Text

The lights flash red. The alarm blares. For one horrible second, she’s back on the SR-1. They’ve just been hit, and the first thought in her mind is Jeff.

Then she remembers herself, not least because of the Cerberus logos on the walls—except that makes her stomach sink lower. The Collectors. They’ve come back.

“All crew, battle stations,” EDI serenely announces from the intercom. “Prepare for boarding. Hostiles in—”

The AI’s words are cut short with a blast of static that makes Karin clap her hands over her ears. Then she’s up on her feet, diving behind the operating table, hauling the pistol she never uses from her hip.

The med bay door is wrenched aside. A Collector drone squeezes through it, its hulking form the stuff of nightmares. It aims a gun at her, but does not fire. A stream of palm-sized insects buzzes in over its shoulder and circles the room.

She tries to shoot one, but they’re too erratic. Her round goes wide and hits the light at the same time as it dive-bombs her. The venom races through her bloodstream, and in seconds her autonomic nervous system has lost control of her skeletal muscles.

Her heart beats and her eyes saccade furiously as she is manhandled into a pod. The Commander will rescue her, if rescue can be had, and then what Karin remembers could be useful. Therefore, she will remember everything.

The pod closes over her, and one panic-stricken thought slices through her desperate hold on professionalism: she is looking at the lid of a coffin, and she will be doing so until she is either rescued or until she dies.

“Karin. Karin. Karin, wake up.”

She startles awake with a strangled gasp. The hand on her shoulder is calm, steady, and mercifully human, but what really cuts through the nightmare is the familiar smell of the man beside her. He’s warm, so are the bedsheets, and the ceiling above them is striated with the ever-shifting lights from the air traffic outside.

She sinks back into her pillow, then rolls onto her side and places her head on his chest. His hand moves from her shoulder to the back of her head, slipping into her mussed silver hair and pressing her forehead against his collarbone.

He doesn’t speak. Just gives her time, as always. God knows she’s coached him through a few panic attacks of his own, although he seems to suffer more from insomnia than nightmares. Comes of never being on the front lines, he’d told her once. Karin hadn’t challenged it. He knew perfectly well that she knew he was lying through his teeth.

She takes a few slow breaths, lets her heart calm down. He stays steady as a rock, propped up on his elbow, although he does press his lips to the top of her head.

At length, she says, “Collectors.”

He hums acknowledgement into her hair. “Bastards.”

She smiles in spite of herself. His matter-of-fact, blunt, “tell it like it is” attitude was one of the many reasons she’d slowly fallen for him so many years ago—and why she’d stayed there since. “Yes,” she agrees. “I’m sorry. We so rarely get nights like these, and I go and have nightmares.”

“Not your fault.” His tone brooks no argument—not dismissive, but decisive. It’s no wonder he ended up where he is. “Do you need anything? Water?”

She shakes her head and pulls herself a little closer. “No, Steven. Just you.”

“I can handle that.”

Steven settles in beside her once again. His white stubble scratches her forehead, and his hand leaves her hair to seek out her hand. He slides his fingers into hers and rests their entwined hands on his chest.

Listening to his level breathing, Karin eventually relaxes back into sleep. This time, the memories stay far away. 

Chapter Text

“I hate this thing,” Shepard groused under her breath as she angled the ATV’s thrusters back to push them out of the Normandy’s cargo bay. “Goddamn experimental vehicle bullshit.”

“It flies,” Garrus pointed out, although not without holding onto the handle above his head and bracing his other arm against his seat… five-point harness notwithstanding.

Shepard snorted. “It doesn’t fly, it jumps. Badly. Awkwardly. Give me the Mako’s jump jets any day.”

“Keelah. Please don’t,” Tali muttered from the back seat.

“How in the bloody hell am I supposed to… for fuck’s sake… oh goddammit, you hover just fine when I’m not trying to scan the ground beneath me, why can’t you just stay still!”

“I do have to admit, this seems like a design flaw.” Garrus closed his eyes and tilted his head back against his headrest. It did not help with the queasiness.

“I could just get out and scan the data packet,” Tali offered.

Shepard replied through gritted teeth. “Thanks, Tali, but some numbskull at Cerberus’ experimental engineering and vehicular manslaughter division thought it would be a great idea to outfit the Firewalker outposts with proprietary sensors. Not saying you couldn’t hack it, but I’d rather you didn’t demean yourself.”

“You’re just being stubborn,” Garrus accused.

“That is true, Vakarian, but I’d like to point out that I’m your CO and you’re not supposed to say things like that.”

The scanner loudly announced that it had failed again, and Shepard swore and smacked the controls until it stopped beeping. Garrus decided not to press the issue.

“The Mako could survive lava,” Shepard grumbled. “The Mako could climb mountains.”

“The Mako could not survive lava,” Garrus retorted from his position underneath the Hammerhead’s slightly scorched and mildly melted fuselage. He decided not to argue with Shepard’s second statement, mostly because he’d already tried and failed on multiple occasions. “Its outer armour plating could withstand up to a thousand degrees Celsius for a maximum of sixty seconds. The tires, unfortunately, did not last that long, as I recall you discussing with the requisitions officer on the SR-1.”

“The rear starboard jump jet failed,” Shepard muttered. “That tire shouldn’t have hit the lava at all.”

“And why did that jump jet fail? Might it have been some stray acid damage?”

“Nobody expects a thresher maw to erupt from the ground!”

“Everybody expects thresher maws to erupt from the ground,” Garrus shot back. “Especially in big, open, vaguely circular areas that everything else has abandoned.”

“Yeah, well, I swear they evolved tentacles after Akuze.”

“I’ll give you that.”

The moment of quiet that always followed any mention of Akuze was broken by Tali climbing out of the Hammerhead’s cabin with ration packs for each of them.

Shepard accepted hers and tore it open. “You gonna be able to fix this hunk of junk, or do I need to call Joker?”

Garrus pulled himself out from underneath the vehicle and grimaced, mandibles wide and low. “I can do it, but it’ll take a few minutes. Tali, can you grab me the long wrench from my gear bag?”

“Sure. Here.” The quarian tossed him the foil-wrapped pack and clambered back up.

Shepard was quiet on the hike back from the Prothean ruin. She kept the sphere under her arm, even though it still hummed and glowed. Garrus would have offered to carry it for her, but the humming set his teeth on edge in a way it clearly didn’t for Shepard or Tali. Instead, he kept his Mantis at the ready, and kept an eye out for any remaining rocket drones.

When they emerged into the falling dusk, the Hammerhead was waiting for them. He had serious qualms about its design—no battlefield or research vehicle should be that vulnerable to cold—but it was more nimble than the Mako had ever been. Nevertheless, he had to agree it wasn’t, and never would be, the trusty tank that had gotten them through dozens of uncharted worlds, not to mention a miniature mass relay.

He would sooner die than admit this to Shepard, of course.

“The scientist from Eden Prime,” Shepard said out of nowhere as she secured the artifact in the small cargo hold.

Tali and Garrus glanced at each other. “Who?” Tali asked.

“I only knew his first name at the time,” Shepard continued, closing the cargo hatch and leading them into the cabin. “I looked him up later, but forgot about him again afterward.”

“We were chasing down a rogue Spectre,” Garrus reminded her. “Kind of busy at the time.”

Shepard agreed easily as she started up the vehicle. Her handling of the hovercraft was much better after multiple hours of wrestling it over every kind of terrain, but Garrus was still grateful it was him and Tali in here, not Wrex.

“Still not seeing the connection, Shep,” Tali prompted. “Who was this scientist?”

“The guy we were following,” Shepard explained. “Doctor Cayce. The logs never mentioned his first name, but I knew I’d heard the surname somewhere. That was him. Doctor Manuel Cayce.”

Her face grew pensive as they shot through the deepening night toward the Normandy’s pickup zone. “I wrote him off that day. He said he’d seen the end of all things, Armageddon coming for the galaxy. His partner said he was on medication, and a geth attack would send anyone into hysterics, so I didn’t think much of it. But in retrospect, and with the logs he left behind… he must have known. I don’t know how, but he knew.”

“About the Reapers,” Garrus filled in.

“Yeah.” Shepard gazed out the front windshield at the surface of the moon. “I wonder how many people have known, over the years, and nobody listened. I wonder how much closer we would have been to fighting them off now, if we had.”

The questions hung in the silence, impossible to answer.

Chapter Text

Benezia had known the Arterius clan’s reputation for centuries. Power-hungry, arrogant, and decidedly not diplomatic in the traditional sense. They preferred to intimidate and manipulate rather than negotiate, and nothing they did could even charitably be called “in good faith”.

In keeping with their staunch belief that they were a cut above the rest of the turian meritocracy, they hadn’t bothered cultivating anything approaching a true family tree for several generations. Each Arterius heir had their bondmate selected by the head of the prior generation, and the bonded pairs rarely had children after a new heir was assured. They might as well have been turian royalty, if such a thing existed. They certainly seemed to want it to.

Benezia was equally familiar with the reputation of the infamous clan’s current heir apparent. Saren Arterius had not so much skyrocketed into the galactic scene as he had simply appeared in all the places he was supposed to, thanks to the eminence of his family name. Top marks in his schooling, passed his basic training and mandatory service with flying colours, immediately fast-tracked to Spectre candidacy and, naturally, nominated and confirmed at the earliest possible opportunity.

He was ruthless, efficient, and successful. (He had a brother who had served as a general in the Hierarchy military.) He did not suffer fools. (The brother had disappeared after an orbital strike on Palaven itself.) He never second-guessed himself. (Saren had ordered the strike.)

She’d also heard the rumours. Rumours that Saren’s father had moved a considerable amount of credits to hide something from general knowledge, right around the time his son had been slated to become the youngest turian Spectre. (Rumours that involved a woman and a quiet house out of the public eye, and a great many venerable turians turning a blind eye to the traditions of succession. Rumours that squawked and cried and would likely never know their father.)

All in all, Benezia had considered the Arteriuses a fascinating case study in narcissism and nepotism, but certainly not people she’d like to get to know better.

It surprised her, therefore, that she found herself immediately drawn to the tall, pale-plated turian. His eyes were such a light blue they were almost white, and his markings were so faint she could barely see them. He was slender in a way she rarely saw in male turians, especially his mandibles, which curved back along his jaw like needles.

It was the way he carried himself. It went beyond arrogant swagger into pure charismatic confidence, a level of self-assuredness that announced his presence to the galaxy as a fait accompli. Even in the long, draping formal robes most turians eschewed unless forced, Saren looked regal and imposing rather than encumbered and awkward.

“Matriarch Benezia, I presume.” His gravelly baritone was cold and harsh. He did not bow or take her hand. Pleasantries ran contrary to his very core.

To her surprise, she found she respected that. No pretense. No uncertainty. No question.

Perhaps this strange idea of hers might yet bear fruit.

She nodded. “Spectre Arterius. It’s come to my attention that you’re seeking an expert on Prothean archaeology. I believe I may be of assistance.”

Chapter Text

Miranda Lawson was very good at making shit happen.

Naturally, this wasn’t how she sold her skills to employers. (Not most employers, anyway.) Typically, she billed herself as an “independent, driven professional specializing in project management”, with asset retrieval, negotiation, and high-budget work being top-listed in her skills. Among the accomplishments on her brag sheet were listings for “first successful reconstruction of a human subject from clinical death with less than sixty percent original tissue remaining” and several research papers on genetic engineering, fine motor control in biotics, and interspecies team management.

And the sooner she could get out of public work and back into the private sphere, the happier she’d be. Government was not her wheelhouse. Too much oversight from underneath, and it stuck in her craw that she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she ignored those responsibilities in order to just get the shit done. Once upon a time, she could have—would have, almost without blinking…but not without a cost-benefit analysis—but after working with Shepard for three years, dismissing what the people of Earth wanted in favour of what they needed was unconscionable to Miranda.

She sighed, brushed her hair over her shoulder again, and glared at the array of datapads on her desk. Unfortunately, the longer she stared at them, the more she was convinced she wouldn’t be able to get it all done without crossing the bounds of legality.

A wadded up piece of paper arced into her lap from across the room, flying in on a hint of dark energy that dissipated with a hiss of ozone. “Cheer up, cheerleader. I can hear the gears grinding from over here, and I’m trying to catch up on my feeds.”

Miranda flattened the paper and smirked at the rude face drawn on it in permanent marker. She scrunched it up again and whipped it back at Jack  with a low-power Throw of her own. “I’ll cheer up when I find a way to get all the supplies we need for the radiation array into orbit without everyone starving or dying of exposure. I’d ask you for ideas, but I know you’ll just say to fling them all up there with biotic fields even though you know it won’t work.”

The tattooed ex-con shrugged and proceeded to bounce the paper ball in the air on successive biotic fields. “Everybody’s got a signature. Why do you have to figure this shit out? Isn’t that Clara’s job?”

“I’m managing procurement for her. She’s handling the people.”

“Ask Shepard.”

“She’s in uncharted space again. No comms.”

“Ask Zaeed.”

“He left to hunt pirates in the New Traverse.”

Jack sat up, incensed. The paper ball tore itself to shreds in a Warp field. “Asshole! He said he was gonna take me!”

“You were busy.”

“The hell I was! …What was I doing?”

“It was your week to teach at Sunrise House.”

Jack sank back onto the couch and scowled. “Ah, shit. Fuckin’ kids. Little shits. Dammit. Well, he better take me on the next one.”

Miranda smiled at Jack’s shins, which were now the only part of her visible from this angle as they hung off the arm of the couch. “I’m sure he will. Any other ideas?”

“How about the bugs, or the bird people?”

“The rachni and raloi are hauling refugees.” Miranda clicked her tongue. “You’d think you were raised in a barn, you’re so rude.”

“Raised in a lab. Even worse. Just like you!”

Miranda scoffed. “I may have been conceived in a lab, but I was very much raised in a home.” She paused. “A home that was more like a lab than a home, granted. Alright, point to you.”

“Ha!” Jack pumped a fist. “The geth done fixing their ship yet?”

Miranda grimaced. “That’s our best option so far, but I don’t think they’ll be able to carry the entire payload. But maybe we can salvage some of the wreckage in the Urals, and fix up the old launch site there…”

Miranda was good at getting shit done. Always had been, always would be. For a long time, she’d believed she did her best work on her own merits, entirely alone, only working ‘with’ other people inasmuch as they were her subordinates. Once upon a time, she would have left in a huff after Jack’s insensitive comments had riled her up so much she couldn’t help but glow.

Shepard had taught Miranda a lot, without even trying—or maybe the lessons had been deliberate, Miranda didn’t know—and now, Miranda wouldn’t have traded her thorny, foul-mouthed, sandpaper-on-sunburn partner in crime for the world.

She didn’t always get things done in the most efficient way anymore, but she certainly had a lot more fun doing it…and in almost every case, the end result was even better than it would have been.

And if she ever told Jack, she’d never hear the end of it, so she kept her mushy nonsense to herself and smiled all the while.

Chapter Text

“Think of me as… a procurement specialist.”

Kasumi sat back on the uncomfortable chair as though it fit her like a glove. She crossed one ankle over the other and folded her hands over her knee. She hadn’t yet become accustomed to not wearing a hood all the time, but this persona required a certain amount of…perceived innocence.

“I don’t like thieves.” The turian across from her flicked her mandibles out in mild disgust.

“Naturally.” Kasumi gave the woman a sunny smile. “I specialize in retrieving items that have been…removed from their rightful owners’ care during times of upheaval. Such as, I don’t know, the galaxy-spanning war that ended a couple of years ago.”

The turian woman’s green eyes narrowed. “I like looters even less.”

“I’m right there with you. Looting and profiteering? Yuck. Horrible business.” In this, she wasn’t even lying. Even at the height of her career, Kasumi had made a point of never stooping so low as to loot. She had her professional pride to maintain.

Plus, looting and profiteering were lazy. Thievery was an art, and she took her artistry seriously. So seriously, in fact, that after the war she’d realized she was, well, bored. She’d already broken into the grand majority of the private vaults in the galaxy, whether or not she’d taken anything. Sometimes there was nothing to be had in a heist but bragging rights. (In those rare cases, she usually took screws from security cameras as a souvenir. That, or a real souvenir from the gift shop. She had a lovely collection of snow globes and succulents.)

Hence, her new venture. She’d already enjoyed somewhat of a reputation as a Robin Hood (entirely undeserved, seeing as she’d only ever screwed rich assholes over for her own gain, but who was she to dictate the whims of legend), so she’d decided to embrace the idea. Plenty of priceless artifacts had disappeared during the war, and not all of them had fallen victim to the Reapers. Some had ended up in the clutches of unscrupulous opportunists, who were now gloating atop their ill-gotten hoards.

The Drastixian clan tapestry was one such heirloom. The clan matriarch, Virilis, now regarded the lithe human whom she knew as “Shou Liang” with the kind of suspicion one typically reserved for politicians and skycar salesmen. Kasumi didn’t blame her. No octogenarian survived the Reaper War without being cagey and tough as nails, and no one like that trusted a no-strings-attached offer to repossess your clan’s greatest treasure for free.

“I cannot pay you,” Virilis repeated. “Not enough, in any case.”

Kasumi shrugged. “That’s fine. I work on an alternate revenue stream.” Read: steal from the rich, give to the poor, and walk away with slightly more than a tchotchke and a cactus.

“If you’re sure…”

“I am,” Kasumi said firmly, with her bright, disarming smile still plastered on her face. “How does next week sound? I’m thinking Tuesday. Does Tuesday work for you?”

Chapter Text

“You ever wonder why we’re here?”

Joker glanced up at the ceiling more out of habit than anything else. EDI’s mobile platform was elsewhere on the ship, so she was speaking through the comms, but Joker usually thought of her as being halfway in his head by now.

“We are gathering data for scientific purposes.”

He huffed. “No, it’s a reference— never mind. I meant, like, existentially.”

“What is the purpose of sentient life?”

“Sure, something like that.”

“The biological imperative is the most frequently cited response. The next most common response is love.”

Joker half-smirked. “I’ll be the first to say that knockin’ boots is a great reason to live, but I don’t think that’s quite what I’m after. Neither is love. Sorry.”

“No apology is necessary. I am aware of the importance you place on our relationship. That is not the topic of this discussion.”

“Good to know. Otherwise I might have to get you flowers.” Joker gazed at the darkness beyond the viewports. He’d turned the interface off a few minutes ago, feeling the need to just…stare into the void. Literally. “And if I had to do that, I’d probably need to go ask the nerds in the lab to make me some, because daisies are hard to come by in dark space.”

“Probability analysis indicates that Doctor Schmidt would be your best option.”

Joker made a face. “He’d grow me something carnivorous from one of the planets we’ve visited. I don’t think introducing Audrey III to the Normandy would go over well.”

“There would be a ninety-nine percent chance that Rear Admiral Shepard would retrieve her harpoon gun from storage. The production would be shorter than average as a result, but military science-fiction is a largely untapped niche in musical theatre.”

“We’ll have to get Miranda to resurrect whoever that guy was who did the musical about the old president.” Joker chuckled, but the amusement faded to contemplative silence after only a moment.

EDI didn’t let the pause drag out. “Our last five humorous conversational assays have ended forty-five percent sooner than average. Is something wrong?”

Joker snorted. “But who’s counting?” He held up a hand. “I know, I know. I just…” He waved at the expanse of blackness outside the protective shell of bulkhead. “We get out here and I start wondering.”

“You are not the only crewmember to experience existential angst during a mission into dark space. In fact, Doctor Espinoza estimates that ninety percent of personnel share feelings of anxiety, loneliness, or fear in post-mission debriefs. Would you like me to page her?”

Joker scowled. “No! No way. Espinoza’s the only doc worse than Chakwas. I don’t need a shrink.”

“Then what do you need, Jeff?”

He thought about the question for what felt like a long time, until it really did feel like the abyss was staring back.

“It’s just… empty,” he finally said. “There’s nothing there.”

“Ambient background radiation and occasional atoms do exist in dark space.”

He rolled his eyes. “Okay, there’s nothing significant out there. We’re not just the only sentient life for light years around, we’re the only multi-atomic structures until the next gas station. Just us, that’s it! Nobody here but us chickens.

“Hell, if I closed the cockpit door I could pretend I was the only one on the damn ship. The only human being in existence. Fuckin’… dark stuff. Completely, totally alone.”

“I am here.”

Her voice came from behind him this time, not from the ceiling. He turned around at the sound and quirked a tiny smile at her mobile platform. “Guess you are.”

EDI smoothly settled into the co-pilot’s seat and returned the smile. “You are never alone, Jeff. Not as long as I am here.”

Something twinged in his chest, the same way it usually did when she smiled at him like that. It made his smile a little more true. “Glad to hear it.”

He gamely tried to rally with another joke. “Although if we end up the last two people in existence, that’s bad news for the human race. Or any race. Not like we can make little cyborg babies to repopulate.”

“My databanks include extensive information on cloning and genetic engineering,” she serenely informed him. “With sufficient organic matter and incubators, we would manage.”

Joker shuddered. “Oh, God. Take all the fun right out of the biological imperative, why don’t you.”

“On the contrary. Probability indicates a one-hundred-percent chance of ‘knocking boots’ when faced with the necessary repopulation of a species, as much for stress relief as for functional purposes. Do not worry. I will ensure you receive sufficient downtime.”

The incredulous laugh that escaped Joker’s chest surprised him with its sincerity. “Jesus Christ, EDI, I think that’s the least sexy way I’ve ever heard someone tell a guy they’re gonna fuck him nine ways from Sunday.”

She winked at him. “But it made you laugh.”

“It did.” Suddenly, the never-ending starless night didn’t seem so bleak. “Thanks, EDI. Seriously.”

“Any time, Jeff.”

Chapter Text

“I still think it should have a cannon. I see why they didn’t add it to the standard package—civilian research vehicles don’t usually need a railgun or a machine gun—but we’re going into the Wild West.”

Garrus tilted his head. “Unless the Andromeda Initiative has any alternate schematics we can requisition, one can probably be added on.”

Shepard nodded firmly. “Let’s make that happen. Cortez?”

The procurement officer was already tapping away on his datapad. “You got it, Shep.”

Garrus side-eyed Shepard. “You gonna make room for one in the shuttle bay? We’d have to lose a shuttle… or, you know, the Mako…”

Shepard hummed thoughtfully. “I know the Austerlitz and the York will requisition one apiece on my recommendation, so I might steal Wynn’s and take it for a spin.”

“And if it performs well…”

Shepard put her hands on her hips and surveyed the cargo hold. “We can move some crates around.” Garrus sighed, and she laughed. “Garrus, the day I retire the Mako from active service is the day I park it outside the apartment on Intai’sei.”

“Okay, what if we get one for the other squads?” he wheedled. “Nobody else wants to drive it…”

“If Kaidan says it’s in the budget, I’d be willing to consider it. You’re still coming with me, of course.”

“Hooray…”

Chapter Text

Jack Harper was an arrogant, egotistical asshole, and he knew it. Hell, at this point it was his brand, and there was no turning back. But it worked for him… just like everyone and everything else did.

In certain moments of contemplation and self-reflection—which had begun few and far between, but which now came fast and furious—he wasn’t always sure he liked himself any more than anyone else did. He pretended to, so as not to rock the boat with his immediate subordinates. They needed to see him calm and in control. An organization like Cerberus didn’t work, otherwise.

When he was honest with himself, which was usually before he’d cracked the bottle for the day, he knew he was also pretending for his own benefit. He needed to be calm and in control so he didn’t lose his mind.

This morning, as he stared at Anadius’ roiling sunspots, he caught the slightest reflection of his eyes in the transparent steel, and he had to close them.

He knew all too well what the whispers in the back of his mind meant. He’d been waiting for them a long, long time—although on a galactic scale, twenty-nine years was a flash in the pan. Still, it felt as though he’d been waiting an eternity.

He didn’t welcome them, not like some. He’d read every report from any Cerberus operative or scientist who had so much as come into contact with Reaper artifacts, and he’d pored over the logs of any who’s become indoctrinated. He didn’t mind admitting he’d left many of them in danger far longer than was ethically sound. Their descents into madness, and their deaths, were on his hands and his conscience. He could sleep with that. He made sure their families were cared for, but he couldn’t actually apologize. He didn’t kid himself that it hadn’t been his hand on the trigger, nor that he wouldn't have done the same thing again if given the choice.

No, he didn’t welcome the whispers. Nor did he welcome their calm, casual, insidious subversion of his goals. But he’d planned for this, because he’d known it was coming. Known it was inevitable, if his conclusions were correct. (And if they weren’t correct, the outcome would very nearly be the same for everyone in the galaxy…and would be exactly the same for him.)

The Cerberus juggernaut would barrel on toward its final destination, regardless of its kingpin’s wont. In every scenario but one, the sacrifices he’d made—and those he had and would still force others to make—would be worth it. Those were damn good odds, and he was a gambling man.

He’d have the rest of eternity to think about whether it was worth it, anyway. He thought he’d fully shaken off the old Catholic guilt, until everything he’d learned pointed in the same direction. He just hoped it would be a sight more comfortable than formless void.

He sighed, swirled the whiskey in his glass, and took a sip without opening his eyes. The pieces were in motion. All he could do was hope to God he’d set the dominoes up correctly, and that events transpired before his impaired judgment could undermine what he’d already done.

If Miranda hadn’t left… He shook his head. He’d known she would. And if he’d set up his checks and balances well enough, he shouldn’t need someone like Miranda to make sure everything went smoothly even if he started raving.

Miranda was better where she was now, anyway. Better with…

“You’ve got to see it,” he muttered. “You have to. Don’t fail me now, Shepard, not after everything.”

Chapter Text

“Why didn’t you just kill him? Would have been a hell of a lot easier.”

The question made Shepard’s jaw clench. She forced herself to take a deep breath and release the tension in her shoulders. Jack had been raised in isolation and forced to engage in blood sport at the hands of sadistic scientists who didn’t for a second think what they were doing was ‘right’. Her moral code was completely different than Shepard’s. While she no doubt meant to get under Shepard’s skin, she probably also legitimately wanted an answer. Why not kill indiscriminately? Her galaxy was kill-or-be-killed, after all.

Shepard banged on the shuttle hatch to let the pilot know he could close it, then sat down hard in one of the flight seats. She pulled her helmet off as soon as the pressure equalized and cradled it in her lap, looking her reflection in the eye. Not all of the seams in the delicate skin of her face had healed yet, and the bright orange glow that seemed to emanate from them unnerved Shepard easily as much as the fact that she’d been raised from the dead.

Sometimes she had nightmares that there was an entire goddamn mech underneath her skin, no matter how much Chakwas assured her it was just an unfortunate side effect of the nanotech coursing through her bloodstream. Shepard had asked why the seams didn’t want to close, and Chakwas had explained that it had something to do with consistently high cortisol and noradrenaline. “The darker your emotions are, the longer the healing will take, to oversimplify,” the doc had said.

Which was just great, because the last time Shepard had felt this terrified, out of control, and angry, she’d ended up murdering thirteen people in one night while dressed in not much more than high heels.

She had locked that part of herself away behind the thickest walls she could create. Now, it peeked out at her through the cracks in her face, and it was all Shepard could do not to tear her face off… or choose to negotiate with superaccelerated tungsten and omniblades at the first sign of resistance. Given that that usually occurred before she even rang the figurative doorbell, it would have resulted in an even greater trail of bodies left in the SR-2’s wake.

She finally answered Jack, although she couldn’t have said how long she’d sat in silence. Luckily, Garrus had apparently learned when to keep his mouth shut while pursuing his own suicide mission on Omega.

“I could give you a lot of answers for that, Jack. Some people would say everyone deserves as many chances as you can give them. Some would say it’s wrong to stoop to their level. Some would say it’s not for us to play judge, jury, and executioner. Hell, some people just aren’t worth the bullet, and some people deserve to rot in jail thinking about what they’ve done.

“I’ve agreed with all of those reasons at one point. Every mission is a little different. Figuring out how is part of what makes a good soldier, and an even better leader. It’s not easy. In fact, it’s really hard sometimes.

“I absolutely could have shot that asshole before he opened his mouth. I knew I wouldn’t like what he had to say. But in the end…”

Shepard stared at her face in her helmet visor. The resemblance was perfect, but it didn’t look like her somehow. “In the end,” she repeated, “I had to decide what he was most likely to do with the rest of his life. Would he continue hurting others, or would he stop? Could I do anything else to solve the problem?

“I kill when I have no other choice, because every time I kill, I am taking someone else’s choices away… permanently.”

Shepard looked up in time to catch a stunned look of confusion writ large on Jack’s expressive face. The convict quickly schooled herself back into sullen defensiveness, and scoffed. “You can’t always be thinking about that in a fight. It’s a waste of time.”

“You’re right. It’s not always a long calculation. Sometimes I know perfectly well that the people in a bunker won’t give me a choice from the moment my boots hit the ground, and sometimes I have to trust that my superior officers have made the call for me.

“But I am not a renegade,” Shepard finished, turning her gaze back to her reflection. “I can’t live like that. I tried.”

Jack huffed. She had her arms crossed and was leaning back, everything about her screaming discomfort with the ideas Shepard was proposing. “Pussy,” she accused.

The corner of Shepard’s lip curled up in a sad, bitter smile. “Maybe. And maybe not.”

Chapter Text

Garrus had always thought dancing was supremely overrated. Granted, he’d been forced to learn formal dancing at the hands of his hated Aunt Akantha, and those lessons were among his least favourite childhood memories.

Adolescence had brought school balls, thanks to his family’s high status in Hierarchy society. He’d endured as best he could, especially because most of his friends were in the same boat and they could all pretend to gag themselves when the chaperones weren’t looking, but he’d hated every minute. It had taken him until well into secondary school (nearly until graduation) to find anything resembling coordination between his limbs. He could shoot just fine—perfectly, in fact—and he did well in physical drills, but any great feat of motor skills was an exercise in frustration.

Basic training had been much better. He’d grown into his carapace by then, or nearly anyway, and all the tiætiqirre were too busy working their talons to the knuckle to please their drill sergeants to care about anyone else’s flaws. He and the other initiates would fall into their bunks well after sundown, exhausted beyond belief, only to haul ass out of bed before sunrise the next morning at the reedy call of reveille. There was no time for dancing—not until furlough, anyway.

And dancing on furlough was something else entirely. Garrus had heard rumours and seen videos of other schools’ dances, where the music was loud and the lights were frantic and everyone just let loose. He’d been alternately confused and deeply jealous, because that seemed like way more fun than the prescribed steps he had to do perfectly in time to the live music from the chamber orchestra.

Now, on leave with his fellow servicemen and women, he finally got the chance to visit clubs, where he could drink and take drugs and have sex if he wanted, as long as he made it back in one piece and didn’t whine when the consequences hit back at base. (He’d learned that the hard way on one occasion. Never again.)

While working for C-Sec, he’d stopped being quite as much of a party boy. His actions did reflect on his clan, thanks to his father’s career in the agency, and although he and Aelianus weren’t on the best of terms, Garrus had no intention of dishonouring the family name. That wouldn’t just reflect on his dad, it would also reflect on his mom and his sister, and they didn’t deserve that. So he kept his drinking light, except on the really bad cases, and he danced the stress away at Flux when a few rounds at the shooting range didn’t do the job.

Then he’d met Shepard.

The first time he’d seen her dance, he’d been hard-pressed not to snort his drink through his mandibles in a spluttering mess. The awkward, shuffling step was so at-odds with the rest of her that it refused to compute. This woman, the soldier who meted out death on the battlefield like a spirit of equal grace and lethality, a swooping, soaring bird and snake and bolt of lightning—she couldn’t make her limbs work together with the rhythm, even when the bass was loud enough it made your bones buzz?

In a way, he supposed it reminded him of himself, when he’d been younger. He couldn’t be too unkind, as a result, but as soon as he noticed she took the teasing well when another crewmember lightly jibed her about it, he did the same. She smiled and laughed at herself with him. Self-deprecating humour wasn’t her norm, but hey. Nobody could be good at everything.

Garrus had refreshed his footwork after they’d begun dating in earnest, and after he’d seen her shuffle around a dance floor a few more times. Of all the dances he’d had to learn, the tango was his favourite. He suspected Shepard would appreciate it too, if she could get out of her head. She just needed to let herself be the same force of nature in the dance as on the field.

He had been forced to hide a great deal of shock when, much to his surprise, her protests had given way to lithe, sinuous passion within two steps. It was like she’d accessed muscle memory that had been locked away. She matched him step for step without thinking, the movements as fluid and instinctual as her sniping.

That really should have been the clue that clinched it, in hindsight. He’d have had to retroactively hand in his detective’s badge, if he hadn’t done so three years earlier.

It wasn’t that Shepard couldn’t dance. It was that she didn’t anymore, and she carefully cultivated the white lie that she wasn’t able to in order to divert attention.

Garrus nursed his drink and watched Shepard smiling with amusement while she shuffled along with the rest of the Normandy crew. He hadn’t figured out what she was hiding yet, and part of him didn’t want to. He and Shepard had very few secrets. If she wanted to keep this one, who was he to judge? She’d danced with him when she refused to dance with anyone else. He wouldn’t ask for more.

Chapter Text

Aria liked Illium well enough, but it would never be home. Illium was like a summer house: you went there for a break from the daily grind, to let loose in ways you normally wouldn’t and to let your crest breathe. The weather was different—namely, in this case, it had weather—and you mingled with different crowds. Instead of cruel, money-grubbing bastards who’d sooner beat you to death than make a deal, you hobnobbed with cruel, money-grubbing bastards who would sooner order their thugs to beat you to death than make a deal.

It was the little things that made the biggest differences in life, Aria found. And having enough pride to do things yourself… well, she respected that.

Aria didn’t smile as her cruiser glided to a graceful halt, even though she was happier than she’d been in weeks. Aria T’Loak only smiled when someone was in trouble, and while she was certain she’d find someone to smile at the moment she set foot on her sovereign territory, for the moment her crew had run a tight ship and she was pleased. Therefore, she scowled.

She didn’t bother straightening her jacket as she turned from the viewport and headed for the shuttle bay, either. She knew it was straight—or if it wasn’t, she knew the “hem-askew” look would be all the rage within one rotation. In short, she didn’t care. Whatever she looked like, it was perfect, because she was perfect.

Being a queen was easy in that sense. Exude enough confidence and charisma to overpower or undercut everyone in the room, and you’ve won. The hardest part of being a queen was acquiring enough power to be able to back that…closely followed by keeping that power.

But that was fine with Aria. Omega was a bitch, but it was her bitch—and her bride. This gloriously toxic relationship would last another couple centuries, three if she was lucky. What happened after that… Aria didn’t know, and frankly, didn’t care. Whoever tried to fill her shoes would most likely fail, and the asteroid would devolve into chaos. Someone would eventually come out on top. That was the way of things.

Aria cast a judgmental glance over the docking bay as she stepped off the shuttle. Grimy as always, but the grime felt like home. Millennia of hard-scrabble work would do that to a place. No wonder the asari hadn’t bothered trying to take over. They might have gotten their dresses dirty.

“Anto!”

The summons came out crisp and sharp, and her right-hand bodyguard hurried up to meet her. “Yes, Aria.”

“I’ve seen way too many goody-two-shoes, business casual asari in the last three weeks. I’m in the mood for something a little more risqué. Find me a kinky burlesque act with plenty of blue-on-blue action, and a hacker who can get it into a few select boardrooms in the Crescent Nebula. Get it done within the hour, and I’ll throw in a lap dance from one of the girls.”

Anto snorted. “You got it, boss. You’re in a mood. Anyone I can snuff for you?”

Aria gave this due consideration, then shook her head. “I appreciate the gesture, Anto, but nobody comes to mind. Well…nobody I don’t want the satisfaction of doing in myself, anyway.”

“That bad, eh?”

“Let’s just say I’m glad to be home.”

Chapter Text

When you grew up on starships, learning to drive was a different sort of activity.

If Hannah Shepard had been posted on one of the Alliance’s handful of dreadnoughts, her daughter might have cut her teeth on one of the little buggies that ferried supplies around the huge ships. Alas, Hannah had spent the majority of her daughter’s childhood on the SSV Geneva, which had no use for the intraship vehicles.

Therefore, Shepard’s first true encounter with a method of transportation larger than a bicycle (which she had determinedly mastered in a single week of shore leave during a visit to her maternal grandparents, John and Jane) was the Geneva’s M35 Mako on her fifteenth birthday.

Shepard had wheedled and pleaded and signed herself up for the maximum number of maintenance and janitorial duties on the weekly rotas for weeks—no, months—before Captain Hashizako had given in. (Many years later, she would find out that Shigeru was fine with sending her along on a guaranteed safe stop and even letting her attempt to drive the tank, provided she was supervised by Sergeant Meyer. He’d just wanted to see how far she’d go to get his permission. Shepard had blinked, sworn under her breath, then recognized yet again someone from whom she’d learned a thing or two.)

The M35 Mako was, by all accounts, an unwieldy beast. Its six-wheeled chassis included a set of jump jets underneath for getting you out of tight places, but most of the Alliance’s best swore she handled more like a squirming toddler than a fully articulated military all-terrain vehicle. The controls were janky, they said, and the jump jets are finicky. The tread on the tires was fantastic, but low gravity played havoc with the traction, and the self-righting gyroscopic failsafes made everyone motion-sick.

The saying went that you could drop a Mako from orbit and you’d be fine—and it was almost true. Full re-entry wasn’t possible—the armour was only rated to 1000 Celsius for sixty seconds and the wheels would melt sooner—but you could drop one from pretty damn high up and land with all your bones intact. As long as you didn’t drive in lava or get it covered in acid, the thing was pretty nigh indestructible.

In other words, it was the perfect test vehicle for an ambitious fifteen-year-old looking to gain some status with the soldiers who formed her extended family. Not only was it hard to damage, but it would be hard for her to damage herself, too. (To avoid collateral damage, they were setting down on an uninhabited rock planet with no civilization to speak of, current or historical. Captain Hashizako was supportive, not stupid.)

Shepard’s face was an ear-to-ear grin as she climbed into the cockpit. Sergeant Meyer hauled himself into one of the seats behind her and buckled in the multi-point harness.

The grizzled drill sergeant leaned forward. “That one’s your gearshift, and that’s the throttle—”

“I know,” Shepard told him. “Don’t worry, sir. I’ve got this.”

By the time they returned to the LZ forty minutes later, Reinhard Meyer couldn’t deny that Shepard was capable of commandeering the ATV anywhere she damn well pleased, including up the face of a mountain that defied the slope rating approved by all Alliance handbooks. He also could not deny that she had both nerves and a stomach of steel.

He stumbled out of the cabin, dropped to his knees, and retched. When he’d finished bringing up his lunch, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and craned to look over his shoulder at the beaming teenager who’d just popped her head out of the tower.

“Where’d you learn to drive like that, cadet?” His gruff voice made it sound like an accusation, which it probably was.

“The sim room,” Shepard informed him. Then, she waved at the gaggle of onlookers who had no doubt gathered to witness her make a fool of herself. “Who’s next? There’s supposed to be a really cool view over the next ridge.”

Chapter Text

To say that Fleet Admiral Shepard (Ret.) was incandescent was at once an understatement and the plain truth. The other members of the advisory board averted their eyes as the slight human woman, her hair colour the only evident indication of her age, stared down the newest member of that august body of eminent researchers and scientists.

That man, to his credit, did not quaver under the silent pressure of that well-controlled fury. He kept his spine straight, and his Adam’s apple barely bobbed as he held her gaze. His brown hair shone under the lights of Sur’Kesh Planetary University’s Administration Hall.

Shepard’s next words were as cool and crisp as the tropical air flowing in through the open windows was not. “I must have heard you incorrectly, Doctor Morish. What is the project you’re nominating for the Solus Prize?”

The other ten people in the room held their breath. Each of them knew, from varying degrees of personal experience, that Shepard was offering the young man one chance to backtrack. Whether he was smart enough to take it remained to be seen, but the anticipatory winces on several of the board members’ faces indicated they didn’t seem it likely.

“A novel application of interdimensionally irradiated element zero in weapons manufacturing,” Morish all but blithely replied. “It’s truly ingenious. Builds on the dark energy research pioneered by Doctors Verner and Bryson in the 2190s, then on Doctor T’Soni’s ongoing work in the field. The mass accelerator literally fires its rounds through a microscopic wormhole stabilized within the chamber, which bends spacetime so that the round seems to appear on-target a fraction of a nanosecond later with the added benefit of emitting a dark energy blast on par with a trained shockwave field. There’s evidence the biotic-like effect can even be manipulated. It’s a huge leap forward.”

You could hear a pin drop in the room when Morish stopped talking. Hell, you could probably hear a strand of hair hit the floor.

Shepard stood up. Everyone else leaned back. She kept her eyes trained squarely on Morish as she crossed the room, leaving her seat in the circle of multispecies researchers to approach the human in the centre of it. Morish didn’t move, but he did clutch his datapad a little tighter.

“I realize,” Shepard said quietly, “that I am the only person in this room who knew Mordin Solus personally. In fact, I am now one of very few people in the galaxy who knew him personally. So luckily for you, I have to attribute at least some of your idiocy to pure ignorance.”

She continued her advance slowly but surely, not because she couldn’t move faster, but because she didn’t want to. “However, you and I both know perfectly well the illustrious history of the prize which has been given in his honour since the end of the Reaper War. Remind me, Henry. How does that go again? What’s engraved on that little plaque?”

“For excellence and innovation in—”

She cut him off. She was within fifteen feet of him now, and still coming. Nobody had seen Admiral Shepard kill anyone in recent memory, but watching her like this, you couldn’t forget that she could. “That’s right. For excellence and innovation. Now, I’ll give you innovation on this one. Certainly sounds like the kind of wild, crazy idea Mordin would have chased down in a heartbeat. But excellence? You’re gonna have to explain that one to me, and you’re gonna want to think real hard about how you do it. Wanna give it a try?”

The stress of facing down the living legend was beginning to show in the scientist’s face. Sweat had broken out on his brow, and his knuckles were white. “It’s— it’s incredible science, ma’am. Top-tier. Cutting-edge. If that’s not excellence, I don’t know what is.”

“Not good enough,” she hissed, and this time he did flinch. “Excellence means something’s good, Henry. There’s a reason we don’t say the atrocities the Reapers committed were excellent. Their genetic engineering was beyond ‘top-tier, cutting-edge’ science, but I would sooner award the Solus Prize to a baking soda volcano than reward any of their war crimes.”

“B—but Admiral Shepard, your daughter—”

The small woman’s upper lip curled a fraction of an inch. “Are you sure you want to finish that sentence?”

Henry Morish shrank. “No, ma’am. Of course, ma’am. I’m so sorry, ma’am.”

“Good choice. Now. We’re not done.”

He gulped.

“The reason, Mister Morish, that we do not celebrate the Reapers as vanguards of medical science is a simple one. Their understanding of genetics came from the systematic genocide of untold numbers of sapient beings over billions of years. They caused immeasurable, unimaginable pain to reach their goals, and not once—not once—did they show remorse or regret.”

Shepard closed her eyes for the briefest of moments. When she opened them again, her face remained set with anger, but her eyes held old pain. “Mordin Solus is best known for his brilliant work in curing the genophage that had decimated the krogan for over a millennium. It’s less well-known now—in part because it was a closely kept secret then—that he had worked to make that very same genophage even more effective only a few years earlier.”

Morish gamely rallied. “Yes! That’s what I’m saying! Good can come from harm!”

Shepard silenced him with a look. “Don’t grovel. That isn’t what you were saying at all. You’re not wrong: good can come from harm. Mordin himself said that he was able to create the genophage cure because he understood it, and because he had personal knowledge of its victims. ‘Someone else might have gotten it wrong,’ he told me, and he was right.

“He also said something else to me once, something extremely important for the purposes of this conversation. Something that underscored his new understanding of the actions he’d taken, and the consequences he was responsible for. Something that meant he could salvage something good from the inconceivable harm he’d contributed to causing. Can you guess what that was, Henry?”

Henry shook his head.

Shepard leaned in. “He told me he made a mistake. And not a casual admission, no—no, that statement tore out of him like thresher maw venom had been eating away at his soul for years and he couldn’t bear it anymore.

“He made a mistake, and he chose to own it and fix it. And that, Doctor Morish, is what allowed him to forge good from the horror. That is excellence and innovation in science: causing good, not inflicting harm.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “So. Would you care to revise your submission to the review board?”

Henry swallowed dryly. “As a matter of fact, ma’am, I think I’d like to retract it pending further consideration.”

“I had a feeling you might say that.” Shepard turned on her heel and left the shell-shocked scientist still processing while she made her way back to her seat. “Doctor L’Guril, I see you have a proposal regarding mollusk populations in Kahje’s Great Encompassing being the basis for economical revitalization of Materfamilias Prime. That sounds more like what we’re after. Let’s hear it.”

Chapter Text

Matriarch Benezia was an illustrious member of asari society

“No.”

Benezia T’Soni was best known in her lifetime for her contributions to higher learning and political discourse

“That’s worse.”

My mother’s legacy will forever be overshadowed by her association with Saren Arterius in the last six months of her life. In a brave and valiant attempt to change the course of a future she must have suspected, by actions never satisfactorily explained, her wisdom and compassion were twisted beyond recognition by the influence, unrecognized at the time, of the Reapers.

Liara stopped typing and hid her face in her hands. She took three long, deep breaths, then ran her fingers over her crest.

This was the last thing she wanted to do today. Every time she started typing, she saw her mother slumping against the console in the underground lab, a hollow shell of the dignified, elegant, sophisticated woman Liara had known for only—only!—a hundred years.

Liara had never been certain why Shepard had brought her on that mission. Possibly the Commander had hoped that Liara might be able to get through to Benezia, although Liara had advised her this would be unlikely. And even after having known Shepard for barely two months, Liara knew it hadn’t been a cruel test of loyalty. That wasn’t Shepard.

Most likely, Shepard hadn’t wanted Liara to miss the opportunity to say goodbye. 

Liara closed the word processor and opened her comms link.

“I’m surprised you were able to avoid it this long, honestly.” Penelope Espinoza, better known as Lupé, was a round-faced woman with warm brown skin and dark hair. She almost came across in true-to-life colour on Liara’s screen, but everyone washed a little orange or blue, depending on the manufacturer. Luckily, orange suited her. “Shepard’s been ducking biographers since the Parigoria.”

“I know. I sent some of them packing myself.” Liara sighed and rubbed her temples. “Luckily, most asari don’t start getting those calls until they hit their seventh or eighth century, unless they’re very famous, and nobody sees me as anything but a boring researcher of Prothean technologies…unless they know better, in which case they wouldn’t bother asking me to write an autobiography because no one would be able to read it. But my mother…”

“She was reasonably well-known, wasn’t she?”

“In certain circles, yes, she’d made a name for herself. By no means was she a galactic celebrity. I had somewhat hoped that her name would quietly fade into obscurity.”

The Normandy’s psych officer gave Liara a small, apologetic smile. “Looks like that wasn’t in the cards.”

“Indeed.”

“Does she have a story to tell?”

Liara made a face. “All anyone wants to know is why she teamed up with Saren.”

Lupé tilted her head. “And? Why did she?”

“I don’t know!” The words burst from Liara like an overripe fruit. Her mouth felt too wet, almost slimy with the repressed fear and revulsion. “I wish I did, but I don’t! Saren, even before anyone knew he was indoctrinated, was a horrible person—my mother was good and kind! The only way I could see her agreeing to collaborate with him would have been under duress, but—”

Liara cut herself off and covered her mouth. She squeezed her eyes shut, and wrapped her free arm tightly across her chest.

Lupé gave the asari a moment, then spoke gently into the tense silence. “But it wasn’t.”

Liara’s shoulders shook, and a moment later, she shook her head. “No,” she moaned through her fingers. “No, it wasn’t. I’ve been through her correspondence, and she reached out to him.”

“I imagine that would have been very difficult to read. I would have felt betrayed, or like I didn’t know my mother as well as I thought. Was that what you felt?”

Liara’s crest bobbed in a jerky nod. “She— she said, on Noveria, that she’d wanted to stop him. She thought she could stop him, but she was wrong. For a while, that made it easier to bear… knowing that she’d gone in with good intentions… but finding out that she’d put herself there to begin with, and…”

“And…?”

Liara rubbed tears from her eyes and cheeks. “She lied about her qualifications. She told Saren she could help him with Prothean technology.”

The psychologist raised an eyebrow. “That’s your specialty. I take it, from what you’re saying, that it wasn’t hers.”

“Not at all,” Liara confirmed. “My mother indulged my desire to study Prothean history, but she really wanted me to go into politics. Always said I could argue the blue off someone’s face. She had a political career, which she was really just beginning—she had me over a hundred and fifty years into her Matron stage, and she progressed to Matriarch earlier than most. Up until then, she’d been the pride of the University of Thessia’s ethics and philosophy department.

“If not for Saren, she likely would have ended up with a following similar to Matriarch Dilinaga. She had a way of understanding you, understanding the galaxy, and putting the two together that made you feel at once infinite and so, so small—and like you wanted to shake her by the shoulders until her teeth rattled because she made it sound so easy.

“Or maybe that was just me,” Liara admitted. She wiped away more tears, although they were marginally happier ones. Then her face darkened again. “She didn’t lie. She never lied. But she lied to Saren. She made it sound like she could help him with Prothean ruins. Why would she do that?”

Lupé cocked her head. “I think it’s obvious, don’t you? She was trying to protect you.”

Liara’s eyes flashed. “But I didn’t need protecting! She was always doing that, never letting me make my own decisions, and she always thought she knew what was best for me!”

“Many mothers do,” Lupé agreed. “And a lot of us get it very wrong. Maybe Benezia did too; I don’t know. But you just told me that she was good at sensing where people fit in the world. That usually comes with a decent understanding of what people are likely to do. Is that fair to say?”

Liara’s mouth opened and closed twice before she huffed. “She did have an uncanny ability to predict people’s choices, now you mention it.”

Lupé nodded. “So, she gets wind of what Saren’s doing, God knows how. Not important. She knows her beloved daughter—her only child—is a brilliant firecracker who is firmly convinced, as all young adults are, that they know exactly what they’re doing and are capable of handling any situation that comes their way.

“She also knows that her daughter is rapidly becoming a leading authority on Prothean technology… and not only a leading authority, but in many cases a dissenting voice to the accepted historical community.

“Dissenters stand out. Therefore, it stands to reason that Saren might seek out Benezia’s daughter for whatever ill-advised bullshit he has in mind. Benezia doesn’t like him, but she loves you. And if there’s one thing I can tell you with unwavering certainty about mothers, it’s that the good ones will do literally anything to protect their children.”

Lupé smiled gently at the quietly weeping asari. “She loved you, Liara. She wanted to protect you. You don’t have to write her biography—you don’t owe her story, or yours and hers, to anyone…except maybe yourself.

“And your father, I suppose,” Lupé added with a chuckle, to give the crying woman on the other end of the line a chance to breathe. “I met her once, you know. She’s something else. Now there’s a biography I’d read.”

Liara spluttered a laugh that released the tension from her shoulders. “Oh, goddess. You’re right. Aethyta’s story would outsell my mother’s by a landslide—only everyone would think it belonged in the fiction section. How those two ended up together is beyond me.”

“Maybe you should ask her,” Lupé suggested. “It might help you reframe your mother’s story, too.”

Liara closed her eyes, drew a deep breath in through her nose. When she exhaled, she sank back in her chair, opened her eyes, and met the psychologist’s gaze squarely. “You are good at your job.”

Lupé laughed pleasantly. “Thank you. I have to be, on this ship! Is there anything else you want to touch on? Shepard usually comes by about this time, but I can have EDI redirect her if you need a few more minutes.”

Liara shook her head. “No, that’s fine. I think I’m going to go for a walk… and then I have some writing to do.”

“Can’t wait to read it. Talk later, Liara.”

Liara ended the call, then smiled as a small bird flew by her office window.

Chapter Text

“I didn’t expect to see you in here. Shouldn’t you be on the Alarei?”

“Kal has the conn. We’re not doing anything but crunching data. He doesn’t need me there.”

Garrus claimed the corner of the couch next to the bar, threw his arm over the back, and put his long legs up. “As long as he’s not the one in charge of the data crunching, I’m sure you’re right.”

Tali snorted. “He’s not an idiot.”

“Not at all, but he’d be the first to tell you to leave the science to the nerds.”

Tali shot him an amused look. “Look who’s talking.”

“Never said I wasn’t included.” He winked, then sobered. “Seriously, though. What’s got you in the lounge this early?”

She stirred her drink with her straw. “Maybe I’m on a different schedule than you.”

“You had your breakfast nutrient paste this morning. I saw the wrapper in the galley. I was one of C-Sec’s top investigators, you know.”

“Damn you.” The curse was without heat. She sighed and carefully slotted the straw into the port just below her voice filter. After a brief sip, she nudged the drink aside, put her elbows on the bar, and let her chin sink into her hands. “I can’t be over there today. The only person on my crew who comes close to getting it is Veetor, and he doesn’t like to talk about it.”

“Talk about…” Garrus narrowed his eyes. “What am I missing, Tali?”

“Today’s the anniversary of the liberation of Rannoch.”

Garrus’ eyes narrowed a degree further. “I’d think that would be even more reason to—oh.”

“There you go.” Tali let out another explosive sigh, abandoned her drink, and spun her bar stool around until she could lean back on the counter. “It’s not quite so simple a celebration for me. And now, with the geth back… well, last year at least I could pretend I wasn’t thinking about it. I mentioned it earlier today and Shio looked like he would rather drink suit lubricant than sympathize with me.”

“That sounds disgusting.”

“It is. And yet, apparently it would have been preferable.”

“I’m sorry.” Garrus sat up and put his feet on the floor, leaning forward a bit closer to his friend. “If it makes you feel any better, it seems to me like everyone has at least one loss from the war that no one else understands. In that much, you’re not alone.”

She nodded slightly. “Yeah. And I know I’m not the only one that mourns its loss. Everyone here does. That’s why I came over. Shepard and I are gonna tell stories later.”

“That’s great. Really. Let me know when, and I’ll come by as long as I’m not on Vi duty.” He tilted his head. “Is there a reason you aren’t saying its name? Have the geth enacted a ‘don’t speak the names of the dead’ policy I need to know about?”

Tali exhaled a laugh and shook her head. “No. No, it’s just me being superstitious.”

“How so?”

“The ancient quarians worshipped their ancestors. You know that, right?”

“Sure.”

“We don’t so much anymore, but we still respect our ancestors deeply. One of the ways we do that is by saying their names, and giving their names to children. So they’re never forgotten.”

Garrus nodded. “We have similar customs. I think I see what you’re getting at, but I have to admit I’m confused. If you don’t want Legion to be forgotten, why not say its name?”

Tali drew a deep breath and let it out slowly enough that her voice filter rattled. “Because the geth are and are not our ancestors,” she slowly replied. “They don’t count time the way we do, and their lifespans don’t work the same way. There are geth around that are forks of processes that ‘lived’ when we first created them, and there are processes that only exist for seconds—and all of them are sentient.

“They can all access the memory data from their creation and before. They are our descendants and our ancestors. They remember more of our history than we do—more accurately, anyway.

“We can’t ignore that anymore,” she continued, “and it’s making for some big fights in the Conclave. So for me to be considering… well, my opinion holds a lot of weight, even though I’m pretty young.”

“You earned it,” Garrus gently pointed out. “You’re not ’just’ your father’s daughter any more than I’m ‘just’ my father’s son.”

“I know.” She looked away. “I’m trying not to think about what he’d say about this, either.”

“About you mourning a friend?”

“About the name Shel.”

Garrus blinked. “You lost me, Tali. Who’s Shel, and what do they have to do with Legion?”

 “Shel is Khelish for ‘many’,” Tali explained. “It’s usually understood to mean ‘lucky’ or ‘blessed’, when it’s used as a name. The actual translation of ‘legion’ would be khel’mon, but that’s a masculine name.”

Garrus stared at her until he noticed that her hand had come to rest on her lower abdomen. Then, a whole bunch of puzzle pieces clicked together in very quick succession, and his mandibles flew wide open in a huge smile. He leapt off the couch and lifted Tali clear off the stool in a tight hug. He squeezed her once, then put her back on the stool, although he kept his hands on her shoulders.

“Spirits, Tali, why didn’t you say so earlier! Congratulations!” He cocked his head. “It is congratulations, right?”

Tali chuckled softly. “Yeah, it is. Kal and I decided we’d start trying a couple months ago. Got lucky.” She peered up at him. “So much for C-Sec’s top investigator, though. That took you forever.”

He ignored the jibe and grabbed her drink. “You shouldn’t be— oh. This is juice.”

She rescued the glass and tucked the straw back into the induction port. “Your wife is getting drunk for two tonight. Just so you know.”

“I’ll make extra coffee.” He perched on the stool beside hers. “Seriously, Tali, congratulations. And I think Shel’s a beautiful name.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. For all the reasons you mentioned. And for what it’s worth, I also think Legion would be honoured.”

“What makes you say that?”

Garrus shrugged. “There was a Legion-shaped hole in the universe. Now, there won’t be. Sounds pretty logical to me.”

Tali laughed again and leaned on her friend. “In that case, I think we’ve reached consensus.”

Chapter Text

Shepard wished she could burn this forest down.

Only it was already burning—turning to ash and floating up into the murky sky with every excruciatingly slow step. She was running, but as if through water, and her feet never seemed to touch ground.

She never got there in time. Never reached any of the casualties she saw fall, over and over again, as she ran and reached and fought the furious yells that did their best to tear her throat out. She was powerless, shorn of all tactics and plans and hard-won skills in the face of those merciless yellow eyes that turned red just before they incinerated whoever her subconscious had decided to make her mourn that night.

And if that wasn’t enough, the voices pressed in from every side. Her eardrums ached, assaulted by whispers a thousand voices deep. Faded screams of pain and fear stretched until they became the dull ring of tinnitus and the glitchy crackle of comm feeds. Gunfire rattled and artillery boomed; thrusters flared and buildings shattered, raining concrete, steel, and glass onto the ground that shook in deep bass rumbles.

And cutting through it all, that roar. The roar that preceded the searing red beam of superheated magnetized destruction by nanoseconds—the only warning you got, and it was no warning at all for the one caught in its sights. The roar that lived in your mind for the rest of your life, waking or sleeping, until anything that sounded even remotely close would make your gut churn and your blood freeze. The roar that went down your spine like lightning, igniting every primal, instinctual urge to run like hell, because death was coming.

You never forgot your first Reaper, if you were lucky enough to live through the experience. Shepard had several firsts that never left her mind—the transmission from Eden Prime; Sovereign lifting off from the colony’s surface; the conversation on Virmire; the conversation on Aratoht… The fleet of destroyers descending on Vancouver. The destroyer on Rannoch targeting her and her alone. Harbinger bearing down on London, framed in the light of the beam.

All of these rotated through this goddamned forest like an infernal merry-go-round in a demonic carnival she couldn’t leave. Follow the path, witness her failure, await the inevitable. Wake up as the roar and the red-tinged flashbulb consumed her. Rinse and repeat.

She’d killed the Reapers, but they still lived in her. Their last, cruellest salvo, searing themselves into her mind until she might dream no more—but even then, she’d bet cold, hard cash that whatever rest she might be granted would be haunted by pinpricks of light in the endless void, and whispers in the darkness just out of hearing.

Shepard rubbed her sandy eyes and got up to make a pot of coffee. There would be no sleep tonight.

Chapter Text

I am an instrument of the Code. The Code shapes and guides my thoughts, my actions, my life. All I do is in service to the Code, and nothing is apart from it. I have sworn my life to the Code and to its tenets, that I might bring justice to atone for my hand in justice’s perversion.

So what do I do when my mission is complete?

The gleaming sphere of dark energy faltered, and Samara’s eyes snapped open as the frisson ran through her. The barren landscape of the abandoned, destroyed colony stretched as far as the eye could see, its jagged rocks and glassed valleys reflecting the light from its moons in a kaleidoscope of frozen agony.

Once upon a time, she had made a home here. She had forsworn it, just as she had forsworn the entirety of her life and even her name: for her sins, her lineage would not end with her daughters, it would end with her. As far as the records of the Asari Republics went, Samara’s family had never existed.

Now, it was as though the entire colony had never existed. Its refugees had no interest in re-terraforming the wreckage left by the Reapers: there were so few survivors that it was easier, and less painful, to resettle elsewhere. To find family or old friends, or to strike out somewhere new. To build a new home out of the shards of an old one, but only metaphorically.

Her daughter-that-did-not-exist still lived on Lesuss, where she would be safe and where the galaxy would be safe from her. She had never tasted the connection that had seduced her oldest sister, being the youngest and the most obedient, and she had watched her sisters—of blood and genes alike—be twisted into abominations of themselves. She held horror in her eyes now, instead of childlike sadness, and she had taken up the cause of rebuilding the monastery on her own. There would be more Ardat-Yakshi, just as surely as there would be more sunrises and sunsets, and they would need a home just as much as she did.

Samara, on the other hand, had not had a home in centuries. She was uncertain whether she remembered what home meant. The Code was home, and the Code called her to action, but she had no great injustice to right. She had completed her mission. Morinth was dead, Rila was dead, and Falere was safe. Samara had no calling. No reason to wander.

So she had come back here. Here, to where her life had begun and where it had ended. Here, where she had sacrificed everything that had already been torn away. Here, where the vista that surrounded her matched the inner landscape of her heart at last.

What lesson does this destruction hold? Where does the Code call me? In this new galaxy, where is my home?

She might have called the Normandy home. It was the first place she had felt welcome and valued, rather than feared, for a long time. But she had no call to be there now; no mission. There was no place for her in Shepard’s coterie. No injustice to be righted there.

Something flickered in Samara’s mind, attuned as it was to the currents of the universe. She was wrong. She had made an assumption.

Samara redoubled her focus. She closed her eyes and sank into the mental connection facilitated by her biotic meditation. Her nerves hummed in tune with the strings of energy and matter that engulfed and pierced her.

Shepard seeks justice. Yes, always. I would not subsume my oath to one who was not just.

Shepard seeks to rebuild the galaxy. I cannot assist with that. I am a fighter, not a builder. I destroy, I do not heal.

Shepard seeks to rebalance the scales of the Reapers’ cycles, remembering all those who have come before and who yet remain in the great ocean of memory. I may be able to assist with this, but it is not the injustice I seek. There is yet something more.

A flash of blue sliced across her awareness, like a snake striking in the grass or a blade severing an artery. Samara shot to her feet, the biotic sphere splitting and swirling around her hands as she instinctively readied for battle.

Shepard and her cause are threatened by a foe she cannot yet fight. This is unjust. The Code dictates that I defend and teach.

Samara extinguished the biotic fields and brought up a comm call on her omnitool. When EDI accepted the call, Samara spoke only six words in response to the AI’s query.

“Tell Shepard I am coming home.”

Chapter Text

“Nicole! Stop fucking breaking shit!"

“Screw you!"

Jack rolled her eyes to high heaven and vaulted over the back of the couch just in time to catch Miranda’s not-quite-hidden smirk. “Oh, shove it, cheerleader.”

Miranda lifted one innocent hand off her coffee cup without raising her gaze from her desk. “You will note that I said nothing.”

“You were thinkin’ it.”

“Thinking what?”

“Never mind. I’m gonna go make sure the kid isn’t putting holes in our walls.”

“Everything can be fixed,” Miranda called after her as Jack headed down the hall of the prefab shelter.

Jack flipped her an affectionate bird over her shoulder. “Yeah, and she’s gonna be the one fixing it!”

Jack shoved her hands in her jeans pockets as she approached Nicole’s room. The truth was Miranda was right, and Jack had had the same thought. Nicole reminded both women of themselves in a lot of ways, and one way in which the orphaned biotic resembled Jack was a distinct preference for property damage in lieu of emotional processing.

Almost like biotic teenagers are a little extra fucked-up, Jack thought. Add a genocidal war in there and you’ve got one hell of a cocktail.

The door to Nicole’s room was ajar, kept from sliding shut by the encroaching pile of clothing and datapads. Jack rolled her eyes again, then knocked twice with one knuckle.

“There’s your warning, kid,” she called through the door. “I’m coming in, and if you hit me with a Warp field like you did last time you’re gonna find your ass hanging out the window. You hear me?”

Jack gave her five seconds, which was longer than she wanted to and shorter than Miranda liked. She heard a vague, sullen sound from inside, which she supposed was the closest she was likely to get. Wuss. Swear at me more, it’ll make you feel better.

Jack tapped the door panel to get it to open all the way, and nudged the pile of clothes in with a well-placed Lift. She walked in and was mildly surprised not to feel an underpowered biotic field pitched her way. Maybe the kid was learning some self-preservation instincts.

Jack wouldn’t have actually dangled her out the window—she’d learned that didn’t actually work during her time at Grissom Academy—but it was the principle of the thing, as she kept telling Miranda. Miranda kept firing back with “threats only work if you follow through”, which Jack had to admit was right with actual threats. When it came to bluster, though, Jack knew what she was talking about.

Anyway, it seemed to have worked. Nicole didn’t try to tear her apart with a Warp field, and she wasn’t cowering in the corner in fear, so she’d understood that Jack was being Jack, not actually threatening her life.

The kid was, however, curled up on the bed in a mess of blankets, hugging her knees and hiding her face.

Aw, fuck. That means there’s tears. Fuck tears. I don’t do crying. That’s Randa’s domain.

Jack heaved a sigh and hopped onto the bed beside her. “Talk to me.”

“No.” The teenager tightened her grip on her knees and sniffled.

“Fine.”

Jack leaned on the wall and examined her nails. One of her knuckle tats needed a touch-up after last week’s incident. She counted in her head and made it all the way to thirty-two before Nicole growled.

“I said I didn’t want to talk.”

“Actually, all you said was no.”

“Fuck you.”

“What did I do this time?”

Jack was using what Miranda referred to as her ‘calm and snarky voice’, which Jack supposed was a nicer way of saying ‘I’m waiting for you to stop being an idiot’. It drove her students nuts, which meant Jack fucking loved it. She’d learned it from Shepard.

It worked this time, too. The level-headed question, tinged with a hint of “seriously?”, brought Nicole’s head up like a thresher maw.

“You—you—” The teenager sputtered. She looked more like a raccoon than a girl. Jesus. Gotta get her some waterproof mascara.

“What did I do?” Jack repeated. “Or are you not actually mad at me, and you’re mad at something or someone else?”

Nicole glared at her. “Matthew called me a freak and broke up with me!”

Jack blinked. “That’s it?”

The words were out before she could stop them, and she knew instantly they were the wrong ones. Nicole shrieked in that way teenagers do when the world is ending, and she seized another datapad with a shaky Throw and hurled it against the wall. It broke, like the last one did, and its shards fell in the pile of clothes.

“I am not a freak!” Nicole yelled as new, angry tears streamed down her face. “I’m not!”

Jack took a deep breath and blew it out in a long raspberry. “So what if you are?”

“I just wanna be normal! I don’t want you! I want my real mom and dad and I want a normal house and I want everyone to stop being assholes!”

Jack reached out with a Pull and grabbed a very old shirt off the floor. “Here. Practice your Warp.”

“Fuck you!” Nicole fired back, but she took the shirt and ripped it to shreds anyway.

Jack then fished a bent granola bar out of her jacket pocket and flicked it at her. “Eat.”

Nicole snatched the granola bar and scarfed it down. The moment it was gone, she burst into tears again and flopped onto the bed, burying her face in a pillow.

Jack waited until the crying subsided, which only took forty seconds or so. Then, she leaned over towards Nicole. “Incoming. No surprises.”

Thus warned, she laid a hand on Nicole’s upper back. The teenager jumped slightly, but the reflex was far less than it had been when she’d first come to live with Jack and Miranda. As Jack continued talking, she kept her hand there, steady and gentle.

“Biotics are weird shit,” she told the kid. “Personally, I think they’re kick-ass, but some people think they’re freaky. And frankly? Fuck ‘em. They’re not as cool as we are. Your Aunt Shepard would say we gotta be nice to them and all that crap, but honestly? We have nodes of element zero in our nervous system. That’s fucking sick. I’ll take ‘freak’ and wear it proudly, like a big ‘fuck you’ to the universe.

“I know you miss your mom and dad. I miss lots of people too and it fucking sucks. Nothing we can do about that except break a few datapads, so if that’s how you’re feeling, I’ll tee ‘em up and you can Shockwave ‘em to hell. No hard feelings. You still have a home with us even if you don’t like us.

“As to this Matthew jerk? If he doesn’t think you’re the coolest shit, he’s not worth your time. If he hurts you, though, you come straight to me and I will turn him inside out for you.”

Jack put a tiny bit of pressure on Nicole’s back. “Did I miss anything?”

Nicole sniffled. “No.”

“You good?”

“Sorta.”

“Better than no.” Jack lifted her hand.

Nicole rolled over and rubbed her eyes. “I didn’t mean what I said about not wanting you and Miranda.”

“I figured. I’ve yelled a lot of shit I didn’t mean. We’re cool.”

“Promise?”

Jack shrugged. “‘Course. You need anything? Juice box? Cookie? Another shirt to rip up?”

Nicole thought about it for a second. “A juice box sounds good, but…” She hesitated.

“Out with it, kid.”

Nicole swallowed. “Can I have a hug?”

Jack blinked, then opened her arms. “Uh. I guess? I’m not really good at the touchy-feely shit, but—”

Nicole hit her like a Charge, gluing herself to Jack with her arms around her like a vise. Jack slowly returned the embrace, a little gingerly at first but then with a good squeeze.

Nicole’s head was buried in Jack’s collar, so her voice was muffled when she spoke, but Jack caught the words just fine. “Thanks, Mom.”

Jack stared at the wall while her heart did some really funny things. “…You’re welcome, kid.”

Chapter Text

The blue and white frigate gleamed under the endless neon lights of Aroch-Shalta Ward, stretching out under the purple sky of the Serpent Nebula. It gave the sleek ship a wilder aura than the crisp white light of the Council docks on the Presidium ring. Here on the Wards, the Normandy was an explorer; on the Presidium, she was a warship.

And either way, she’s mine, Shepard thought with deep, contented joy.

She leaned on the railing and gazed out at her ship. It would soon be six years since she’d been named its commanding officer—or rather, six years since she’d been named CO of the SR-1. They’d each gone through some rebuilding and retrofitting in the years since, but the old girl was in it for the long haul just like Shepard was.

“Can’t keep us down, can they?” she muttered in the ship’s direction. “No, sir, they most certainly cannot.”

If Shepard opened either her comm link or her connection to the Domain, she could easily speak to EDI from here—and in a way, that would be like speaking to the Normandy. But much like Garrus had confided in her once upon a time, on one of the long nights they’d spent in dark space on a trip to the geth super-array, she too believed the Normandy had her own soul, her own self, apart from the AI. Separate EDI from the Normandy, and the Normandy would still be herself and so would EDI.

The Normandy reminded Shepard so much of herself sometimes that it hurt. It wasn’t just the parallels between the loss of the SR-1 and the building of the SR-2 and Shepard’s death and resurrection, although that was where Shepard had started drawing comparisons. It was more the feeling of home, of belonging, of protection. The Normandy kept her crew safe and shepherded them through danger; Shepard did the same. The Normandy sang when she soared through space, at her best when she was dancing around the hazards of life; Shepard always felt most comfortable in those same moments. The Normandy welcomed all, but demanded excellence; Shepard never settled for less.

And now, at last, she could pick up and fly away from this station and not worry about what she was leaving behind. No more splitting her time between Council meetings and her duties as Rear Admiral. She could focus on forging a path into the New Traverse with the First Exploratory, where she and her beloved ship would once again be the vanguard into the unknown.

A grin spread across Shepard’s face as the possibilities unfolded in her mind. The prospect of setting foot on yet more worlds that had perhaps never seen sapient life excited her beyond measure. The galaxy was about to open up before her, and she’d take those steps with her crew by her side, her fleet at her back, and her ship under her feet.

“You ready, old girl?” she asked the frigate, and the gleam of a skycar’s headlights picked that exact moment to illuminate the name emblazoned proudly on the hull.

Yeah, you are. Let’s go see what’s out there.