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Chapter Text

PART I

Chapter 1: Furrows/Tilth

 
2 years, 4 months after the Reaper War
Earth

A limp smoke hangs in the air, and Shepard chokes on the soot thickening in her mouth. She spits. A prescribed burn: a miserable but indispensable bane.

At the edge of the garden, a family of quails slip through a gap in the foliage. They skitter past the fence, the feathers on their heads bobbing question marks. She steps one foot forward and centers herself, steadies herself, as she touches her blade to the ground.

It’s warmer than she expects it to be for this time of year, and the sweat clinging to her neck makes her feel present in the world; she’s just turned thirty-five, already nostalgic for a way of life that died long ago.

Shepard takes a breath, and in one mighty swing, she strikes the hard, unyielding earth. Her hands tremble as she continues to clutch the heavy mattock—not a weapon to kill things, but a tool to cultivate life. Her fingers gnarl around its handle in an awkward grasp. They look more like talons than fingers.

3 days earlier
Palaven

“General Vakarian, sir! The shuttle due to pick up the Dalatrass is experiencing a malfunction with its drive core. Remaining shuttles in the area were assigned to the TSF Laurus for colony business. It will take approximately two hours to complete repairs.” 

Garrus strained to keep his mandibles from reflexively tightening against his face. Another fuck up on his watch and Primarch Victus would have his head on a plate. 

“We can’t afford to keep the Dalatrass waiting, not with a new treaty on the line,” he barked. “Tell the mechanic he has one hour to complete repairs. Hell, I don’t care if you have to strap a million thrusters to it, just get your ass up in the air and get her here safely.” Garrus let out a sigh and ran his talons along his temple. A headache was beginning to crawl its way up the backs of his eyes. 

It had been a good six months since he had had anything resembling decent sleep. No one had really slept in the last three years. Restoring the mass relays, rebuilding entire worlds and fleets—this was the monumental work that followed a devastating galactic war. But the last six months had been the worst of it. Negotiations were at an impasse amongst the Council worlds; the account of actions taken or not taken had soured relationships between species. And while the asari posed a problem for everyone, the salarians were by far the worst offenders when it came to roadblocks. To make matters more complicated, a chorus of krogan and quarian voices were clamoring to join the Council. The situation had built to a distracting din. 

The threat of the Reapers may have been quashed, but the once unstoppable machines were still wielding their influence over the galaxy.

Garrus rapped on the Primarch’s door and listened for a reply. 
 
“Enter,” said the Primarch, who was seated at his desk with an empty glass in hand. 

“Sir, there’s been a complication with the shuttle. The Salarian delegation won’t be arriving for at least another two hours.”

Under normal circumstances, the Primarch would hardly scoff at such a problem. But the profound losses of wartime meant that all sectors of turian society—the Hierarchy included—were experiencing shortages, and it was reasonable to expect hiccups along the way. This hiccup, however, was one they could not afford.

Primarch Victus held Garrus’ gaze for a few moments. “Well, I suppose that’s a relief—maybe I have time for a drink. Listening to that slippery woman talk makes my fringe fall limp,” he said, setting his glass down gently. “Diplomacy is supposed to be about making peace, but if my experience so far is any measure, it’s more like war.” 

“Worse than war, sir. At least when someone on the other side of a battlefield pisses you off you can just fire a round and call it a day,” replied Garrus.

The Primarch’s subvocals resonated in a chortle. “I do miss the challenge of the fight. But I suppose there is a strategic art to diplomacy too.” He tapped a talon on the desk. “Let’s proceed as planned when they arrive. Any word from Urdnot Wrex?”

“Yes sir, I heard from him this morning. He’s had his hands full with all the clans vying for priority on the new colony. He’s given us permission to proceed as planned. ”
 
“Good. We’re going to need him on our side if we want to win anymore concessions from the salarians. Thank you, Garrus.”

Earth

Shepard draws a slow, greedy breath and permits it to escape her lips. Her fickle hands stop trembling, then she lifts the mattock once more. It crashes down as a voice on her audio stream interrupts.

Announcer: “Welcome. You’re listening to ANN News for Monday, April 24th , 2189. This is the news at the top of the hour... Treaty talks have resumed on the turian homeworld of Palaven. Primarch Victus of the Turian Hierarchy received Dalatrass Linron and the Salarian Union delegation at the steps of the Taetrus Memorial, which was recently erected to honor the lost Turian colony of Taetrus...”

The mattock cleaves a broad gash in the soil, revealing dozens of pill bugs, some curled into protective balls, others scurrying away. Shepard crinkles her nose in disgust.

Announcer: “The failure of previous talks between the turians and the salarians has intensified pressure to find a mutually agreeable solution to the shortage of military forces in Council controlled space. The delegations are said to have made significant progress this weekend. In a statement made this morning, the Hierarchy announced that the Salarian Union has agreed to some of the more divisive portions of the draft agreement.”

Primarch Victus: “After many long and...spirited... discussions over the last few days, the Dalatrass has graciously agreed to allow a limited number of krogan forces to serve under the guidance of the Turian Fleet. This has been a natural point of contention, of course, given our histories. But I believe our worlds will, in good faith and comity, come to an agreement that benefits the entire galaxy.”

Shepard continues to listen as she sifts through the loosened soil with her fingers, tossing any large rocks into the bucket by her feet. Things will grow a lot better if there aren’t any obstacles for the roots, nothing to prevent water and nutrients from penetrating deep the soil.  

Primarch Victus: “I would like to take this opportunity to thank one of my most trusted men, General Garrus Vakarian. General Vakarian has been instrumental in the success of this week’s talks, providing us with insight that has turned the tide of these delicate negotiations.”

Bending down to reach for the mattock one more time, Shepard stops halfway through her stoop. A crow, perched high in a ponderosa pine, mocks her with its harsh, rattling caw.

Announcer: “General Garrus Vakarian, former C-Sec officer and head of the Hierarchy’s Reaper Task Force, served aboard the SSV Normandy and Normandy SR-2. Fighting closely alongside Alliance Commander Circe Shepard, General Vakarian distinguished himself....”

The mattock clatters to the ground; a small cloud of dust billows around Shepard’s feet. Her eyes sting. She squints towards the hazy sky and wipes the back of her hand across her moist cheek. She flees, heavy footed, to the back door of the house. 

Inside, Shepard sinks into a deep, leather chair. She inhales slowly, until the air in her lungs feels like it will split her torso in two. She exhales slower still. She reminds herself that living always comes down to the breath.

Chapter Text

PART I

Chapter 2: In the Weeds

The end of the Reaper War, 2186
The Citadel

HUUH...

A short, sharp breath disturbed the dust saturating the air. In a mountain of rubble, a heart had kicked its way back to life—stubbon, warm, and invulnerable.

I’m cold, Garrus.

A shiver pulsed through Shepard’s body. The only other feeling she had was of something blunt pressing into her lower back. She listened for a sound—any sign of what might be happening around her—but all she could hear was own ragged breathing.

Why is it so quiet? Admiral Anderson?

Shepard’s eyes opened, her eyelids still heavy. She winced as she lolled her head forward. Squinting at the bleary shapes in front of her, she could make out the blackened remains of her armor clinging to her upper thigh. Beyond that, only ashy slabs of concrete. She tried to move her legs—even wiggle her toes—but nothing happened.

Weary, Shepard closed her eyes again and let her breath take over. She laid in the cold, in the dark, not remembering what she had done. 

Joker’s fingers flicked across the controls as he flew the Normandy away from Earth. An inexorable beam of energy surged at its tail, the beam nearly swallowing the ship whole as the FTL drive kicked in. The ship blinked away. Knocked off course and far from the fleet’s rendezvous point, the Normandy was careening towards a verdant planet with a thick atmosphere; Joker was flying blind.

The ship yawed erratically as the crew hung onto whatever bolted fixture they could find. Joker quickly regained his bearings, trying his best to make a smooth landing, but the size of the Normandy and lack of automatic functions made for a turbulent descent. The ship jerked to a halt in a lush swath of jungle. 

“Shit, what just happened?”

Kaidan, who had fallen from the steps of the bridge, limped into the cockpit with a hand bracing his thigh. “Joker, what’s our status? Where are we?”

“I’m not sure, Major. Navigation is offline and comm buoys are silent. I don’t think we got very far, maybe a dozen light years at most.”

Kaidan gaped at EDI slumped over in the secondary cockpit chair. “My god, what happened to EDI?”

“I don’t know, she stopped responding before we jumped. I didn’t have time to find out....” Joker turned toward Kaidan. “She’s gone offline. I had to pilot with manual controls.”

Kaidan waved a hand in front of EDI’s face. Absent their sensory functions, her sharp eyes had turned vacant and sterile. Whatever life was inside them had been locked away in a labyrinth of pathways.

“Maybe that beam from the Citadel has something to do with this? I’ll send someone to the AI core,” Kaidan promised. “I’m sure we can get her back online.”

Joker mustered a faint smile.

Kaidan paused. “How long do you think until we get this bird in the air again?”

Joker scrutinized the systems panels and shook his head. “I don’t know, that’s hard to say. We’ll need an assessment from Engineer Adams. I’m not getting a good read in the cockpit.”

“Mmm, ok. Let me know when you have an estimate.”

Joker turned to EDI again. He looked away, pressing his lips into a taut line.

“...And like I said, I’ll get someone to the AI core right away,” Kaidan repeated. “She’ll be ok.”

Joker wanted to believe him. But EDI had never been offline for any length of time, not even when she had been cut-off from the Normandy during shore leave. Now, both the ship and her mobile platform were absent their operator.

Jokers’ eyes widened as he slapped his knee. “Welp, I say we just hang out and enjoy the sun. Not much else to do...,” he said bleakly, and made a half-hearted drinking gesture. If there was anything left in the lounge liquor cabinet, he’d be the first to find out.

“Yeah….it’s a little soon for me...” Kaidan’s voice trailed off as he caught a glimpse of a blue figure behind him. Liara, who had been standing in the threshold of the cockpit, looked back at him, eyelashes quivering. Kaidan pressed a hand to her shoulder as they exchanged a knowing glance. 

“We should talk to the rest of the crew and give them an update. Let’s make a plan, just in case we’re grounded for any length of time.”

“I don’t know how you can be so cool right now, Kaidan,” murmured Liara.

“There isn’t much else we can do. We just need to get back and find out what happened.”

“Yes, of course.”

Liara gathered the team in the conference room, with Kaidan taking the lead. Without Commander Shepard aboard, Kaidan was the highest-ranking Alliance officer on the Normandy. While he technically outranked her, he had never felt uncomfortable under her command. He only wished she were the one standing at the head of the table right now, not him.

Kaidan rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. “Ok everyone, here’s the deal. We’re not sure where we’ve landed, but Joker estimates we’re at least a dozen light years away from Sol. Our nav system is down, comm systems are out too. The ship is grounded for the time being. We’ll have an estimate on a repair timeline after Engineer Adams reports back.”

Still breathless from the maelstrom they had withstood, the crew stood silently as they hung on Kaidan’s words.

“Also, EDI is currently offline. We’re going to need someone to inspect the AI core and see if we can get her running again.”

Traynor interrupted eagerly. “I can give it a go. Tali, would you mind coming with?”

“Of course. I don’t know how much I can help—EDI is quite different than Geth—but I’ll try,” Tali hesitated.

“Thanks, ladies,” said Kaidan.

Javik uncrossed his arms and straightened his posture. “Major, I wish to express my concern for our safety on this planet. We do not know who its inhabitants are or what we may find here. I suggest we have a few members of the crew posted outside the ship. I volunteer.”

“Good thinking, Javik. Um, anything else?” asked Kaidan.

“I’ll check my last transmissions. Maybe I can find some relevant information that will help us understand the situation,” said Liara.

Kaidan nodded.

James cleared his throat and addressed Kaidan. “Someone should let Garrus know. He’s still in medbay with the doc. He got hit pretty bad when we made a run for the conduit...that Mako nearly made a turian pancake out of him.”  

“Mmm. Would you mind, James?”

“Sure thing Major,” he replied.

“Ok, if there’s anything else you know where everyone is. I’ll let you know if there are any updates. I suggest we get some rest and we’ll reconvene later.”

As the crew shuffled out of the conference room, Steve caught sight of Liara lingering at the observation window. She pressed her forehead to the glass as she gazed at the immense heart-shaped leaves of the jungle outside. The landscape was silvery and pristine.

“Hey, Dr. T’Soni. Everything alright?”

“Hello, Steve,” Liara replied. “I’m just—I’m appreciating how green it is here. Well, wherever here is. The last few months have been so...gray. I wasn’t sure I’d see something like this again. It’s nice.”

“Yeah, I hear that. It’s been tough. But life will come back, it always does,” said Steve.

“Perhaps you’re right.” Liara swallowed and closed her eyes.

“Is there something else, Liara?”

“No...no, I’m fine. Thank you Steve.”

Dr. Chakwas swiveled her chair toward the door as James walked into the medbay. “Mr. Vega—can I presume we’re dead in the water?”

“Yup. Not sure where the hell we are either.”

“I suppose that’s no surprise. That was one hell of a landing.” Dr. Chakwas tsked to herself. “Let’s just hope we get back soon—they’ll need plenty of help with casualties on Earth. So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I just need to talk to Garrus. How’s the old man doing?”

“Some fractured ribs and a minor concussion, but he’ll be right as rain soon enough. He’s also had some light sedatives—he was quite upset after you dragged him into the medbay.”

A faint groan could be heard from behind the privacy screen in the corner of the room. “Old man, huh? Better watch yourself, Vega,” Garrus gibed.

“Heh, hey Scars.”

“Ah, you’re awake Mr. Vakarian,” said Dr. Chakwas. She walked to Garrus’ bedside and looked him in the eye, then scanned his vitals with her omnitool. 

Her bedside manner had always been practical, laconic; it’s what Garrus liked most about her. That and her perfectly styled coif of white hair. He always did have a thing for human hair.

“How are you feeling?”, asked Dr. Chakwas.

“Like I could outrun a pack of rabid varren,” he answered sardonically. 

“Very well, Garrus. It seems you’ll make a quick recovery. Just make sure to take it easy for the next few days, lest you end up back in that bed.”

 “I’ll try.”

“Why don’t I step out for a moment so you two can talk. Maybe I’ll make the rounds and see if anyone needs attending to.” Dr. Chakwas gave the pair a curt smile and exited.

Sitting up, Garrus swung his legs slowly over the side of the bed. “Any news? What’s going on?”

“We’ve made an emergency landing, location unknown. We’re stuck without navigation, and EDI’s gone offline. No active comm buoys either. It’s a damn mess. I don’t know what that weird beam did, but we’re far from the rendezvous point.”

She activated the Crucible. Maybe there's a chance... Garrus didn’t waste any time laying out his other concerns. “What about Shepard? Did we hear from her before the jump? We must have heard something...”

James crossed his broad arms and shook his head. “Nada. We’re dark on information from Earth. I’m sorry.”

“Ah, got it.”

“So I’ll let Kaidan know you’re ok? He’s in command for now.”

“Naturally,” said Garrus. “Thank you, Vega.” Garrus braced his hands against the bed, his eyes fixed to the floor.

James offered his sympathy with a quick nod and left Garrus alone with his thoughts.

Garrus sat motionless at the edge of the bed, his head thick and swirling from the concussion. Even if it helped his headache, the silence of the medbay felt wrong. After months of noise encroaching on every moment—the shrill screaming of alarms, the beeping of his omnitool, the click of weapons, Shepard mournfully moaning in her sleep—it was wrong, no sound. Not even the muted hums of the Normandy’s drive core. 

Is it this quiet where you are Shepard?

Mandibles slack, Garrus dragged the talons of both hands over his fringe and let out a low, undulating wail.

Chapter Text

PART I

Chapter 3: Fusarium*

SSV Normandy

Tali leaned against the alcove at the back of the AI core, languidly tapping on her omnitool as she checked and re-checked her data. And Traynor, a haggard lump on the floor, huffed as she struggled to put one of the core's access panels back in its place. The door behind her hissed.

"Ahhhhh, don't do that!" she yelped as the panel rattled to the floor.

"What? I'm just coming in..." Kaidan peered over Traynor's shoulder. "How's it going here? Any luck?"

Tali continued to scroll through her omnitool and shook her head. "It's not looking good, I'm afraid."

"It appears EDI's blue box has been corrupted. We've been here all night and I can't make heads or tails of it," said Traynor.

"Can't we just load one of her backups?" asked Kaidan.

Traynor narrowed her eyes. "That's just it, there isn't one we can use. It's as if someone cracked all the eggs, scrambled them, then shoved them back into the carton. And half the yolks are missing."

Kaidan tilted his head.

"She's missing some of her original Cerberus code," explained Tali, simply.

"How can that be?"

"You may have had a point, Major. If the beam was meant for the Reapers, then perhaps anything with Reaper code could also be destroyed. That would include EDI, unfortunately," Traynor replied.

"Huh...yeah, that's not good." Kaidan rubbed the back of his neck. "Now what?"

"We're not sure," said Tali. "The ship can operate without her, but we'd be missing vital data and defense capability. And optimizations too."

"It might be possible to repair the data with expert assistance. But there's no guarantee that whatever comes back would be our EDI," Traynor admitted, feeling defeated by the complexity of the problem. EDI, who had become a person in her eyes long before anyone else's, deserved an answer.

"Understood, Traynor." Kaidan sighed, dreading the conversation he would have to have next.

Joker was just ending his conversation with Engineer Adams over the internal commlink when Kaidan entered the cockpit.

"Hey Major," said Joker. "Just in time."

"Was that Adams? What did he say?"

"The damage wasn't as extensive as we thought. Looks like we'll be up and running in the next 36 hours. He's got Adams and Donnelly working like dogs on Deck 4. Still working on navigation, though."

"That's great news Joker." Kaidan stood stiffly with his fingertips grazing the long arm of the console.

"Is it? I'm kind of thinking this planet might not be a bad place to start over. It's got this whole tropical vibe going—we'd just need some of those little drink umbrellas and some lounge chairs. And then we could, uh, you know, repopulate?"

Kaidan laughed nervously. "I don't know, Javik's not really my type."

"Yeah, I guess not." Joker sensed the poorly concealed tension in Kaidan's posture. "Um, so what's up?

Kaidan hesitated. "Well, there isn't an easy way to say this Joker..."

"What?"

"I...I don't think we're going to be able to get EDI back online."

Joker shifted in his seat. "What do you mean?"

"Traynor thinks the beam from the Crucible may have destroyed EDI's Cerberus code. EDI's backups are unsalvageable at this point."

"Wait, so are you telling me she's...gone?"

"No, no, that's not what I'm saying. I mean, at least I don't think so. Um..."

"Shit..." Joker's face crumpled under the brim of his cap.

"I'm sorry, Joker," Kaidan offered. "For what's it's worth, Traynor says we might be able to get her back with more help. Our skeleton crew isn't equipped for this kind of situation."

"W-Why are you telling me this?"

"I know how you feel about her. I don't want to hide anything."

Joker's embarrassment at receiving sympathy expressed itself as a sneer. "I mean, it's not like I could have taken her home to meet my dad. She's the ships AI for godsake...she..."

"Jeff..."

Joker fell silent as he stole a glance at her limp, metallic body.

"We can't leave her here like this."

"Yes, you're absolutely right. Maybe it would be best to take her to the AI core for now." Kaidan wiped his brow with the back of his hand and left Joker alone in the cockpit.

There was no escaping the air of somberness in the CIC. Stepping off the ship for fresh air was just as suffocating; the oppressive humidity of the jungle crept between the narrow pockets of space between fabric and skin. Kaidan tugged at the collar of his shirt as he stood outside. He let out a big breath, but it didn't feel like he had.

How do you do this everyday, Shepard? Listening to everyone, giving them advice? Setting them straight when they're out of line? You've been shouldering the burden of existential threat and helping strangers. You've been running errands for Hackett, brokering peace between peoples. Killing giant, sentient robots. Making morally difficult decisions. No big deal, right Shepard?

His awe and admiration for her had always been clear. And he had loved her, that was certain. Still loved. But the line between love and admiration had not been as easy to make sense of.

Now he was forced to inhabit the space she had left. It made him uneasy. Kaidan was no stranger to leadership—he had commanded his own covert unit—but the fate of an entire planet had never been dependent upon his decisions. He was never the one breaking ground. Shepard broke the ground, then heaved it with the might of a thousand oceans, enough to awaken Gaia herself and command the trees to grow. Sometimes she was the wind, carrying seeds far and wide, letting them sprout somewhere new or undiscovered. He loved her for that.

James, Kaidan, and Steve came to carry EDI away. The men first laid her on the floor, then arranged their arms into a hammock beneath her—Steve cradling her head and upper body, James carrying the bulk of her midsection, and Kaidan supporting her legs. EDI's arms, carefully draped across her waist, were stiff and hinged, no hint of the life she had earned through experience and freedom. The bridge crew looked on as the trio made its procession to the elevator. Joker trailed behind helplessly, frustrated that his body would not bear the weight.

The men laid EDI on the pedestal of the alcove, where her body had been stored when it belonged to Eva Coré. The AI's body had now returned to being just another piece of hardware. EDI—the Normandy's EDI—had disappeared and gone somewhere no one could reach.

Joker stayed behind when they left room. Standing inside the place that housed her brain was oddly intrusive now, and he almost felt the need to apologize for being there. He stood in the middle of the room, several feet away from alcove.

"Hey, EDI. I know you can't hear me. I know you're not here... but I hope you're ok. I hope you come back..." Joker shuffled his feet and tugged at the brim of his cap. "Damn, I don't know why I'm saying this out loud. This seems really stupid. This is stupid...this is stupid..."

Tears rolled their way to the margins of his eyes but never fell.

"I feel like a giant asshole right now. I should have—I should have tried harder. Harder to pilot the ship out of the beam's reach. I wish I'd known. I wish you could have told me something was wrong..." Joker turned away. There was nothing else to do or say except leave for Earth, and hope that more souls had survived the destruction than not.

"I'm sorry."

When he returned to the cockpit, Joker took off his cap, smoothed it, and placed it on EDI's seat.

Chapter Text

PART I

Chapter 4: Air, Light, Water

3 days after the end of the Reaper War
The Citadel

A reedy whine filled Shepard's ears. She parted her chapped lips to speak, but no sound came out. Was there even anyone to listen? She wasn't sure when she had last seen anything beyond her own body or the ruins of the Citadel. Time expanded and contracted as she floated in and out of consciousness; she feared she would be buried in this shadowy sepulchre forever.

A light skated along the rubble, at the edge of her vision. The orb bobbed up and down as it moved closer. Unsure of herself, Shepard unfurled her fingers, encrusted in dry blood, and lifted her hand to reach toward the orb. But her eyes closed again, her throat burning with thirst.

SSV Normandy

The morning after their unexpected layover, some of the crew had assembled in the mess for breakfast. James, at work as a temporary cook, shook a pan and slid a sodden clod of eggs onto his tray.

"This reconstituted crap just isn't the same. I would kill for some real eggs. But they'll be pretty hard to come by now."

"Yeah? Try being a dextro living on a human ship for a year. At least you all get variety," Garrus replied.

"Oh, you want to have a misery competition, Garrus?" Tali shoved her feeding tube through her rations packet and took a long, intense slurp. "Mmmmm, nutritional paste, yummy..."

"Point taken," Garrus replied.

Liara—who had been holed up in her cabin since the end of the crew meeting—finally emerged, quietly crossing the deck and making a beeline toward Kaidan.

"Kaidan, I think you'll want to see this." Liara stood at the table and handed him a datapad. "It's information from a maintenance drone that was still operational on the Citadel right before the Crucible was activated. It appears to have logged the presence of someone in the ring section of the Citadel, right below the tower." Liara pointed to the area on the map. "This section of the Citadel isn't normally accessible to just anyone."

"Do you think it's her?" Kaidan asked, hope threaded through his words.

Garrus set his mug down with an abrupt thud. He whipped his head around to look at Liara, who was still fixated on the flickering datapad in Kaidan's hand.

"We can't be sure right now. But it's the best piece of information I could find. There are no biosignatures or other identifying data," said Liara.

"We have to go back to the Citadel." Garrus' heart had dropped out of his chest and fallen somewhere below the engineering deck—in the shuttle bay, ready to board the Kodiak. If there was any chance she had survived, he was going to find her himself.

Kaidan looked up. "Not so fast. We don't know what could be waiting for us there. How do we know all the Reapers are dead? We're incommunicado, there's no way to know. And we aren't even sure it's her."

"You're going to risk leaving Shepard behind because you're not sure? This is the woman who tried to warn everyone about the Reapers and no one believed her. She saved the whole damned galaxy! She deserves more than that from her own crew."

"Of course, I know that. I was there too Garrus," Kaidan said in a steady voice.

Garrus knew he wasn't in his right mind, but he bit anyway. "Yeah, you were there. Then you ran—you abandoned her when you thought she might be working for Cerberus. The woman came back from the dead, but you were so wrapped up in being a good Alliance boy you couldn't be bothered to understand. Hell, you didn't even trust that she was really Shepard!" In a rare show of malice, Garrus opened his mouth slightly and bared his sharp teeth, the pointed tip of his tongue taut and full of ire.

"Hey, that's not fair—" Kaidan began.

James appeared from the kitchen to add a voice of reason. "Hey, hey fellas, let's chill. We can agree that everyone here wants Shepard to be alright, right? Besides, what would the Commander do?"

Regretting his agitated outburst, Garrus gazed down into his empty mug. "I knew it was her. The moment she crossed the bridge on Omega and sent those freelancers flying into the air. I watched her through the scope. She was alive. It was Shepard—there was no mistaking it." He turned to Kaidan. "Just like I know she's alive right now. She's alive, I'm certain of it."

Tali, who was sitting next to him, put her hand on his shoulder. "Oh Garrus..."

"I'm sorry," said Garrus. "You're right, it's not fair. You're here now. I don't know why I said it. Spirits, Shepard would give me a mouthful for what I just said..."

"Well, I won't tell if you don't," interrupted Liara.

"Hah, me too," uttered Tali. "As entertaining as it would be, I don't wish to see you tortured, Garrus. I've grown rather fond of you."

Kaidan nodded. "Look, I understand where you're coming from. But we don't even have the ship running yet. First thing's first, we need to get back to the rendezvous point. Or at least re-establish communications with the Alliance, or anyone for that matter."

"Any updates on our status, Major?" asked James.

"Adams thinks the engine will be online in the next 24 hours. We'll have to play it by ear after that."

"And Shepard?" asked Garrus.

"We'll go back to the Citadel as soon as we know it's safe," Kaidan replied.

"Understood." Garrus rose from his chair and gathered the remaining dishes on the table, including Kaidan's. "Let me wash these for you. No hard feelings."

The Citadel

Shepard came to again, certain she had imagined the white orb. It had been at least two or three days since her last sip of water, judging by the state of her painfully cracked lips and parched throat. Longer for food. Injury and lack of nourishment had impaired her perception; she had been having vivid visions, some pleasant, others not, and they all felt real.

During one of her hypnagogic states, Admiral Anderson—dressed in his finest formal uniform—watched over her and smiled. He looked younger, his deep brow lines and malar bags burnished to soft contours. He knelt down on one knee, his hands resting atop it.

He whispered, "You've grown, child. But you still have a long way to go. Dig deep. Don't forget."

"Don't forget what?" she wanted to ask, but he vanished as soon as she began to speak.

The vision left Shepard bereft. The hope that it had inspired faded into a desperate desire for fresh air. But the air around her was pale and stagnant. Summoning a shred of comfort, she began to recall her mother's face—the way her hazel eyes would narrow to glinting slashes whenever young Shepard stomped into the house painted in mud—but her features remained nebulous and impenetrable. Shepard wished she could see her mom, just once.

Her reverie was interrupted by another visitor. A pair of unnatural blue irises shone through the dark. Shepard scratched at the ground, trying to sit up straighter as the Illusive Man—who had killed himself days earlier—materialized. He fixed his gaze upon hers. A hot, stabbing pain shot through her eyes. He offered his hand in a helping gesture, but the gesture was a pretense for harm; the tips of his fingers pierced her forehead. Thrusting his hand in further, he clenched at the folds of her brain. His stony face was still as he squeezed mercilessly, over and over as if wringing out a sponge, and he rattled the biotic implant he had been responsible for replacing. Aching to scream out in pain, Shepard could only squeal when he finally let go. She gasped for air as he retreated into the shadows.
When the awful throbbing in her head subsided, a strange sensation washed over her body. Her senses were blunted. Her limbs had become dense and inert, as if severed from the whole. Her thoughts began to unravel. The whole of the war—the fight for the galaxy and the many lives that depended on her—felt far away.

The white orb from earlier was back, this time much closer—within arms reach. Her vision was blurry, but she could make out the shapes of people running towards her. They were shouting; rubble crumbled beneath their feet as they scrambled up and down hills of debris. A glaring ray of light hit Shepard's face.

"YOON! WE'VE GOT A SURVIOR HERE! BRING THE CRUSH KIT!" a disembodied voice rang out.

The sound of steps grew louder as a face came into focus.

"Commander Shepard...Commander Shepard! It's alright, we've found you. You're going to be ok. You're going to get some help. Hang in there, Commander," the kind face said.

Shepard felt a warm hand on hers. This person is really here, I'm not alone.

Chapter Text

PART I

Chapter 5: Dormancy

1 week after the Reaper War
SSV Osaka

Wrex and Miranda disembarked and advanced toward the young private who was on duty in the shuttle bay. The private clutched his weapon tighter as he looked the pair up and down, intimidated by the imposing Krogan leader and the curvy, confident officer.

"Who do we speak to about Commander Shepard?" demanded Miranda.

"C-C-Commander Shepard is in the ICU ward. You'll need to speak with the doctor on duty first," the private stammered.

"And where would THAT be?" asked Wrex.

"Deck number four, sir."

Wrex smirked and slapped the young private on the back. "Thanks, pal."

The young private stumbled forward. Hand on her hip, Miranda shook her head and wished him a pleasant day.

A perky administrator greeted the visitors at the elevator doors. "Ms. Lawson, I was told you'd be coming today. Thank you for your generous offer."

"I insist," replied Miranda. Having overseen the development and fitting of Shepard's cybernetic implants, Miranda was the only person left with intimate knowledge of their unique design and capabilities. "I am more than happy to assist your doctors with her care," she added.

"Yes, of course. If you'll follow me." The administrator led them down a dim corridor. "And...may I ask who your companion is?"

"Urdnot Wrex. Leader of Clan Urdnot. Krogan Battlemaster," Wrex stated flatly.

"Ahh, yes. Um, well you'll have to wait outside the ICU, Mr...Wrex," she said. "Only authorized staff allowed. I'm very sorry."

"Sure," grunted Wrex.

"I'll let you know how she is as soon as I can, Wrex," said Miranda.

"Appreciate it."

Miranda stepped through the door, nearly tripping over a bundle of thick cables that crossed the floor of the decontamination chamber. The cruiser—one of only three specially commissioned hospital ships in the Alliance fleet—had suffered extensive damage during the last week of the war. Whatever facilities were still in tact were being held together by the willpower and resourcefulness of its crew.

The decontamination process completed and the second set of chamber doors opened. Dr. Marques, a short, middle-aged woman with short, brown hair, scurried past Miranda, on her way to a patient's bedside. An unremitting alarm beeped until the doctor administered a dose of antibiotics. Unaware of Miranda's presence, she scanned her omnitool for the patient's vitals one more time to ensure that he was stable.

Miranda cleared her throat. "Um, excuse me..."

"Oh, goodness! I didn't see you there!" yelped Dr. Marques.

"My apologies ma'am, I didn't mean to startle you. Are you the nurse in this ward?"

The doctor took her visor off and cleaned it on the corner of coat. "We've hardly any nurses here. Too many of them went to work in the field on Earth, not many came back. I'm Dr. Clara Marques, head of the SSV Osaka ICU."

"I'm Miranda Lawson—I'm here to see to Commander Shepard's care."
"Oh yes yes, you spoke to my colleague Dr. Paulsen." Dr. Marques thrust her hand out and gave Miranda a long, noodly handshake.

"Is Dr. Paulsen here as well?" asked Miranda.

"No, no unfortunately he has been called back to another vessel. One of our senior officers has suffered a medical emergency," Dr. Marques replied. "He should return within the day."

"I see. And how is Commander Shepard?"

Dr. Marques placed her hands in her coat pockets and rocked on the balls of her feet. "To tell the truth...it's not looking good. We were forced to put her in a medically induced coma for her safety. Let me take you to her."

Dr. Marques led Miranda to a private area in the ward. Miranda's jaw tightened as she rounded the corner. Shepard lay unconscious in the hospital bed, semi-reclined, surrounded by monitors and a ventilator that helped her breathe, her long brown bangs matted to her clammy forehead. Her left leg, set in an immobilizer, was heavily swollen, and covered in deep blue and purple bruising. Her right leg had been amputated from the knee down.

"Shepard..." choked Miranda.

Dr. Marques spoke in a hush. "I'm sorry to say, Commander Shepard has a number of serious injuries, namely crush syndrome. We suspect she had already suffered major injury and bleeding during the battle in London. Her cybernetics allowed her to survive. They released whatever remaining medigel she had. But you can imagine, the damage from nearly seventy-two hours of being trapped under a heavy structure..."

"She's got kidney damage then? Heart damage?"

"Yes, these are the greatest concerns. And there are some other things also." Dr. Marques brought up an image on one of the screens in the room. "After re-examining her most recent scan I noted some unusual shadows in her biotic nodes."

Miranda squinted at the tiny, egg-shaped sacs in Shepard's limb scans. She stood muted for a few moments, processing the meaning of the dim aberrations.

"These look severely damaged, Doctor."

"Yes, that is my thought as well," she replied somberly. "I've never seen this before, not all through the system."

"What do you think caused this?"

"I don't know. But whatever the cause, the Commander may find herself without use of her biotics."

Miranda gazed at Shepard's pallid face. She remembered the first time she had seen her warp a Collector, invisibly shredding his insides to pieces with just the thrust of her arm, the Commander's expression formidable and calculating.

"No. Not if I can help it." Miranda held her chin up in defiance. "She would be devastated. I won't let it happen."

"We need to replace her implant as well," added the doctor. "But first, and most important, we need to stabilize her condition."

"Yes, of course. How long will you need to keep her in a coma?"

"That's difficult to say. It will all depend on how her organs respond to treatment," said Dr. Marques. "If I'm being honest with you... it is a miracle she is even here. And I have seen every kind of military casualty. Anyone else would have perished in that disaster after what she did, even the strongest of soldiers. Truly, this is a testament to her will and to the work you have done."

"Commander Shepard is an exceptional woman. She has survived worse."

"I don't know how, but thank the Lord she did. The war is over."

"Amen to that, Doctor."

Wrex sat on an empty crate in the hall of Deck 4. He had resorted to replaying some of his best hits, which he often did during stuffy meetings on Tuchanka. Those Thorian creepers were freaky bastards. Nasty green vomit. One shot from the old Claymore though, exploded on the spot. Ah, good days...

"Excuse Mr. Wrex, may I offer you a refreshment while you're waiting?" asked the perky administrator.

"I'll take some ryncol if you have any."

"Um, I'm afraid we don't carry that aboard the Osaka..."

"Bah, humans! Nevermind, thanks anyway." Wrex waved her off and went back to reminiscing.

Miranda re-emerged from the ICU, datapad in hand. She tapped it on Wrex's shoulder when he didn't respond to his name.

"Oh, sorry. Got lost thinking about how to wash Batarian brains off my new chestplate." Wrex grinned.

"Ew..."

"Anyway, how's Shepard?" he asked.

"They've put her in a medical coma. She was trapped under heavy slabs for three days, severely dehydrated, and her organs have suffered some major damage. She's had one of her legs amputated below the knee."

"Ouch."

"Once they have her organs stabilized, I will be assisting the doctors in rebuilding her leg and her damaged cybernetic components. Her biotics however..." Miranda drummed a finger against the datapad.

"What happened?"

"There's a possibility she may not be able to use them ever again."

"Well shit, Shepard's gonna be pissed."

Chapter Text

PART I

Chapter 6: Terra Firma

3 weeks after the Reaper War

It was three weeks after their crash that the Normandy and her crew returned to Earth. Thanks to faulty navigation, they had been marooned farther away then Joker estimated, and the destruction of Arcturus Station meant a complete lack of QEC comms. There was no way to make contact until they found a working comm buoy. The crew had spent the better part of six days searching for one when they picked up on a weak transmission.

"This is a Systems Alliance wide communication. To all citizens of the Milky Way: the Reapers have been defeated. All hostilities have ceased. Hostilities have ceased."

"MAJOR ALENKO! GET OVER HERE!" shrieked Traynor.

"Gahhh, I'm right here!" Kaidan jiggled the small flap of his ear with a finger.

Traynor turned around to see the major standing near the elevator doors. "Oh no, I'm sorry! I didn't realize you were there. Major, you need to hear this!"

Traynor replayed the transmission. Another, separate transmission came through the comms directly after. "This is an Alliance military communication. All Alliance military vessels are required to report to the Local Cluster effective immediately..."

Kaidan beamed. "Wow...it happened. We did it. We're going home..."

"I can't believe it!" Traynor paused. "Time for Javik to pay up..."

"What was that?" asked Kaidan.

"Ohhh nothing," she replied mysteriously. "It's just…I might have made a friendly wager with our enlightened Prothean friend. After praising us for our efforts, he made some rather snide remarks about 'primitive humans' not knowing how to do this or that. Said we wouldn't make it home for at least a year. Serves him right."

"Hey, never underestimate humans," replied Kaidan. "Let's share the good news."

The moment the sole of his boot hit ground, James felt the earth rise up to support him. It was steadfast and unfaltering, like the mundane miracle of a sunrise on a clear day, or the orbit of the moon. He erupted into cheerful whooping. "We made it!"

James and Steve exchanged a light fist bump as the shuttle took off behind them. Their heartened mood quickly turned to dismay as they surveyed what remained of Vancouver headquarters. Tangles of metal, glass, and concrete, nearly untraversable except by foot; a daunting thicket of debris. Like most buildings along the harbourfront, large sections of its walls had shorn away, some of them into the bay, revealing the contents of every floor like a macabre dollhouse. Skirting the west side of the building, a trio of pacific dogwoods stood in relief to the hollowed spaces. The trees were dotted with white, showy flowers, resembling the first snow of winter.

"It's so much worse than I imagined. Worse than London."

"Where do you even start?" Steve wondered.

"I don't know, man," replied James. He gazed toward the north end of the city. The mountains had always loomed large, even over the tallest of structures of Vancouver, but now they dwarfed what remained, sheltering the city instead of hemming it in. "Look at those mountains though. Beautiful."

The men walked up a path that had been cleared, toward an enclosed, tented structure that was serving as a temporary command centre. Two servicemen stood guard at the entrance and saluted. At the end of the vestibule, a corporal sat at a folding table taking names.

"Sir, I'll need your rank, full name, and ID number" the corporal requested.

"Lieutenant James Vega, 04-5713," replied James.

The corporal saluted James. "Lieutenant Vega sir, please present for scanning."

James stood at ease as the corporal completed a bioscan with his omnitool.

"Thank you, sir. There is a note on your record that you are to report to Admiral Bhatt right away. Corporal Owens will escort you," said the corporal.

Steve completed his check-in as James followed Corporal Owens to another tent, this one much smaller and hidden behind a cache of ration crates at the far end of the path. Inside, Admiral Bhatt was cramped up against her desk, her face obscured by a wall of datapads canted at all angles.

"Lieutenant James Vega reporting, sir!" James offered his sharpest salute.

Admiral Bhatt peeked up from her work. "Lieutenant Vega, welcome back to Earth," she greeted.

"It's good to be back, sir."

"You're probably wondering why you're here, hmm?" asked the admiral matter-of-factly.
"Yes, sir."

Admiral Bhatt rose from her desk and stood directly in front of James. James towered over her by a good nine inches, but she commanded the room with her perfect posture and rich, alto voice.

"As you may have heard, our N training facility in Rio was destroyed—we lost quite a few recruits at Arcturus too. Some of our higher level trainees have managed to survive, but there are precious few N7s at this time. You received an N7 commendation just before the start of the war, but you've yet to accept." Admiral Bhatt scrutinized James' face. "I'll be upfront with you, Lieutenant—your planet needs you to fulfill your duty and accept the N7 designation. The Alliance will need high ability individuals such as yourself to run special ops in the wake of this war. It's going to be chaos out there."

"I absolutely accept, sir. I will serve, whatever it takes," James said eagerly.

"I'm glad to hear it," said Admiral Bhatt.

"When do I start?"

"Right now."

SSV Osaka

Tali and Garrus whispered in the corridor as they waited their turn to enter the Commander's quarters. She had been moved from the ICU to a private room where Miranda could enter and leave without disturbing the other patients.

Garrus grabbed at his collar and stretched his neck, rolling his head back and forth several times.

"If you keep stretching your neck like that pretty soon your head will roll away..." Tali scolded.

It had been the eighth time he had done it in the last ten minutes.

"I can't help it. My neck cramps up when I'm nervous," said Garrus.

"Since when does Archangel get nervous?"

"Since his girlfriend nearly died—again," he replied. Garrus could line up a perfect shot from a thousand meters away—explosives going off in all directions around him, squadmates barking over comms—and still keep his cool. But standing around in an empty hallway while Shepard lay unconscious in the room next door was just too much.

Tali and Garrus heard the soft ding of the door as it slid open. Liara and Miranda were talking as they walked out together.

"Thank you for letting us visit Miranda. I'm happy to see she's in capable hands," said Liara.

"Dr. Paulsen and Dr. Marques have done their best considering the circumstances. Shepard is out of the woods for now, but it will be a long time before she's back to normal," Miranda warned.

Tali overheard their conversation and interrupted eagerly. "When will they be able to wake her?"

"We've just gotten her organs stabilized, now we'll get on with the work of repairing her leg and her cybernetics. Like I said in my message, her biotics will be the biggest challenge. Frankly, it could be months yet if the work proves as difficult as I fear," said Miranda.

It wasn't the answer anyone wanted to hear, but at least the Commander was alive. Garrus shifted several times, eager to see with his own eyes.

Miranda tugged on her gloves and smoothed her hair. "I'm sorry everyone, if you'll excuse me. I need to speak to Dr. Paulsen for a moment. Tali and Garrus—you're free to go in if you like."

"Thank you, Miranda, really," said Garrus, titlting his down as a show of respect.

"Talk to her. She'd be happy to hear your voice. You too, Tali." Miranda caught sight of Dr. Paulsen at the other end of the corridor and raised her hand, then sashayed away.

"I'll be waiting here when you're done," said Liara. "Don't worry too much. You know Shepard, she wouldn't want us to make a fuss over her."

Garrus shot her a look. "Don't worry too much, huh Liara? Don't make a fuss over Shepard?"

"Oh, you! Stop..." Liara blushed, embarrassed.

Garrus did his best version of a turian smile—cheeky with his sharp teeth and a wide mouth. With his mandibles flared it looked even cheekier. Ribbing Liara would never get old.

Tali and Garrus entered in silence, the click-hiss of the ventilator the only sound in the room. Garrus padded softly to Shepard's bedside and knelt down beside her. He tenderly stroked each of her fingers, then pressed the top of her hand to his cheek.

Tali, who was standing at the end of the bed, gripped the footboard as she surveyed Shepard's various injuries. She was thankful that her soft whimpering was muffled by her helmet. It wasn't unusual for her to see Shepard beat up and bruised after a fight, but she had never seen her in a hospital bed, so vulnerable and still.

"Hi Commander, it's Tali," she said. "I'm here with Garrus. We just got back to Earth—the Normandy survived the war. I mean, obviously…how else could I be talking to you right now? I mean, I'm not a ghost." She cleared her throat. "Anyway…we crashed on a beautiful jungle planet. You would have liked it there. Everything was so green. We were lost for almost three weeks, though." Sniffling, she paused. "Javik wouldn't shut up about humans getting us lost in space. Liara threatened to throw him out of the airlock and I think I might have thrown a plate at him in the mess hall. I don't really remember if I actually did that or if I just wanted to..."

Garrus brushed Shepard's bangs off her forehead and stroked her cheek.

"I…I've been feeding your fish for you while you've been gone, and Garrus has been taking care of Mr. Hammie. Mr. Hammie even let Garrus hold him! Can you believe that?" Tali said, trying to hide the anguish in her voice with a daub of cheerfulness. "I never thought I'd see a turian sniper fall in love with a fuzzy little poop machine."

"He sure can poop…" Garrus said to Shepard quietly. Still gazing at her face, he pulled up a chair from behind and sat down.

Tali slid her palms back and forth along the top of the footboard as she tried to keep herself from crying. "You know, I was so young when I met you, wasn't I Shepard? I was bold, sure, but still so naïve. I nearly got myself killed. Now I'm an admiral in the Fleet... I still think that sounds crazy. But you were the one who encouraged me. You taught me to see my own strength..." Tali took her hands off the footboard. "I hope I can give some of that to you now, my friend."

Garrus glanced up at Tali with an affectionate tilt to his head.

"Anyway, I should go, Shepard. I'll be back. I think Garrus probably wants to speak to you alone." She paused. "...I'm so happy you're still here."

Tali nodded at Garrus and joined Liara in the hallway.

Squeezing Shepard's hand, Garrus ran his other fingers through her hair.

"Hey, beautiful, it's me," he began. "I can only imagine what you'd say if you could see yourself right now...you'd probably tell me to go to hell for calling you beautiful. But you know what? I see you, and you're beautiful. That's all you need to know."

He watched Shepard's chest rise and fall rhythmically, never changing.

"Remember when I walked into the meeting room on the SR-2, after I got blasted in the face by that rocket? Do you remember what you said to me? You said: 'Hell Garrus, you were always ugly'." He chuckled to himself. "But then you fell in love with these scars, so who's laughing now?"

A long silence followed as he desperately gathered his scattered feelings and held onto them tightly.

"Shepard...I..I didn't think I'd see you again. When we said goodbye in London, I held onto hope that it would work out. But I knew the chance was small. Ruthless calculus, right? And when you sent me away on the Normandy..." Drawing his mandibles as close to his face as they could go, Garrus could barely spit out the words. "...I thought that was it. But then we discovered there was someone in the Citadel ring... I knew it was you. I knew you were alive."

He squeezed her hand again. "You did it, Shepard. You kicked Reaper ass. And everyone in the galaxy will know that it was Commander Shepard that got the job done. You don't need to do anymore."

He stood over the bed and pressed his forehead lightly to hers. "Just come back to us. And I promise I'll be there when you do. I love you."

Chapter Text

PART I

Chapter 7: The Radicle, Part I

3 months after the Reaper War
Earth

Kaidan didn't know what to make of receiving a request directly from Admiral Hackett. While the Systems Alliance was never as rigid as other militaries—like the notoriously draconian turian Hierarchy—it was still unusual for a message to break the chain of command. Kaidan concluded, logically, that the Admiral needed a favor.

Admiral Hackett's haggard face appeared on the screen.

"Admiral, I'm glad to see you're feeling a bit better," said Kaidan.

The admiral drew a breath and concentrated on each word carefully. "Th-thank you, Major," he sounded out.

The right side of his face sagged noticeably. In the week after the war, the Admiral's unwavering military career had come to an impasse. He had suffered a major stroke. Years of intense stress and overwork had taken their toll, their impact permanent. Dr. Paulsen ordered him on temporary leave.

"I received your message, sir. What was it you wanted to share?"

"I ha...have news. A-and a..faavor to..ask..."

SSV Osaka

Shepard's appearance was much healthier now, thanks to round-the-clock care from her medical team. The color had returned to her cheeks, her bruises had healed, and her amputated leg had been meticulously reconstructed. Even her lips had returned to their normal fullness.

Shepard's lips. Kaidan still chuckled at the image of Shepard asleep in the comm room of the SR-1, lips pouted like a moody toddler. She'd been so tired after their long mission on Noveria that she simply hung up on the Council. Splayed across one of the wide seats, she dozed with her head draped over its side, drool dangling from the corner of her mouth. It was easy to forget that the woman could toss a six-hundred pound krogan across the room like a dirty towel.

This would be Kaidan's last visit to the hospital ship for a while. Admiral Hackett's leave of absence had been extended indefinitely, and the dearth of Alliance staff was affecting what was left of the fleet. The tenure of the second human Spectre had been woefully short-lived. The program was effectively canceled in the wake of the war. With every system of the galaxy cut off from the others, administering the program became impossible: the fate of the Council was unknown. Survivors of the Citadel reported that they had fled prior to the Reaper siege, but there was no way of knowing which system they had traveled to or if they were even alive. Meanwhile, an increasing unrest loomed over the entirety of Sol. Everything was in short supply—food, clean water, medical supplies—and millions upon millions had been stranded in the human controlled system since the day the relays were damaged. The need for order was palpable.

"Can you believe it, Shepard? Me? A general?" Kaidan paced the room as he spoke to her. "I don't know if I'm ready for this. I don't know if I can lead the way Anderson did. They way you did..."

Kaidan watched the Commander for a response, but only silence followed.

"I know what you're thinking," Kaidan said, as he shook a finger at her. "You're thinking: 'Kaidan, suck it up! Suck it up buttercup! Those people need you!'" He'd grown accustomed to answering in her stead.

Miranda had already walked into the room when Kaidan was shaking his finger at her.

"If you're trying to get a rise out of her Major Alenko, it isn't going to work," Miranda joked.

Kaidan spun around. "Ah! How long have you been here?"

"Don't worry, I only walked in a moment ago. I'm here to assess the Commander for her biotic work."

"How's it looking?" asked Kaidan.

"Sorry, Commander, this will just take a moment." Miranda ran a scanning tool over the length of Shepard's body.

She addressed Kaidan. "Still the same. But we're going to attempt repair to her nodes first. It's never been done before. This work will be groundbreaking if we're successful."

"I'm sure it will be. I doubt you've ever given a wrong answer in your life," said Kaidan.

"That's very flattering Major. But I assure you that genetic perfection doesn't protect one from making mistakes."

"Oh, it's General now, by the way," Kaidan said bashfully.

"Is it? Well congratulations, General."

He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. "Thanks..." he said. "How are you doing, Miranda? I see you when I'm here, but you're always just passing by."

Miranda crossed her arms. "Me? I'm keeping well enough I suppose. I don't know, no one really asks. There's so much going on right now, I've hardly had the chance to breathe."

"What about when your work with Shepard is done?"

"When Shepard is better? I suppose I want the same thing as before—to help the human cause. I have the skill, I have valuable knowledge. I just don't know where I fit into all of this now."

Kaidan thought of the anguish and alienation he felt after his experience at Jump Zero. All he had wanted was to serve, on his own terms. Miranda must have felt the same way, leaving an organization she didn't agree with anymore, but still feeling the sting of being associated with them.

"I understand what that's like," he sympathized. "I can keep my ear to the ground for you, if you're ok with that. I'm sure I'll have a lot of things coming across my desk now."

"I wouldn't mind at all. A very thoughtful gesture, General Alenko."

"Please, you can just call me Kaidan."

Earth

Wrex had caught Miranda on the vidcom just before she was off to the recovery ward.

"What's taking so damn long!" he demanded.

"Remember, it took us two years to bring her back after the Collector attack. She's in a delicate state right now, it's a lot for her body to endure. Waking her up will require finesse and patience."

"Well I don't have either of those, so good thing you're the one working on her," he admitted brusquely. "It's a shame that pyjack clone of hers had to throw herself off the ship. You know, spare parts and all."

Miranda smirked.

"Anyway, I've gotta go. These husks aren't gonna bury themselves. Headbutt the Commander for me," said Wrex.

"Can't say that I will, but I'll keep you up-to-date regardless. Goodbye, Wrex." Miranda's image blinked away.

Wrex grunted, then turned to the youngest soldier in his complement, who had been mocking the human unit across the field. "You! Get digging!"

"We've already cleared three transports and these puny humans haven't cleared one! Look at them, useless!" the solider sassed.

"I said, GET DIGGING!" Wrex charged the young krogan at full speed, knocking him onto an open pile of husks below.

The young krogan scoffed. He scrambled out of the pit, dislodging cybernetic components from errant limbs and torsos as he crushed them beneath his boots. Husks had been collected from all over the region by the thousands, and were now being disposed of in deep pits far outside the city. Exposed to the elements for weeks on end, the bodies had begun to disintegrate, forming amorphous mats of sickly green fluid beneath the them. The grass that had once grown tall and wild here was now smothered.

A gruff faced Alliance officer, who had been observing the fracas from the other side of the pit, cracked a wry smile. "I see you and I are having the same problem," he shouted.

"These whelps can fight, but they don't appreciate what we went through so they could be here. Wasted on squabbling!" Wrex opined. He raised his voice for everyone to hear. "It's a privilege to be digging a hole in the ground!"

The officer came around the pit to greet Wrex. "Lieutenant Schafer." The officer offered his hand.

"Urdnot Wrex."

The lieutenant cocked his head. "Urdnot Wrex, huh? The great krogan who united the clans? Have I got that right?"

"Yup. The very same."

"Heh, wouldn't want to be in your shoes right now."

"Tell me about it." Wrex looked on at his men, who had resumed taunting the Alliance unit. "HEY! KNOCK IT OFF!" A low growl rumbled from his throat, his teeth bared in a crooked sneer. The krogans turned their heads toward him, then looked down in deference.

Lieutenant Schafer stared hard at the group as they went back to work. "Say.…you haven't happened to hear anything about the missing turians, have you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Word is the turians are pissed about two of their men going missing while on patrol. No one knows if they went AWOL or if they got themselves into some trouble, but they're blaming the Alliance. Saying they haven't done enough to prevent confrontations between civilians and alien military. There have been some...incidents. Still some humans with grudges, if you know what I'm saying."

"Yeah, well we krogan have a few grudges of our own".

"Understandable," replied Lieutenant Schafer.

"I haven't heard anything," said Wrex. "But if I do, I'll let my turian pal know."

"Your turian pal?"

"Mmhmm...tough son-of-a-bitch, sassy mouth. Could scope and drop any target, any distance, you name it. A vigilante kind of guy. Too bad he fell in love and got all soft. But at least his girlfriend kicks ass. Hell, she could kick my ass..."

Lieutenant Schafer wrinkled his face in confusion.

"Nevermind."

Turian Dreadnought

Tali glowered at the control panel. She was feeling stuffy and a little cranky, and meeting Garrus' engineering standards was trying her patience.

"I don't think the enviro controls in my suit can keep this up much longer, Garrus. Why in the world is your ship so hot? I'm sweating more than a salarian at a krogan dinner party. Double check those calibrations for me?"

"Salarians don't sweat," quipped Garrus. He skimmed over the display. "Besides, isn't Rannoch insanely hot? It's hotter than Palaven."

"We haven't lived on Rannoch for over 300 years," Tali reminded him.

"True," he replied. "To answer your question, all turian ships are like this. Turians like it hot."

"Pff...I'm sure Shepard would agree with you," Tali muttered over her shoulder, then cackled at her own banter.

Someone at the door cleared their throat. "Pardon for the intrusion," announced Primarch Victus. "But a moment of your time, Garrus?"

"Yes, of course" he replied, slightly embarrassed. "The calibrations look good...but not perfect. Try again? I'll be right back," he said to Tali.

"Sure, sure," huffed Tali, and waved him off.

Garrus and the Primarch exited the battery and spoke in the corridor.

"Garrus, I'll get straight to the point. I don't know how long we'll be stuck in the Sol system—it could be months, it could be years. While we're here, I'm going to need someone I can trust by my side, someone who knows humans well. You've worked on an Alliance ship and successfully served with Alliance officers. You have the experience. And you've certainly earned my trust. Can I count on you to be that someone?" proposed Primarch Victus.

Garrus didn't hesitate. "Yes, you can, Primarch."

Primarch Victus had proven himself to be different than other turian leaders he had known—bold, flexible, and open-minded. And with the future in question it wasn't a bad idea to stick together, especially when faced with the precarious nature of living in a system controlled by aliens.

"Good, I'm glad to hear it." Primarch Victus nodded. "Let's speak about details when I return from Earth. And please thank Tali for me. Her help has been instrumental in getting our ship back in top condition."

Chapter Text

PART I

Chapter 8: Tamarack *

5 months after the Reaper War

Shepard walked along the bank of a winding stream. The sun had thrown off its grey winter blanket, and under each footstep the ragged snow gave way to earth; the snow thawed, steadily dripping from the bare tips of the tees that lined the bank. Soon, the grasses would grow again. The trees would sprout soft, feathery needles for sipping sunlight, and new saplings would emerge, earnestly reaching above and below them for a chance to live.

Shepard heard a voice calling in the distance. It echoed through the surrounding woods, filling the empty spaces between rocky outcrops.

Shepard...

Wake up, Commander.

Shepard, do you hear me?

She heard the words, as clear as the meltwater that raced downstream. That voice...those words. This has happened before. Hasn’t it? “This facility is under attack.” Shepard’s heart began to pound uncontrollably as she recalled waking up in a medical wing, the voice urging her to get off the table and grab a gun. Fight, her body told her. She hurried along the bank, breaking into a sprint as she let her legs take over. 

“Dr. Paulsen, her heart rate is spiking!” yelled Miranda.

 “Sedative, Dr. Marques,” ordered Dr. Paulsen

“Administering sedative now,” replied Dr. Marques.

Shepard recognized the other voices—a woman with a slight Portuguese accent and a man’s gravelly baritone. She wasn’t sure who they were, but she had heard them before. Stop, wait, she told herself. Her heart began to slow.

“Heart rate has returned to normal range,” said Miranda. “Commander Shepard, can you hear me?

Shepard’s eyes rolled back and forth, searching for the source of the words. She had seen and heard so many things in her dreams, but this was the first time a voice had felt so close.

Miranda placed her hand on Shepard’s to comfort her. She watched Shepard’s face as her eyelids rose, then dropped again.

“Shepard? It’s Miranda.”

Shepard’s eyes opened. She angled her head towards Miranda’s face, straining to keep it in focus as the world faded in from the edges.

“Welcome back, Commander.” Miranda said softly.  “You’ve been away for a little while.”

Bleary, Shepard turned her head toward the other two faces in the room.

 “Hello Commander Shepard, I’m one of your doctors, Dr. Paulsen. This is my colleague, Dr. Marques,” the male doctor announced.

“Hello, Commander,” said Dr. Marques. “You may be feeling a bit strange and very weak right now—you’ve just come out of a coma. This is perfectly normal as the drugs wear off.

Shepard tried to process what the doctor had just said, but the ideas swimming in her head were lost in the turbidity of waking. She was halfway between here and the forest.

Miranda turned her attention to Dr. Paulsen. “It may be best if I sit alone with her right now. What do you think?”

Dr. Paulsen performed a scan with his omnitool.

"She seems stable enough for now. Let us know if she becomes too agitated or confused,” he advised. “If you’ll excuse us, Commander. We’ll be back to check on you later.”

"Miranda nodded, acknowledging the doctors as they slipped out of the room.

“Are you uncomfortable? You’ve been lying in that bed for a long time, I imagine everything must hurt right now.”

Like a fogged-up mirror swiped clean with a hand, a part of her memory cleared and she could sees herself again.

“M...Miranda.”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Jacob?”

“He’s not here.”

Shepard squinted as she surveyed the room. “It’s so bright in here.”

“We’re aboard the SSV Osaka, the Alliance hospital vessel.”

“Did I die?”

“No, you were trapped under heavy debris on the Citadel. But you were alive when they found you. Three days you spent like that...you’re a tough woman to kill, Shepard.”

Shutting her eyes briefly, Shepard saw the stream, the larches, the rocky outcrops free of snow, and the sun’s light ramified through the canopy of the forest.

“Ugh, I feel like crap,” she moaned.

“That’s no surprise. You’ve had a lot of work done. We managed to heal your wounds, but you’ll find your muscles are quite weak. We felt it best to leave them alone. You’ll need to strengthen them the old-fashioned way.”

Shepard tried to sit up, only to find she hadn’t moved more than a couple of centimeters before she fell back down to the bed.

Miranda placed her hand on Shepard’s shoulder.  “Don’t try anything yet. You just woke up from a months long coma, you’ll need lots of time to recover.”

Another swipe at the foggy mirror.

“On the Citadel...was I alone?” asked Shepard.

“Yes, and in a part of the Citadel where no one is allowed,” answered Miranda.

“I could swear there was someone else there...”

“Your thoughts and memories might feel mixed up for the next few days. Don’t think too hard, just let it come back to you, and it will, eventually.”

“It’s like a dream. Like I’m still dreaming...” Shepard said quietly. “Who were those people talking to me earlier?”

 “Dr. Paulsen and Dr. Marques. They’re your doctors, they kept you alive.”

“What about you?”

“Me? I’m just here to help. No one knows more about your cybernetic implants than I do. Fortunately for you, they were able to track me down.”

As she took stock of what she had heard so far, Shepard let herself feel the aches and pains in her body.  “My leg! It feels weird!” she shouted in a garbled voice.

“That....they were forced to amputate your leg below the knee. It was the only way to keep you alive. But as you can see, we were able to reconstruct it in full.” Miranda glanced down at the Commander’s legs. “It might feel a little foreign right now, but I promise it will work as before.”

Shepard was silent for a few moments as she let her eyes settle on the worn ceiling panels directly above her.

“Where is everyone?” she asked.

“Who?”

 “The Normandy crew.”

“It’s been five months since the end of the war. The Normandy was stranded on another planet, for a time. They all went their separate ways after they returned to Earth.”

Shepard’s throat tightened.

“We did it? We defeated them?”

Miranda nodded.

“….And everyone is safe? The galaxy...”

“Absolutely, one hundred percent.”

Tears began to bead at the corners of Shepard’s eyes.

 “You should know that every one of the crew came to visit while you were in hospital. There wasn’t a day that went by that someone wasn’t here visiting you. You were never alone.”

Shepard let the tears come. Now that survival was no longer a question, she could let them fall freely, just this once.

Chapter Text

PART I

Chapter 9: Ghost Pipe *

5 months after the Reaper War
Turian Dreadnought

Wrex’s marred, scowling face filled the small screen of the dreadnought's comm room.

“So, did you find anything?” he asked.

 “Oh...I found some things,” answered Garrus. “Your man was right, Wrex. The humans who abducted our men weren’t Alliance. Turns out they’re run of the mill thugs.”

Wrex paused. “What the hell do they want with two turians?”

“They don’t. The turians who were on duty that night were on a joint patrol near one of the Reaper wreckage sites. I’m sure they thought the humans who abducted them were part of the patrol. Our men are likely dead.”

“Ohhhhhhh...” Wrex intoned, slowly bobbing his head.

“Thanks for the tipoff, by the way. We wouldn’t have discovered the truth without it.” Garrus turned his head and slicked his fringe back. “Or maybe I’m not such a failed officer after all?”

“Heh heh heh. Glad to help out, my friend. Good luck. And let me know if you need me to smash some heads together. I’d be more than happy to.”

“Never a dull moment when you’re around, Wrex.”

Vancouver, Earth

Garrus and Primarch Victus stepped off the shuttle. The city’s air was heavy with bitter ozone, sour and stinging, made worse by the stubborn cloud cover that hung around for weeks on end. Garrus thought that if grey had a smell, this had to be it.

Navigating the main thoroughfare, they side-stepped the maze of tents and makeshift shelters, which were flanked by the accoutrement of transient living: cast-off chairs, empty water jugs, worn tarp, weeks old refuse. In the street, young children ran from shelter to shelter, begging anyone they could find for prized treats. If they were lucky, they could barter for sweets, or playing cards. The luckiest scored small toys.

Garrus imagined that Palaven wasn’t much different right now. He thought of his family, and wondered if they had made it somewhere safe. The last he’d heard, his father and sister had safely escaped the planet via evacuation shuttle. Hearing his father’s distorted voice over the Normandy intercom had sent a jolt of conviction through him: win this war, see them again. Garrus’ mother was, presumably, still at a Salarian medical facility on Nasurn. There was hope for a better quality of life there; her Corpalis Syndrome had been showing signs of improvement since her transfer. But he had no means of contacting the facility now, and no way of knowing if she had even lived to see the end of the war.

Looking down the street in both directions, Garrus considered the possibilities of going home again. “It never gets any easier, landing on Earth,” he said. “It makes me think of Palaven, how much work we’ll have ahead of us.”

Primarch Victus’ mandibles fluttered faintly as he turned to him.

“I don’t know if I’m up to the job. I’m no politician, I’m no builder,” Garrus insisted.

“Neither am I, Garrus. But someone has to pick up the pieces, even if it’s men like us. What happens after that... well, that will be up to the rest of the Hierarchy to decide.”

Ahead of them, a woman wailed wildly, her voice raw and sorrowful. She hurtled a glass bottle toward a drunken man. In her hand, she clutched a photograph of a small child. A pair of Alliance soldiers struggled to subdue the distraught mother, who had evaded their grasp before she threw the bottle.

The military, or what was left of it, was stationed in every major city center. Turian, krogan, and asari forces that had survived the last attacks on Earth were also serving, primarily patrolling wreckage sites and providing aid or relief. But what little resources were left were being stretched even thinner as desperation turned to lawlessness, and confrontations between galactic citizens of all stripes became more commonplace. Without the central hub of Arcturus Station, the Systems Alliance consolidated what had remained of its administrative and operational arms, and spread them amongst several large metropolises—Hong Kong, Lagos, and Vancouver—with Vancouver being the main hub.

Primarch Victus gazed out along the harbourfront as they rounded the corner toward Alliance headquarters. The water in Vancouver Harbor was eerily still, sheltered from the choppy ocean waves further west—a calm seaport encircled by a ring of destruction. He wondered what the city had looked like before the war.

The soldiers stationed out front saluted the turians, already familiar with their faces from their many debriefing visits. After a thorough security check, the corporal on duty lead them to a large prefab, which had been placed over the former site of the Alliance’s legal department. Admiral Bhatt’s office situation had improved considerably since the first month after the war.

The Admiral crossed the room as Garrus and the Primarch entered.

“Primarch Victus, General Vakarian,” she greeted. Admiral Bhatt and Primarch Victus exchanged salutes.

“Thank you for meeting with us, Admiral Bhatt,” said Primarch Victus.

“My pleasure, Primarch. What was it you wanted to speak with me about?”

“Before we get to that...I would first like to apologize for any misunderstanding regarding our missing men. I want to be clear that the Turian Hierarchy does not hold the Alliance responsible for lack of security.”  Victus cleared his throat. “Some unfortunate rumors have been spreading through various military commands.”

“I appreciate your reassurance. But frankly, the Alliance never took such rumors seriously.”

Garrus chimed in. “I’m not surprised. Turians aren’t well known for making complaints through unofficial channels.”

Admiral Bhatt smirked and shifted her weight . “And the other thing?”

“We have reason to believe that our missing men were captured by humans masquerading as Systems Alliance military,” said Primarch Victus.  He produced a datapad and handed it to the Admiral. “This is a report written by General Vakarian, detailing what we know.”

Admiral Bhatt gave the report a cursory scan. “How did you come by this?”

“A friend of mine, Urdnot Wrex—one of his men witnessed the scuffle that night. That led me down some other...darker avenues,” answered Garrus.

“I can vouch for his investigation. It’s thorough,” said the Primarch. ”We don’t want a diplomatic incident, things are bad enough out there.” He locked eyes with Bhatt. “I fear there are bad players who are taking advantage of the chaos.”

“Hmmmm...” said the Admiral. “It’s interesting that you should bring this up now. I was presented with a similar case just yesterday.” She picked a datapad from up her desk and waved it at Garrus. “I believe you know General Kaidan Alenko, do you not General Vakarian?”

“Kaidan? Yes, I do. He and I were aboard the Normandy together. “

“One of his subordinates submitted a report—missing human soldiers, near a Reaper wreckage site. It appears there may be an organized effort to harvest Reaper tech from under our noses.”

“Could it be Cerberus?” asked Primarch Victus.

“That’s uncertain at this point.”

“Just what we need—some rogue faction coming back from the dead,” Garrus said sharply.

“The Alliance did discuss this as a possible outcome. But this is very brazen, and dangerous.” Admiral Bhatt rubbed her forehead . “Any work involving the dismantling and handling of disabled Reapers is risky. It needs to be done right. A fly-by-night operation could endanger the entire system.”

“Indoctrination isn’t something you mess around with. I saw that with my own eyes,” added Garrus.

Primarch Victus shook his head.

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention, gentlemen. I’ll discuss this with our other senior officers, open an investigation into what’s happening here. I’ll contact you to set up another meeting if the need arises.” Admiral Bhatt and Primarch Victus exchanged salutes. “And if we find out anything more regarding your men, we’ll let you know.”

“Thank you, Admiral Bhatt.”

SSV Osaka

Dr. Paulsen reviewed Shepard’s latest test results and gave her an enthusiastic thumbs up.

“Keep this up and you’ll be able to leave the ship soon,” he said.

“That’s a relief. Lazing around in bed doesn’t really suit me,” Shepard admitted. “Not that I mind the company.”

Miranda, who had been catching up on her messages, looked up from her omnitool. “The Alliance is working on establishing a small rehab facility near headquarters. It would be fairly crude, but they’re gathering whatever resources they can muster. I’ve received word they’ll have a spot for you when the facility is ready.”

Shepard leaned forward and pushed herself up to sit in the bed. “There are other soldiers that need that spot more than I do.”

“Shepard, don’t overestimate your healing abilities right now. You’ll need a lot of rehab to get back into fighting form.”

Dr. Paulsen interrupted. “I’m afraid you might not have a choice, Commander. I am urging you to receive treatment at the new facility. Scratch that...I’m ordering you. No one else can provide you with the same level of care. Not in this system, anyway.”

Miranda flashed Dr. Paulsen a pleased smile, the corners of her mouth lifted high. Dr. Paulsen glanced back at her with clear, keen eyes, then shoved his wavy hair away from his forehead.

Their exchange tickled a faint memory. In Shepard’s comatose state, she had heard a man speaking in low, purring tones. A woman giggled, followed by a long silence, then footsteps fading away. She didn’t think anything of it at the time—she was in an endless dream, afterall. But in the waking world, she realized just how strange it was. It was Miranda had giggled.

Dr. Paulsen’s omnitool pinged before Shepard could recall anything more.

“Sorry, if you’ll both excuse me, I have another patient that needs attending to.”

“Of course, Doctor, don’t let us keep you,” replied Miranda.

Miranda watched him exit the room, her eyes never leaving his back until he was out of sight and the doors closed.

Shepard gawked at Miranda. “Sooo...Dr. Paulsen, huh?”

“Hmm?” uttered Miranda, turning to her.

“Huh?”

“Um....”

“Aren’t you guys—you know....”

“You know....?”

“Ya know—putting the bread in the oven?” Shepard crudely imitated shoving something into an oven over and over.

Miranda furrowed her brow in confusion. “Are we....baking?”

“No!” Shepard tried again. “A bit of how’s your father?” Shepard winked wildly.

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Shepard. Is your eye ok? You’ve got a pretty bad twitch there.”

“A little assault with a friendly weapon?”

“I don’t think there’s such a thing as a little assault...”

“Opening the gates to Mordor?”

Miranda narrowed her eyes. “Well, now you’ve lost me completely.”

“Come on!” Shepard whipped out a euphemism she thought officer Miranda would certainly understand. “Foxtrot uniform charlie kilo!”

Miranda’s mouth clamped shut. The blood in her face drained away as she realized what Shepard was spelling out.

“Honestly, Shepard, are you twelve?”

Shepard burst out, peals of laughter ringing through the room. Her cackling was so loud and ridiculous Miranda couldn’t help but laugh too, sputtering as she tried to cover her mouth.

Shepard stopped to catch her breath. “S-s-sorry, Miranda, I couldn’t help myself,” she apologized feebly. “Oooooh, that hurts.” She rubbed a hand over the side of her ribs.

“So, are we sleeping together?”

“Yeah!”

“Yes.”

Shepard laughed again, this time with delight rather than malice.

“You know, I heard you. When I was in a coma. I remember hearing the two of you talking.”

“Do me a favor—don’t repeat anything you’ve heard to anyone...including me,” said Miranda.

“Will do,” Shepard agreed, her infectious smile still wide and beaming.

Just then, a soft ding came from the door. Shepard expected to see Dr. Marques strolling into the room, a jaunty whistle on her lips like always. Instead, a pair of heavy boots scraped across the floor and stopped. Dulled blue and silver chrome glinted under the light panel. Garrus, arms crossed, stood at the threshold, his lean, stalk-like frame slanted against the inside of the door. His eyes fixed on Shepard’s face, still full and rosy from laughter.

“Having a good time without me, Shepard?” he said.

The smile dropped from her face. She stared at Garrus. Her brows lifted and squeezed together tightly, her eyes tapered at the corners, and she gaped in relief at the sight of him.

“Garrus....”

He approached, then cautiously sat down next to her on the bed, careful to give her newly healed legs plenty of room. She peered up at him and held his face with her hand, still feeling the thrill of seeing him standing in the doorway.

Garrus cradled his hand over hers. “Hey, Shepard,” he hummed with warm subvocals.

A smile slowly bloomed across her face as Grrus leaned forward to enclose her in his arms. She wrapped her arms as far as they could go up his carapace without hurting—like two tender vines delicately hugging a sturdy bough. She nestled her face against his neck and took a slow, deep breath. Garrus hugged her tighter and shivered at the warm exhalation against his skin. The two stayed in their embrace until Garrus remembered that they were not alone. 

Garrus twisted to greet Miranda. “Hi, Miranda.”

 “Hello, Garrus.” Miranda smiled softly.

“Sorry to just barge in like this. Good to see you again.”

“Not a problem, I was just leaving.” Miranda raised her eyebrows at Shepard, a mischievous curl at her lip. “See you later, Commander...”

Shepard gave her a curt wave as she left the room.

Garrus turned back to Shepard. She tipped her forehead to his, and held one of his long fingers in each of her hands. Her once strong, callused fingers now looked thin and delicate curled around his.

“They told me you made it out of the war, but seeing you now, in front of me...”

“Me? What about you?” he countered.

Garrus recalled sitting alone in the noiseless medbay on the last day of the war, wondering if she was alone too. Or worse, had died alone.

“What about me?”

He sat up and shook his head. “Nothing. I’m just grateful you’re ok.”

“Me too,” said Shepard.

She didn’t know why, but his icy blue eyes appeared to shiver, as if pleading with someone or something. She studied them carefully as he brought his face closer to hers. He kissed her gently on the mouth. Shepard kept her eyes shut for a few moments afterward, savoring the tingle on her lips.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come straight away. Some business with the Alliance.”

“It’s only been three days, Garrus.”

She noticed his mandibles wavering.

“I promised I’d be here when you woke up.”

 “It’s ok, really.” Shepard put her hand on his arm to reassure him. “So what’s going on?”

“I—I didn’t really want to talk shop today. I just wanted to see you.”

“Hey, you can tell me. I’m still a soldier, you know.”

Garrus sighed. “You sure you want to hear it so soon? ‘Cause it’s bad news. I mean, you just found out we won the war.”

Sheppard nodded. “Go ahead, I’ll be ok. Promise.”

 “Someone is abducting military personnel near the wreckage sites. We think it might be someone trying to get their hands on Reaper parts.”

Shepard leaned forward and sat up at attention. “Cerberus?”

“We don’t know yet. Two of our men went missing, so we brought it to the Alliance. They say they’ve got their own missing soldiers.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Likely the same situation.” Garrus was lost in thought for a moment. “Oh, it looks like Kaidan’s involved on the Alliance side of the investigation. Did you know he’s a general now?”

“Mhmm, Miranda told me. I heard about Hackett too. The poor Admiral...”

Garrus shook his head. “Well, whoever the bastards are, they’re impersonating Alliance personnel.”

“Damn. If it involves Reapers—this is bad. This is really bad.”       

“I have a feeling this will be keeping the Primarch and I busy for a while. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Job’s never done, right?” she said. “Besides, where am I going to go?” Throwing her arms into the air, she gestured at the walls around her.

“Well, if you ever feel lonely, just ask, I’ll come when I can. In the meantime, there are a lot people who want to come see you now that you’re awake.”            

Chapter Text

PART I,

Chapter 10: The Harrow

"But Albion fled from the Divine Vision, with the Plow of Nations enflaming
The Living Creatures madden and Albion fell into the Furrow, and
the Plow went over him & the Living was Plowed in among the Dead
But his Spectre went over the starry Plow. Albion fled beneath the Plow
Till he came to the Rock of Ages & he took his seat upon the Rock."

- Jerusalem: The Emanation of the Giant Albion, William Blake

8 months after the Reaper War
Vancouver, Earth

It ’s winter again. She walks by the winding stream, with its margins made of cloudy ice like frosted glass. The flora is fast asleep; the trees are only spindly trunks now, while their twigs hang on. Further upstream, the snow begins to bluster at severe angles, relentless and blinding, and within a few minutes it’s almost too thick to walk. The impatient sky darkens. The stars appear—snowflakes of the firmament, suspended aloft before reaching earth.

The stream leads to a clearing: it’s the farm on Mindoir. The buildings are burning. A fuel cell combusts, sending flames bursting and sizzling from all sides. The sap-covered wounds of stems cauterize and then ignite. The smell of crops on fire—rich, acrid, sweet. From the heart of the fire, a child’s voice:

Wake up.
Her father’s creased eyes as he delights in her earnestness, pulling weeds from a kale patch. “Good job, Circe!”

You have a choice. More than you know.
Her mother’s stern face, her hazel eyes glinting. Long dark braid under a brimmed hat.

The peace won’t last.
Ashley, alone, clutching her side and guarding the bomb on Virmire, keeping the Geth at bay.

Your time is at an end, you must decide.
EDI, passionately confessing that she would risk death to defend her humanity.

I am the Catalyst.
Legion, ensnared inside the Geth dreadnought core.

Do what you must.
The Leviathan, dreadful, dark, and looming.

Rise up, but bury yourself. Be everywhere. Anywhere but here. Dig a hole. Sow a seed. Reach up and reach down, straight and tall. Gather your food for the fall.

ping...ping …ping…ping

The nagging chirp of Shepard’s omnitool stirred her from a fitful sleep. She squinted and wiped at the sweat slicked across her hairline, stray strands of hair plastered where she had run her hand. She kicked the sheets to untangle them from her legs.

ping...ping …ping…ping

She silenced the omnitool. But her heart was still convulsing—a rhythmic thunder rolling through her chest. Turning onto her back, she gripped the edge of her bedcover and pulled it firmly to her chin. She took a long, deep inhale through her nostrils, until her torso was stretched at every corner. Hold…holding…holding…hold….go. A cool, steady exhale rushed through her pursed lips, emptying her lungs completely.

This was how Shepard began every morning now; dreams came without fail, each one gauzy and mercurial. What had begun as nightmares aboard the Normandy had continued as never-ending storms, gathering in the anxious recesses of her mind. Liminal spaces crowded with death. The people she’d let down, her failures and losses, brought together into the same plane of existence to haunt her. The dreams had only grown more intense during her time on the SSV Osaka. Shepard’s talent for ignoring them had also grown.

Shepard rolled out of the bed and shuffled to the kitchenette. The tiny kitchenette—made up of a mini-fridge, countertop, and heating element—was luxurious and indulgent by current living standards. She felt guilty for enjoying any measure of comfort when there were so many with scarcely a roof over their heads. But being a patient at the rehab facility meant the Alliance called the shots on accommodations.

She snatched her water from the counter and took a big swig. Her bare feet bristled at the cold floor beneath them, and the thin fabric of her tank top—overstretched and ill-fitting—hung loosely from her frame, revealing the length of her sharp collarbone. It was too cold and damp to dress this way, but it was the price she paid for privilege. The great Commander Shepard.

She plunked down at the small table that doubled as a desk. Her leg bounced erratically as she scrolled through her messages; they were the only way she kept up with her old crew, most of whom were busy doing useful things. A rare message from Joker popped up on the display:

Hey Commander,

I hear you ’re awake... Congratulations on not dying! Sorry for not contacting you until now. Wish I could be there to see you, but I’ve gone on a little trip. Not very far though.

Hugs and kisses!! Xoxoxoxo

-Joker

p.s. I ’m glad you’re ok. You deserve a break. I’ll see you when I see you.

That little fucker¸ Shepard thought with true fondness in her heart. Joker was the only one who shared her awful sense of humor. Garrus might entertain it, but he was far wittier and biting than she could ever be.

Her leg stopped bouncing. She read the subject of the next message: “Request: Commander Circe Shepard, Crucible debrief”. Shepard chewed at the inner margin of her lower lip, contemplating the possibility of ignoring the message for the time being. The last thing she wanted to explain was the Catalyst, or anything that had happened on the Citadel that night. But Admiral Anderson deserved to have his story told. And the Illusive Man, who had trod the path of a true villain, would serve as an example of the insidious, complex nature of indoctrination.

Sighing, Shepard opened the the message. The Alliance had waited three months before contacting her; she knew the least she could do was read it.

         
Commander Shepard:

We formally request your presence at Alliance Headquarters, Vancouver for a debriefing session regarding the deployment of the Crucible. Please contact administration to schedule a meeting as soon as you are able.

Admiral Steven Hackett & Admiral Patricia Bhatt

She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. What the hell am I going to tell them?  Letting out a a sharp snort, she sprang up from the chair. It was nearly 7:30 am; her biotic therapy session would start in half an hour. No time to reply right now.

Shepard exhaled sharply and lifted her arm, her hand trembling as she grimaced at the small, blue ball on the table. She had never wanted to tear something apart so badly in her life.

“Commander, I want you to take a moment to clear your mind. Concentrate all your attention on the ball. In your mind’s eye, there is nothing but this ball. Everything else around you is not here,” directed her therapist.

Tapping into her biotic system was never something she had to think much about before. It was like any other reflex: she had an action she wanted to perform and her body did it. Throw the batarian pirate over the railing.  Now, it was like learning to walk again—or rather, crawl.

Sweat that had been beading on her forehead streaked down to her brow. Shepard ignored it and trained her eyes on the ball, picturing it torn apart from the inside out. She pulled her arm back and forcibly thrust her flat palm toward the ball. Her arm shook as she strained to generate dark energy. The ball stared back at her blankly, unmoved and unphased. She had flicked the switch, but nothing turned on.

“Damn it! Goddamn it!” she bellowed.

“Maybe we should take a short break, Commander. It’s been over an hour, and we’re getting close to the end of your session,” said her therapist.

“Yeah, fine.”

Shepard grabbed the towel from the back of her chair and smeared it across her face. Miranda had warned her that it might take a lot of work to regain control over her biotics, but this was worse than she imagined. The usual warm tingle she felt when activating her powers was gone—not a whisper of it to be found. Fuck. What’s the problem? My eezo nodes are fine, right? She considered messaging Miranda or Dr. Paulsen right then and there but thought better of it. Don’t be so impatient, Circe. Growth takes time. Shepard heard her mother’s voice reaching out through her own thoughts. She stopped. Now is not the time to think of that.

After a long morning of therapy and medical examinations, Shepard stopped by her room for a quick refresh. While she was one of the lucky few with access to running water, she was still in the habit of having sponge baths from her time aboard the SSV Osaka. She didn’t see a good reason to change that. Clean water was in short supply, and wasting it on a shower was taking it away from someone else.

Shepard brushed her hair smooth, framing the front of her face with her bangs. No messy look today—she would be having visitors this afternoon. Tali promised she would stop by before heading back to the Fleet, and Garrus too. Tali was leading a group of quarians who were making repairs and improvements throughout Sol, offering their services in exchange for supplies and support. The last Shepard had heard, they were making inroads in Hong Kong; they had re-established the continental communications network and repaired a handful of military vessels. Tali may have been an admiral, but she felt happiest when she was working on a problem or doing something tactile. There wasn’t much need for the Admiralty Board to be present at all times with the war being over. Whatever business there was to take care of within the Migrant Fleet, the Conclave took care of themselves. 

Shepard gulped down a nasty nutritional supplement per doctor’s orders and settled in with her half-read murder mystery. She was just getting to a good part when a soft ping came from the door. She set her datapad down and went to the door.

“Taaaliiiiiiiiii!” Shepard threw her arms out for a hug as the door opened.

 "Shepard! You seem very happy to see me...” Tali shrank a little, then accepted the hug from her overenthusiastic friend.

“Because I am! Come in, come in.” She motioned for Tali to enter and directed her to the only seat at the table. “How are you? How was Hong Kong?”

 “Busy!” said Tali as she sat down. “I’ve never seen so many people in one place! But I think we did good work there, helped a lot of people.”

 “Wow, that’s great,” said Shepard. She rolled her shoulders. The muscles in her chest had suddenly gone stiff.

“Doing favors for the humans, the asari, the turians....it can’t hurt right? ‘Diplomacy’. Maybe it will help us later,” she said.“Quarians certainly aren’t lacking for work these days. Lacking in resources, sure, but when has that ever stopped us?”

“That’s because quarians excel in bricolage. You always were a go-getter,” said Shepard.

“Brico-what? What does that mean? Like bricks?” asked Tali, puzzled.

“It means being able to make something out of whatever’s around,” said Shepard, proud of herself for remembering the word.

“That’s an awfully fancy word. I thought my translator went buggy.”

Shepard pouted. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ve had a lot of time to read lately...” 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you read a book,” said Tali in a flat, deadpan tone.

“We were just a little bit busy on the Normandy. I can read!”

 Tali laughed. “I’m just teasing. I know you can read.”

Shepard stuck her tongue out.

“I’m not going to ask what that means.” Tali shook her head. “How is your biotic therapy going? Any progress?”

“Ehh, it’s going ok. Miranda said it would take a while, I’m not too worried,” she replied. She thought of the small, blue ball from that morning and clawed the edge of the table as she leaned against it.

“Don’t overdo it, Shepard. I know you well enough to know you’ll push yourself too far, too fast.”

“Nah, I’ll be fine,” she said. “Don’t worry about me.” Before she could say more, there was a soft rap at the door.

 “Ah! That must be our favorite turian,” said Tali.

Shepard crossed to the door and pressed the bypass. Immediately, she leapt back. “Garrus! What the hell!?” 

Garrus, who had been standing with his nose right up against the door, was staring down at her as it opened. “Sorry, did I scare you?”

“Pfffft….nooo.”

“Heh, I love you too,” he said as he stepped inside. He carried a bundle of scant twigs with dainty, white flowers jutting from their ends. He held them up for her to see. “I remember you saying once that you missed real flowers, the kind that grew from the ground. I couldn’t give them to you before because, well, space isn’t so great for that.”

Shepard took the twigs and inspected them closely. “Garrus....did you get these from the tree next to headquarters?”

His mandibles flapped shyly. “Hmmm.....”

“He totally did,” quipped Tali.

“Oh honey, it’s the thought that counts,” Shepard said sarcastically. She hugged him and grinned, still clutching the twigs. “I love them.”

“Hey, Tali,” Garrus said as she stood up to greet him. “How’s life on the Fleet?”

“She’s been in Hong Kong for the last month,” said Shepard.

“Oh, that’s right. Sorry, my mind is swimming right now. I’ve been tied up in this Reaper business…”

“I thought turians don’t swim?” asked Tali.

“You know what I mean.”

“I missed you, Garrus,” she replied with a mischievous grin.

It wasn’t long before Shepard realized they would grow very uncomfortable, very quickly, standing around in her small room. “Hey, do you two want to get out of here? Maybe we can go for a walk, or find somewhere to sit down outside. It’s a little crowded with the three of us.”

“Maybe you’re right. We should go,” said Garrus.

 “Hey, that’s my line,” said Shepard.

“Right, sorry.”

The three companions walked along the waterfront for some time, then cut across town before finding somewhere quiet to talk—a part of the seawall that had somehow managed to hold fast against destruction. They sat side by side, overlooking English Bay.

“English Bay? That sounds familiar. Didn’t Kaidan say his parents have a place around here?” asked Tali.

“They used to,” said Shepard. “The building was destroyed in the war like everything else. His mom was staying at their orchard when his dad died, all alone. He went to get her as soon as the war was over. She’s in Vancouver now.”

The wind had begun to kick up, and it blew the chill from the sea inland. Shepard shivered for a moment, then wrapped her arms around her waist as she hunched over to cradle herself. She lifted her chin to the sky. The sun was slanting low, casting an amber glaze over the bay.

“As if the death wasn’t enough,” Garrus said as he stared toward the water. "So many of us cut off from the ones we love. At least Kaidan was spared that pain…I’m happy for him.”

Shepard’s chest ached again, like the feeling from armor that had been done up too tightly. “I’m sorry.”

“What do you have to be sorry for?”

She leaned her head against his shoulder and let the weight of her head sink into him. “The relays.”

“Don’t be. My family is alive—that’s what matters.”

Shepard tilted her gaze toward Tali. She was the person she was most sorry toward. In a time where the outlook was bleak, the warm glow of her friend’s eyes had touched her heart in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time. Rannoch, and the quarians’ hopes for a permanent home, had been dashed away by a choice that was Shepard’s alone.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” asked Tali.

“When we made it to Rannoch, you were so…happy.” Shepard sat up again. “I can only imagine how incredible that must have felt. You said you’d make a home there.”

“And I will make a home there, my friend. I believe that.” Tali draped an arm across Shepard’s shoulders. “Keelah se’lai.”

Keelah se'lai. Rannoch. Legion’s last words. A lump caught in Shepard’s throat.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” interrupted Garrus. “I never meant to put that on you.”

“That doesn’t make it any less true.” Shepard stood up and jumped down from the wall, onto the beach.

Scanning the horizon, she caught a glimpse of a flock of geese. They were flying in a V formation high in the sky, quite a distance from the shore. Shepard shouted over her shoulder, “Did you know that geese fly like that to conserve energy? It lowers wind resistance. They take turns leading in the front so none of them get too tired. It makes it easier to keep tabs on each other too. That’s how old Earth pilots used to fly.” She watched the birds until they were specks of dust, then turned around. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”

Garrus narrowed his eyes and edged closer to the brink of the wall.

“I haven’t told anyone, really. The Alliance is going to ask and I won’t have a choice.” Shepard kicked her foot into the sand several times, then dragged the sole of her shoe along the surface. “When I beamed to the Citadel…a lot of things happened. But the thing is—what no one knows—is that I found the Catalyst. There, on the Citadel.”

Garrus leapt down from the wall. “All that time we spent chasing it, and it was on the Citadel?” He scoffed.

Shepard pressed her lips together and nodded. “An AI.”

Tali followed suit and leapt down from the wall. “The Catalyst was an AI in the Citadel?”

“Created by the Leviathans, supposedly. They wanted to stop synthetics from surpassing their creators and turning on them.”

Garrus lifted his brow plates. “Wait, doesn’t that seem backwards? Create an AI to stop AIs from hurting organics?”

“I didn’t say it made sense.” Shepard looked down and kicked at the sand again, this time sending some of it flying into the air. “This ‘Catalyst’ told me there were three ways to stop the Reapers. First option: sacrifice myself. Upload my consciousness through the Crucible and control the Reapers directly.”

“That sounds…ludicrous,” said Tali, shaking her head.

“What about the other two?” asked Garrus.

“Second option: merge synthetic and organic life. All life would be preserved going forward, but no one would get a say in the matter.”

“Even more ludicrous,” said Garrus. “How do we even know this thing was telling the truth?”

“We don’t. I took a chance, and here we are.”

“I’m guessing the final option is what destroyed the relays?” asked Tali.

Shepard nodded. “Destroy the Reapers using energy from the Crucible. It would target Reapers, but wipe out all other synthetics along with it.”

“So EDI...and the Geth...” Tali hung her head.

Shepard watched the water lap up higher on the shore, smoothing old footprints into shallow impressions in the sand. It only took one more surge before they were erased all together.

“You made the right choice, Shepard,” Garrus said in a low voice.

“Did I?” Her simple question brimmed with incredulity. “What if the Catalyst was right, what if it just starts all over again? I destroyed the relays. I cut billions of people off from their homeworlds, from resources, from each other. More death and suffering—and for what? So we can do it all over again?” Her shoulders fell as she looked down at her feet. 

“We’ll adapt, don’t you think? It’s what organics do,” said Tali.

“Sure, but what about later? I had a chance to stop the cycle, and I didn’t.” Shepard searched the sky for the birds, but they were long gone. Her face scrunched up tight as she faced the sun.

Taking her hand, Garrus gently held it between his. “You can’t think that way. It was war. There were untold losses, but there were more survivors than we ever expected to have. We could have been wiped out of existence, but we weren’t. Life won, Shepard.”

“And the Geth? EDI?” Shepard’s voice climbed higher. “They adapted, didn’t they? But I made the decision. Without their consent, without their knowledge. The decision that doomed them all.”

Tali put her hand on Shepard’s other arm. “Collateral damage, unfortunately.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Shepard tugged her hand away and turned toward the water. “I just don’t see how one person should be responsible for deciding the fate of an entire galaxy. Why?”

“Maybe it’s best not to think about it too much.” Garrus stepped in front of her and squeezed her shoulders firmly with both hands. “You are only one person. Do you remember what you told me? ‘You do the best you can with the information you have.’ And that’s what you did. You made the best decision you could based on what you knew.” He searched her eyes for affirmation of his words, and she stared back, her green eyes dull and wide.

“Maybe you’re right. Thanks for listening.” With a grim smile plastered on her face, she put her hand over Garrus’ hand and patted it. “Thank you both.”

The trio stood in silence was they watched the sun dip below the horizon. All the while, the same questions replayed themselves ad nauseam in Shepard’s head. She couldn’t help but wonder if she would have been better off shooting that creepy brat.

Chapter Text

PART I

Chapter 11:  The Radicle, Part II

9 months after the Reaper War
the outskirts of Paris, Earth

Crouched beneath a narrow window at the back entrance, Wrex and his men waited for word from the turian strike team at the other end of the warehouse. A sign on the high-rise next door blinked intermittently—Première Défense in vivid, red block letters—the light reflecting off puddles and interfering with Wrex's peripheral vision.

Wrex whispered into his commlink, "How much longer Garrus? My old knees can't take much more of this."

The rain was starting to come down harder. It drummed the surface of the alleyway, pitting the crushed granite.

"Just finalizing positions," replied Garrus.

Wrex clutched his shotgun to his chest and listened. He was tempted to peer through the window but knew better than to satisfy his curiosity. It was too dark; there were no lights on inside the building and the clouds had blotted out the moon.

At the front entrance, water was collecting in the cowl of Garrus' armor. He leaned forward to empty it, careful not to lose any of his gear along with the water. "I hate rain," he grumbled over the commlink.

"And the snow," recalled Wrex. "Remember Noveria? Heh...Shepard knew you hated it but she made you go you anyway. You bitched more about the cold than the rachni."

"There's a place I never want to go back to."

There was silence for another minute. Wrex could only hear the pounding of the rain. Then a crackle came over the commlink, "GO GO GO!"

Wrex and his men sprinted away from the building, then doubled back, charging at full speed. They burst through the flimsy bay door and stumbled into the warehouse. The crash of the collapsing doors reverberated through the building. They switched on their spotlights, directing the beams in slow, sweeping arcs across the room.

"Strosk, find a breaker or a switch," instructed Wrex. He wiped his brow with his hand, then shook the water off his head.

The rest of the team continued to search the warehouse, but there were no signs of life.

"No one here," Wrex said into the commlink.

"None in the front office either," replied Garrus.

The lights flashed on, their bluish tint sterile and nauseating. Now the men could see that the warehouse was bursting, its interior filled with rows of long metal tables, many littered with lab equipment and remnants of tech. Wrex inspected one of the stations. There was still a sample under the analyzer, as if whoever was here had left in a hurry. Along the walls, banks of tall, sturdy shelving were overflowing with parts, some of which appeared to have been lifted directly from dead Reapers. Larger pieces lined the floor in front of them.

Wrex was about to speak when Garrus and his strike team entered through the doors at the other end of the warehouse.

"Wow...look at this," muttered Garrus.

"It's the missing Reaper tech!" Wrex hollered across the cavernous space. He strode towards Garrus at a clip, secretly annoyed that he had come in guns figuratively blazing and there was nary a fight to be found.

"Laren, Quidros—help the krogan team sweep the rest of the premises. See if you can pinpoint where that distress signal was sent from."

"Yes, sir," they answered together.

Wrex picked up a ribbed tentacle-like thing from a table, brandished it, then threw it back immediately. "What's up with this place? It's like they just up and left in the middle of the night."

Garrus canvassed the shelves. "And they left all the Reaper parts behind. Why risk stealing it only to abandon it?"

"I don't know, but this place is freaking me out." Wrex kicked at a deconstructed oculus, its byzantine tangle of innards strewn about the floor.

Garrus' remaining man had been taking care to record their surroundings. A coalition team would need to take a precise inventory of all the parts, but until then there was basic information to upload to the joint task force. Every race in the galaxy had an interest in keeping the tech out of any one power's hands.

"General Vakarian, sir!" Laren's voice broke over the commlink. "We have a survivor in a safe room, security office, basement level."

"I'll be right there," Garrus responded. "Wrex, can you keep this area secure?"

Wrex patted the side of his shotgun. "Sure thing, pal."

Garrus rushed to the front of the building and flew down the stairs. In the security office, Quidros was standing outside the door to the safe room, keeping watch. Laren, inside, attended to the turian soldier who lay on the floor, barely conscious and bleeding.

Laren helped the soldier to sit upright against the wall and administered some medigel to his wounds. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Corporal Geryn Lathtalus," he wheezed.

"He's one of our missing men," remarked Garrus.

Corporal Lathtalus rolled his head up to look at him. "You got my distress signal?"

"We did, Corporal." Garrus squatted down to speak to Lathtalus eye-to-eye. "Where are the other missing men? The turians? The humans?" asked Garrus.

"Dead. They killed them all yesterday. I escaped, here." Lathtalus breathed heavily, his head falling forward toward his chest.

"Get him to the shuttle, he needs immediate medical treatment." Garrus put his hand on Lathtalus' shoulder. "We're going to get you out of here Corporal Lathtalus, hang in there."

Laren and Quidros carried him up the stairs and through the front entrance. Garrus went back to the warehouse where Wrex and his men were standing guard.

"We found one of our men. He's barely hanging on, but he's alive," Garrus reported.

"And the others?" asked Wrex.

"Dead, apparently. Killed yesterday. Looks like we got here too late."

"Damn."

"Yeah."

Vancouver, Earth

She had been lying in wait. Like a mountain lion stalking through the trees, she was ready to spring. As soon as her prey stepped into the street, she made the fateful leap. Khalisah Bint Sinan al-Jilani. (Except she had been crouching behind an oversized concrete barrier, and she was more like a snake than a mountain lion.) Shepard had a mind to throw a haymaker at the woman's head but decided against it. They were still standing in front of Alliance property, after all. Of all the people to survive the war...

Al-Jilani shoved her omnitool into Shepard's face. "Commander Shepard? Khalisah Bint Sinan al-Jilani… "

It's too early in morning for this shit. Shepard interrupted, "You know you don't need to repeat your full name every time we meet, right? I know who you are, we've spoken before. Unfortunately."

Al-Jilani ignored her comment and pressed on. "A moment of your time? I'd like to ask you a few questions."

The reporter hadn't asked anything yet, but Shepard was already irritated. Her morning run was the only thing keeping her fit these days and this snake was ruining it. "Do I have a choice? You're going to ask them anyway."

Again, al-Jilani avoided Shepard's bitter barbs. "Commander, you were the only member of the military to make it aboard the Citadel during the Battle of London. It's said that you were the one to activate the Crucible. Is that true?"

"Yes, I activated the Crucible that day.

"No one doubts that you saved countless lives with your actions. Most consider you a hero. But your actions have come with a steep cost—advanced technology was damaged or outright destroyed by the Crucible. Sources say you knew this would happen. Is that correct?"

Shepard knew that answering the question would get her into hot water, but she couldn't lie. "Yes."

A few passersby, who recognized the Commander, had slowed to gawk at the interrogation.

"Do you take responsibility for the damage you've done to galactic infrastructure? How will the galaxy function without working relays?"

"Look, all the best scientists and engineers currently in the Sol system are working hard on the problem. I'm sure they'll be fixed soon. We just need to be patient."

"Word is that progress on the relays has slowed to a crawl."

"I don't know anything about that."

"Then how do you feel about Sol being overrun by non-humans? There has been an unprecedented strain on our resources. The crime rate has skyrocketed. Some say Earth has become unliveable. Luna and Mars are experiencing similar problems."

Shepard felt her face go hot. The muscles along the side of her neck knotted into thick cords. "Overrun? They're not rats, al-Jilani. Those non-humans saved your ass. We owe them something, not the least of which is a chance to live."

"Then what about the millions of dextros who will likely starve if repairs aren't completed soon? The remaining quarian liveship has not been able to keep up with agricultural demand, and ship supplies are running low. Even remaining stores on the Citadel are nearing depletion. What do you have to say to them?"

The small crowd remained hushed as they listened for Shepard's answer.

"Some of my closest friends have dextro diets. Even if they weren't my friends, I would never willingly endanger anyone's life."

"Did you say close dextro friends?" Al-Jilani grinned smugly, thinking she had caught Shepard embroiled in a scandal. "Do you mean General Garrus Vakarian of the Turian Hierarchy? You've been seen in public together many times—you appear to have an intimate relationship outside of military operations. Do you mean to tell me you're in bed with a foreign power?"

Shepard could feel the crowd's eyes on her. A flicker of mischief flared across her face. "In the literal sense? Absolutely!" She flashed her best toothy smile. No point in taking the high road.

"So you admit it?" al-Jilani asked, accusingly.

Shepard could sense the foam forming in al-Jilani's mouth. She rolled her eyes. "This interview is over." Sidestepping the reporter, Shepard began to jog across the street.

"Commander Shepard! Commander Shepard!" al-Jilani brayed as she chased after her, waving her arm wildly to get her attention. She faltered to a stop when a man abruptly stepped in front of her, his arms held out wide to block her movement.

"She said this interview is OVER," he reprimanded. Al-Jilani tried to dodge him, but the man grabbed her firmly by the wrist.

"Owww, you don't have to grab me so hard," she whined.

"I'm sorry, Ms. al-Jilani. But you need to step off."

Shepard heard the man's voice and stopped at the other side of the street. "Kaidan!"

Kaidan let go of al-Jilani's wrist. "Leave, now."

She stumbled, still stunned by his admonishment.

He jogged to Shepard's side. "Hey, are you alright? She was pretty harsh back there."

"Yeah, thanks. She's always like that." Shepard let out a sharp exhale, then zipped up her sweatshirt and pulled the hood over her head. "What are you doing here? I thought you were away in London?"

"I was, I'm back in Vancouver for the rest of the month. Mind if I join you?" asked Kaidan.

"Just going for a light jog, nothing too intense." Shepard leaned forward against the wall of a building to stretch her calves. "You ok with that? You're in uniform."

"Sure, it'll wake me up. I've been meaning to cut back on the coffee anyway. It's been making my headaches worse."

"Ooooh, it hurts today," complained Shepard.

"Hmm? What's up?"

"Been having trouble with my leg. My physical therapist has been giving me lots of exercises to do, but I'm still having some pain. Sometimes my awareness is a bit off. Pins and needles too." Bringing a leg up behind her, Shepard held onto her foot for a standing quad stretch.

"Sounds rough."

"It's not the worst thing in the world. I broke bones and injured muscles so many times when I was a kid...I guess you could say pain and I grew up together." Shepard finished her stretch and shoved her hands into the deep pockets of her sweatshirt.

"I suppose that's why you're a tough person to kill."

Shepard shrugged. "I always came back stronger..." She had been looking directly at Kaidan as she spoke, but her gaze was unfocused and glassy.

The wailing siren of an ambulance sailed past somewhere above them. Kaidan scanned to see where it was coming from, but Shepard remained motionless, her expression blank.

"What's wrong?" he asked, as he turned his attention back to her.

"Nothing. Let's get going,"

Shepard began jogging west along the harbourfront, the hood still pulled tight over her head. They were silent for the first five minutes before Shepard asked Kaidan a question.

"How's your mom been holding up, Kaidan?"

"My mom? She's doing ok, actually. She misses my dad a lot. So, considering the circumstances..."

Kaidan kept pace at Shepard's side, mindful of her body's condition.

"Does she miss the orchard? Her friends there?"

"Mmm, maybe a little? She always liked the peace, the scenery. But she says she likes it better here. She says she's at home when she's with me, her 'only son'."

"I can understand," Shepard said, wistfully. "At least she has you."

Shepard's simple words bore weight. They made it harder for Kaidan to run as a sadness welled up in him. Shepard had told him about her family on Mindoir, their farm, and how she had lost everything so young. She never shared many details, but he knew how horrifying that moment in history had been. Enough to know that Shepard carried the pain with her at all times.

A ship's deafening horn blared as they jogged past a dock. It wasn't common to see waterborne ships much anymore, but with the stock of flying transport still low, a ship was as good as anything for moving cargo. Kaidan watched the workers on the dock hastily unload crates, scrambling to get the job done before the ship was scheduled to leave.

"Hey, Shepard... what do you think you're going to do...after they release you from the facility?" Kaidan's breathing was already audible.

"I don't know. Rejoin the Alliance, I guess. I'm still on leave, so no promotions for me until I'm done."

"You never really cared about...that anyway...right?"

"I care about getting the job done. Getting it done right. If that earns me a promotion, so be it," she asserted. A stoic answer from a stoic woman.

Kaidan struggled to keep up with her. "Gosh... I can't believe...I'm this out of...shape. Too much time sitting...not enough combat," he bemoaned.

"Come on, Kaidan! I was trapped under ruins for three days. I had my leg hacked off. If you can't keep up with me your health must be in deep shit!" she jeered.

"Aww...cut me some slack...Shepard!" Kaidan snapped back.

Shepard began to speed up, taking off on the trail that snaked through the waterside park. She laughed as she rounded the corner at the pier, her hood flying off her head as she streaked past fresh flowerbeds and an elderly couple out for stroll. She peaked over her shoulder at Kaidan; he had fallen behind by a good twenty meters. A satisfied grin filled her face.

Feeling a bit bad for abandoning her friend, she decided to stop. But as her foot came down to slow her, Shepard felt her calf go numb. She collapsed, falling sideways as her ankle rolled. She lay on the ground grimacing, grasping her ankle with both hands.

Kaidan had seen what happened and came sprinting down the path. "Shepard! …Are you alright?...What happened?" he huffed.

"I just tripped. I didn't tie my shoes properly," she lied.

Kaidan examined her ankle. "That already looks a little swollen. Come on, let's get you back to the facility."

"Goddamn it," Shepard groused. "There goes my run."

Kaidan helped her off the ground and draped her arm over his neck. She limped along as Kaidan held onto her.

"Don't say anything to Garrus about this…"

"Why's that? Afraid he'd be jealous of you leaning on some other guy?" Kaidan asked facetiously.

"Some other guy? It's you Kaidan…"

Shepard knew Garrus would never actually feel jealous of Kaidan, despite their brief romantic relationship. Garrus had every trust in her. He knew that she had put those feelings to bed a long time ago. But she couldn't risk Garrus hearing about her minor accident. He would worry and fuss over her, reminding her how she needed to take it easy. And he needed his head in the game as much as she did. If sparing him the worry meant letting Kaidan believe that Garrus would be a little jealous, so be it. A little white lie wasn't going to hurt anyone.

When they got back to the Alliance facility, Shepard insisted that Kaidan take her straight to her room and not the infirmary.

"I'll just ice it, it'll be fine," she convinced him.

"Are you sure? Not even some medigel?" he asked.

"Yes! Now stop, go away!" She made a shooing gesture with her hands. "You've got to get to work," she reminded him.

Kaidan saluted her in jest. "Yes ma'am. I'll check on you later?"

"Bah!" Shepard pretended to be annoyed.

"See ya, Shepard." Kaidan waved.

"Bye Kaidan."

Kaidan walked out, running his hand over his hair as he hoofed it back to headquarters. He was worried that Shepard was pushing herself too hard, too fast, but felt it wasn't his place to tell her so. She would certainly tell him where to shove it if he insisted too much. He was conflicted. He had a duty to fulfill. Admiral Hackett had asked him to keep watch over her six months ago, before she had even regained consciousness.

"I ha...have news. A-and a..faavor to..ask..." Admiral Hackett said that day.

"What's that sir?" asked Kaidan.

"I need you... to k-keep an eye on Sh-shepaard for me...when she's con..conscious again. You're close to her, she...trusts you. Keep the...the me-media away. They'll ha-have...questions. It will be...haaard on her. Sh-she did her...duty. W-we still...need her...go-ing forward. We-we need her...in top shape, m-m-entally and physic-ally."

I would have done it anyway, he wanted to say. Kaidan didn't mind taking on the task—not for a friend like Shepard—but he felt the Admiral had chosen the wrong person for the job. He didn't blame him, though. Hackett had no knowledge of their personal history together; they had kept things quiet aboard the SR-1, and it ended too soon for word to spread very far. Still, he thought someone like Garrus or even Miranda might do better, but they weren't Alliance.

As Kaidan hurried into headquarters, a young comms specialist tailed him, trying to get his attention. "General Alenko, sir!"

"Yes?" Kaidan made an about face.

"General Garrus Vakarian of the Hierarchy has made contact. He would like to speak with you over vidcom," the young woman informed him.

"I'll take it in the private comm room, thank you."

Intended for informal talks, the private comm room was just big enough for one or two people and a chair. Kaidan liked it better than the regular comm room, which made him feel ridiculous, like a child shouting in an auditorium. There wasn't much need for formality between the former squadmates anyway. They'd been through enough life threatening situations together—also eating, talking, spending downtime together—to drop the pretense of military rank.

Garrus' image materialized. He seemed tired; his shoulders sagged, and he appeared to be slouching in a seat rather than standing.

"Hey Garrus, what's going on?"

"Wrex and I located the source of the distress signal. We found one of our missing men. He's alive, but he says the other victims were executed, including your Alliance soldiers," said Garrus.

"Damn it. Was there anyone else there?"

"There was no one at the warehouse when we arrived. The stranger part is that they left all their Reaper tech behind. Didn't even bother to clean house, just up and vanished." Garrus shook his head slowly in disbelief.

"What? Then what did they want with it?"

"Beats me. We didn't get much information from our guy before he passed out. But from what I can gather, whoever these people are, they're interested in indoctrination. Maybe even resurrecting Reapers. They used the kidnapped soldiers as test subjects. They're after scientists and engineers now, possibly ex-Cerberus or anyone working at that level."

"We can't let this go on. We need to find the perpetrators," Kaidan rasped.

"I sent a video log to your comms specialist. It should give you an idea of what we're dealing with. The task force will need to send a team to take an inventory before they destroy anything."

"Understood. Thanks, Garrus. And thank Wrex for me too."

"Will do."

"I'll be in touch. Alenko out."

Kaidan paced back and forth in the small room, thinking on the best course of action. He would need to report this to Admiral Mikhailovich, but he knew the Admiral would chew him out if he didn't come with full details and a plan in hand. This was the same man who begrudged Shepard for taking command of an "overdesigned piece of tin". He was a stickler for protocol and stood by the status quo. Still, Kaidan would need more information. He decided to call Miranda, who he trusted to be efficient and discreet.

Miranda's voice rang through his omnitool. "General–sorry, Kaidan–how can I help you?"

"Miranda, I think I've got something else for you. It's not official, it would need to be done off the books. But I could use some intel."

"Finally, some real work," Miranda effused. "What do you need?"

"I need to know if any Cerberus operatives have re-organized. We also have reason to believe that ex-Cerberus scientists and engineers might be in danger. Are you still in touch with Jacob?"

"I haven't heard from him recently, but he and his family are on Luna."

"See if he knows where everyone's gone, we're going to need to warn them."

"Got it," Miranda confirmed.

"I'm still waiting on more details from Garrus, but I'll forward them to you ASAP."

"Of course."

Kaidan settled into the only chair. "Listen, Miranda, working with you might get me into some trouble, so it goes without saying that we need to do this quietly. Not to say I think you'll do otherwise—I know you can get the job done cleanly."

Since the end of the war, Miranda had been working with the Alliance in one capacity or another. But Kaidan had been the only one from the organization to give her their full trust. There had always been a caveat with the others—because of her long past with Cerberus, because of her father, because of her intimidating character. Kaidan forced himself to look past that. Despite the feelings that had led him to reject a resurrected Shepard, he recognized the value Miranda offered. People change, you should know that yourself, he told himself.

Miranda paused. "You know, I haven't known you as long as some of the other crew, but….you've changed, Kaidan.'

"I have?" he asked, a slight uplift in his voice.

"Maybe it's the position, or the experience, but you've grown...confident," Miranda observed. "And you're not looking to anyone for their personal approval. That's very attractive."

"You're just flattering me, right?"

"I don't flatter. It isn't in my nature to say things I don't mean." Miranda coughed. "Anyway, I should go. There will be lots to do. We'll speak again soon."

Kaidan sat silent in the room as the communication ended. He was glad they hadn't been speaking over vidcom, or Miranda might have caught the warm blush to his cheeks.

Chapter Text

PART I,

Chapter 12:  Fiddlehead

10 months after the Reaper War
Vancouver, Earth

It's dark. Shepard's calves are burning. Her neck aches. She's crouching—a fiddlehead,  furled and green. She isn't sure how long she's been like this. The only thing she can see is a thin line of light coming through a crack in the door. She doesn't know why she's there; she only knows she must not leave. "Stay inside. Don't move. Don't leave."

She puts an ear close to the door and listens. She hears shouting coming from another room. It sounds like the rumble of Batarian voices, but she isn't sure. Whoever it is is throwing things, destroying things—the sound of something heavy clattering to the floor, glass shattering, wood cracking and splintering.

Then, a long, terror-stricken scream. It sounds like her mom.

It's quiet again.

BANG!

She hears her dad, keening, begging for his wife's life.

"Don't...DON'T! Let go of her! Let her go! LET US GO!"

Pleading. Crying. Sobbing.

"We haven't done anything... why are you doing this..."

BANG!

BANG! BANG!

Tears begin to stream down Shepard's face. But she knows she can't cry, she can't make a sound, she can't move, she can't act. They'll hear.

"STOP CRYING, CIRCE! THERE'S NO USE CRYING. STOP CRYING!" she screams inside her head. She wipes her eyes on her sleeve.

After the sound of the last shot, there is silence again, for a long time.

Shepard stays curled in her ball until her body can't take it anymore. She shoves the door with her hand and it swings open with a thud. Shepard spills out onto the floor. 

She stands up slowly to find she's in her family's kitchen. Breakfast is still on the table: half-eaten plates of toast and three cups of tea. She walks into the living room. The shelves are bare. The floor is a sea of her mother's old books, thrown down, open, pages bent. Shards of glass set on end like briar thorns. A side table cracked in two. Streaks of fresh, bright blood, snaking from the table to the front door.

Shepard follows the streaks. They stop at the door. Her mom and dad aren't there. She shuffles into the front garden—the plants are brown and shriveled, it's overgrown with weeds. The sky is dark. Among the weeds, she sees someone on the ground. She runs to them.

It's not her mom, and it's not her dad. It's an Alliance soldier. The tag on the uniform reads: Owens. The lower half of his body is being eaten away by a yellow liquid—still fresh and oozing—his face barely recognizable. She stumbles back. Two more bodies: Private Beaufort, Private Martinez. Private Martinez is missing a boot, her hair is all but burned away. Private Beaufort is lying face down across her, as if trying to shield her from something. Shepard looks up. Dozens of Alliance marines. Her old unit. Mangled, burned, bloody, unrecognizable. Scattered across her family's farm. Shepard falls to her knees.

Why
Why am I
Left alone to remember,
Alone to forget.

A high, piercing sound. It's the shrill cry of a thresher maw. She freezes. She rises and turns around. It isn't a thresher maw, it's a harvester, swooping down over the hill. The hill, dotted with the shining spires of Thessia. Reapers have come raining down, their arms crushing everything beneath them. The ground shakes. Columns of dust rise and swirl around the spires. Thessia devoured. Screams echo in all directions.

Shepard squeezes her eyes shut, certain that this cannot be real. When she opens her eyes again, she'll be in her bed.

Then she hears it—a roar, something gaining speed. Something hot is filling the air.

She opens her eyes and peers into the sky. An asteroid hurtling towards the earth and gaining speed. Before she can run, before she can even think, she throws her arms out, her palms flat, and tries to stop it. It rushes at her—a flash of blinding, white light.

"Shepard. Shepard!" Garrus shook Shepard's shoulder as he raised his voice, his subvocals high and tense, barely audible over his main vocal cords. He had woken up to her moaning in her sleep before, or even punching her fists into the air, but never crying or screaming. "CIRCE! Circe, wake up!"

Shepard woke with a start, gasping for air. Her body was drenched in sweat, her face smothered with tears, her eyes still half shut. Immediately, she began to cry, then sob, unaware of Garrus' presence or his hand on her shoulder. The sobs soon gave way to hyperventilation. Her upper body trembled uncontrollably. Garrus sat up to press his hand firmly across her chest. His eyes darted back and forth across her face, and he began to worry—he could feel her heart galloping violently. He had never felt it beat so hard, so fast.

"Shepard, it's Garrus...you're ok, everything is alright. You're safe. I'm right here," he cooed. He stroked her head with the back of his hand several times.

Her breathing began to steady, but her heart was still beating furiously. Shepard's swollen eyes cracked open. "Garrus..." she whispered. She was near sobs again, tears still falling from the corners of her eyes. Her lips quivered, wet from her runny nose.

"Yes, I'm here, you're ok," he said once more.

She grabbed his hand and held it tight to her wet cheek. Her heart began to slow a little as she realized that she was in her bed, safe. "What's...wrong with me?" she asked, her voice shaking.

"I think you had a bad nightmare, love," he said. "But you're ok now. It's over."

"I tried to stop it, but I couldn't…." she said. She grimaced and began to cry again. Shepard frantically wiped at her eyes with her fists but couldn't stop herself.

"Shepard..."

If turians could cry, Garrus would have been on the verge of tears. He had never seen her so vulnerable. Instead, a low keen was starting at the back of his throat, choked and dry. In the field he could keep an eye on her flank, warn her when there was something incoming, even take the shot where she had failed. Here, in her own bed, he could only sit by and watch. He was helpless to fight an enemy he couldn't see.

Garrus stopped himself from making a sound. He knew she needed him to be calm. When her breathing had returned to normal, he held her close. "Come on, let's get you out of those wet clothes. That can't feel good."

He got up from the bed and searched through her locker. Shepard sat up, then lifted her arms as he peeled off her soaked tank. She stared down at the rumpled sheets, too ashamed to meet his gaze. Garrus gently wiped her face clean with a washcloth.

Sitting down next to her, he helped her pull a new shirt on. "Would you have a cup of tea? It might help."

"Sure..." Shepard replied, so quietly that it barely registered as an answer.

Garrus stood at the kitchenette, his back turned to her. He switched the heating element on and set the kettle down. "You know, when I returned to the Normandy—after Omega—I used to dream, a lot. Nightmares." Garrus leaned forward with his hands against the counter. "My squad would appear, night after night. Sometimes all of them, sometimes a few, sometimes just one."

"Why didn't you ever tell me?" Shepard brought her knees up to her chest and hugged her legs.

Garrus spoke over his shoulder. "We were in the middle of a suicide mission, everyone was under enough pressure already. Talking to someone about it, especially you..."

Shepard was silent.

"Anyway. Those dreams...they left me, eventually. After we caught up with Sidonis, and I learned the truth about what happened—let's just say the dreams weren't nightmares anymore." Garrus snatched two cups from the counter and turned them upright on the table.

The kettle gurgled, steam beginning to waft from its neck.

He wandered back to the bedside and sat with Shepard. "I don't know what you're dealing with, Shepard. I can guess, but I'm not going to assume. That's for you to share when you're ready. But if my opinion means anything—you need to face whatever this is head on. Or those nightmares will keep coming back."

"You didn't do that though, did you?" she asked.

"Not at first, no. After I lost my team...I was just surviving. Between the Normandy, Cerberus, our mission, you—there wasn't much time to think. I didn't let myself feel anything except anger. I just used it to keep going."

Steam burst from the kettle. The whine from its whistle grew to an insistent screech.

Garrus went back to the kitchenette and pulled two tea bags from a tin. "But you forced me to confront it when you didn't let me take the shot. I couldn't think in black and white anymore. And if I'd have taken the shot...well, I think I'd still be having those nightmares now."

As Garrus removed the kettle from the heat, the screech waned to a murmur. He placed the tea bags into the cups and flooded them with water.

"I don't know if I can do that right now," Shepard said softly. "I'm having a hard enough time just being with myself right now. Inviting ghosts...ghosts...maybe it's best to leave them resting."

"Maybe." Garrus handed her a cup of tea and settled down on the bed again. "Maybe not. But whatever you decide—I'm here to listen, if you have something to say."

Shepard bit her lower lip and nodded. They sat in silence for a few moments, sipping the hot tea.

Garrus inhaled audibly. "I know you don't like it when I say things like this—but have you thought about talking to Dr. Paulsen or Dr. Marques? Your heart was working overtime earlier...I was afraid something might happen to you."

"That's the worst I've had. I can usually keep it under control with breathing, but..."

Garrus interrupted, "You mean to tell me this has happened before?"

Shepard looked down, then ran her thumb over the lip of her cup. She didn't answer.

"Shepard..."

"I'll ask them for an appointment tomorrow." She took a sip of tea. "It's 3:30 in the morning right now, no point in waking anyone."

"Good." Garrus' patted her thigh and squeezed.

Shepard gazed up from her cup. Her locker, which was directly across from the bed, was still open. She stood up and set her cup down on the table. As she crossed over to the locker to close it, she caught sight of her service medal on the floor, several feet away. It was a bit odd, since she normally kept the frame atop her locker, but she didn't think much of it. Shepard picked up the frame, dusted it off, and placed back where it belonged.

This time when Shepard woke up, she wasn't hyperventilating or screaming, or even crying. Her heart had been beating fast, but she had succeeded in slowing it with her breathing routine. It was a good start. She dropped her feet to the floor. Resting her elbows on her knees, she ran her hands through her loose, tangled hair.

Shepard brought up her omnitool to check the time. She squinted. 10:30 am. "SHIT! My appointment! I'm soooo late!" she shouted at no one.

In her rush to the locker, she stumbled over a pair of shoes that were left in the middle of the room. What the fuck! She hastily stripped off her tank and her shorts and let them drop to the floor. At the locker, she snatched at a clean shirt, then heard a seam in the neck rip as she tugged to get it off the hanger. "OH COME ON!"

After finally getting dressed, she flew through the door, holding an unopened energy bar between her teeth and shoving an arm through her jacket sleeve. FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK. FUUUUUCK! Suffice it to say, Shepard despised being late.

Shepard gnawed at the last of her bar as she entered the medical facility. "I'm here to shee Doctor Paulshen. Cawmander Cirshe Shepard," she said, still chewing. The receptionist checked her in, then pointed her to the outpatient waiting room. A familiar face was there to greet her.

"Well, well, well...look who decided to grace us with her presence. It's the devastatingly beautiful Commander Shepard." Garrus sauntered over and held a lock of her hair between his fingers. "And her hair is especially...fine, today."

Shepard's fingers caught in her hair as she tried to comb them through. "Crap, I knew I forgot something." She hastily gathered her hair in a short ponytail and tied it with the elastic around her wrist.

"Late night?" he asked.

"Late morning!" Shepard replied. "What are you even doing here? I thought you had a meeting with Kaidan and Admiral Bhatt?" Shepard plopped down onto one of the waiting room chairs.

Garrus sat down next to her. "I asked Primarch Victus for a personal day. You know what he said? He said, 'Garrus, you never ask me for anything. Leave.'"

"Hah! Short and to the point, my kind of man."

Garrus gave his mandibles a quick flap. "Oh, really?"

Shepard shrugged. "I meaaaan... have you seen the guy? He's pretty impressive."

Garrus clapped his hand to the top of her shoulder. "I love you, Shepard, never change."

"In all seriousness, you should be spending your day off doing something relaxing, not sitting around here." Shepard balled up the wrapper from her energy bar and shoved it into her pocket. "You're exhausted, Garrus. Don't think I haven't seen the bags under your eyes."

"Bags?" Garrus asked, confused.

"Ok, metaphorical bags."

"I know, you're right. But I've got your back. Just like you have mine."

A nurse poked his head out of the examination ward. "Commander Shepard?"

"Ooh, that's me." Shepard raised her hand.

"I'll be here when you're done. Good luck in there, love."

Shepard smiled brightly, wiggling her fingers at Garrus in a funny little wave as she followed the nurse into the ward.

The cold surface of the examination table prickled Shepard's skin, even through the folds of her clothing. She lay still as the scanner passed over her body.

"Doing ok there, Commander?" Dr. Paulsen asked through the intercom. He was inside the control room, safe from any possible mishaps.

"Yep," she answered. She relaxed her gaze as the light passed over her eyes.

"After this pass, I'm going to need you to try and activate your biotic powers. I know it might be difficult, but we need to see what's happening while you're actively engaging your eezo nodes. I've set up a target dummy on the other side of the room."

"Got it."

Shepard eased off the table and stood facing the dummy. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them again. Stretching her arm out, she tensed her jaw and let the sensation of control wash over her.

"Understood, Primarch, I'll be there right away," Garrus said into his omnitool. He returned to reception and left a message for Shepard with the woman at the desk. He felt awful having to leave before her appointment was over, but Miranda had come back with some vital intelligence and Kaidan insisted that they needed to act right away. Shepard would understand.

BANG!
BANG!
BANG!

All three rounds had gone through the head. Shepard reset the target and switched weapons. She needed to brush up on her incapacitating shots, but she wasn't in the mood for mere wounds. Kill shots only today.

BANG!
BANG!
BANG!

Right through the gut with her shotgun.

There wasn't enough ammo in the building to satisfy Shepard's need. She could have kept going well into the night, but active servicemen had their own slotted times, and they took priority at the Alliance gun range.

When she returned home, Shepard collapsed onto the bed, her shoes and jacket still on. She kicked her dangling feet as she scrolled through her messages. She hadn't checked them for a few days and her inbox was filling up. The first message was from Liara:

Hello Shepard,

I hope this message finds you well. I apologize for taking so long to reply to you, but our mission on Mars has lasted far longer than we ever expected. The work has been difficult.

Javik and I have made a major discovery here. It may change the course of the future as we know it. I am not at liberty to speak of it yet, but I hope we can discuss it in person when I see you next. Javik sends his greetings. Take care of yourself.

Your dear friend,
Liara

Shepard wondered what it was that they had found, what had been keeping them away for so many months. She wasn't going to know for a while, she suspected. And if Liara couldn't mention anything about it in her message, then it must be big. She replied:

Liara,

Whatever it is you found, I hope you stay safe. You and big finds...things have a history of turning dangerous ;) But I know you can handle yourself. Having Javik at your six doesn't hurt either. Take care.

-Shepard

The next dozen or so messages appeared to be from members of the public, with subjects like "Our Hero!", "you skanky turian whore", "TRAITOR", and "biotic tips?". Shepard skipped over them and opened the next message.

Circe-

Left a message at reception, but just in case you didn't get it, I wanted you to know I didn't leave because I wanted to. Miranda got some good intel that we needed to act on fast. Catch up with you when we return. Don't be mad at me?

Hope the appointment wasn't too bad.

Love,
G

Garrus, always so thorough. How could she be mad when he was doing something good? All their work to get rid of the Reapers—someone bringing them back would be catastrophic. The undoing of every sacrifice that was made in the name of the galaxy's survival.

Garrus had come a long way since his days at C-Sec, the rogue officer with a rebellious streak. He and Tali had been the ones who stuck by Shepard, thick and thin. And a mere four years later he had become a general in the Hierarchy, calling shots and commanding his own large cadre of people. Shepard was proud to stand shoulder to shoulder with him. Or at least she would, if she were herself again. She only wished that she could be wherever he was, with him. She missed it, their simpatico connection in the field—the two of them in a deadly, carefully choreographed dance. She wanted to run, she wanted to duck, to aim, to shoot, to punch. To let her biotics loose on an enemy that deserved it.

Shepard hesitated at the last message in her inbox. It was from Dr. Paulsen. The subject read: "Your latest results". She opened it.

Commander Circe Shepard:

Attached you will find a copy of the results from your latest slate of lab tests. If you have anymore questions beyond what we already discussed, please don't hesitate to contact me directly.

Sincerely,
Dr. Robert Paulsen
Systems Alliance Medical Corps

Shepard skimmed the report. There was a long list of terms and numbers that didn't mean much to her, but the summary caught her attention. Phrases like "extensive nerve damage" and "inadequate electrical signals" sent heat flushing through her head.

She had taken care to leash her grief when Dr. Paulsen explained his initial findings at the medical facility. That her neurons were firing incorrectly. That while her biotic nodes were confirmed to be intact, the electrical charge required to engage them was weak. That their pathways were somehow damaged or not working as they should.

"Commander, when was the last time you remember using your biotic abilities?" Dr. Paulsen had asked.

"The Battle of London, before I made a run for the beam," she answered.

"Nothing after that?"

Shepard thought back. No, she hadn't used her powers at all after travelling through the Conduit. Nothing since London. She blinked slowly, then shook her head at the doctor.

"I can only speculate, but something may have happened in London, something that caused major damage to the system that connects your brain to your eezo nodes. Perhaps an overload of some kind? Dr. Marques had proposed it, but Miranda and I didn't think that was possible."

Shepard was silent as she stifled a scream.

"And my heart?" Shepard asked.

"Your heart? There's nothing wrong with your heart as far as I can see, Commander. I'm afraid it's more than just a physiological problem."

Now, alone in the confines of her room, Shepard cut the tether. She yanked off a shoe and hurtled it across the room, knocking down datapads that had been stacked on the table. Shaking her head violently, she snarled, then screamed as she pelted the other shoe at the door. The shoe ricocheted and landed at the foot of the bed. Shepard was breathing hard. She didn't want to cry—no, she wanted to tear everything apart.

Shepard stormed to her locker and slammed the door shut. Just as she seized her service medal, she heard a rap at her door. She swivelled her head and stared, wondering who would dare visit now. She put the medal down. Taking quick breath through her mouth, she smoothed her hair and answered the door.

"Kaidan!" Shepard forced a smile.

"Hey, Shepard. I just popped by to see how you're doing. Garrus mentioned that he had to leave in the middle of your appointment."

"He did? I thought you went with him?" she asked. She was still breathing hard.

"No, he's on Luna with Miranda. Admiral Mikhailovich has me pushing papers today." Kaidan was still standing outside the door. He stared at the hairs sticking up from the back of Shepard's head. "Do you mind if I come in?"

"Um, I don't know if I'm up for company right now."

Kaidan looked past Shepard's shoulder and saw the datapads littering the floor. "Are you sure?"

Shepard raked her fingers over the back of her head. "Yeah, I think I'd rather just spend some time alone right now."

"Is everything ok, Shepard? You seem a little...frazzled."

Shepard crossed her arms and leaned against the doorway. "Frazzled? Like how?"

"I don't know—you just seem...tense."

"Look, I'm just not up for a visit right now, ok?"

"But..."

Shepard interrupted. "You don't need to babysit me, Kaidan. I'm fine by myself."

"No, of course. I just—"

She cut him off again. "I'm glad you understand."

Kaidan gawked helplessly at Shepard. Her eyes were cold and hard. He tried to reach out one more time. "Listen, if you want to talk later, I'm around."

"Sure. Goodbye Kaidan."

Shepard walked away from the door and let it shut in Kaidan's face. She had never been so cruel to him as she had just now; as irascible as she was, she knew it was no way to treat her friend. But throwing him across the courtyard was not an option. It was the kinder choice to let the door close in his face.

Turian Dreadnought

"Primarch! There's been a transmission from Luna. The ground team is reporting multiple causalities. They're evacuating immediately," a turian recruit reported.

Primarch Victus rose from his seat on the bridge. "Where is General Vakarian?"

"He's still on the moon sir, his strike team is pinned down at the top floor of the First Defense building," replied an ensign.

"Get me Admiral Bhatt at the Alliance ASAP. And let's ready our corvettes for fire support if needed," the Primarch ordered.

"Yes sir!" the ensign acknowledged.

Chapter Text

PART I,

Chapter 13: Phorophyte/Epiphyte *

10 months after the Reaper War
Vancouver, Earth
Alliance Headquarters

As the display at the terminal faded, Admiral Mikhailovich stood in the middle of the comm room. He paced back and forth, hands behind his back, keeping his eyes on Kaidan the entire time.

"Do you have any idea what you may have exposed us to, General Alenko?" A scowl engulfed the Admiral's face.

Kaidan was standing at attention near the terminal's console. "I'm not sure what you mean, sir." He worried that he had gotten Miranda into more trouble than she was prepared for, but there wasn't much to be done about that now. All he could do was defend her and be steadfast in his support.

"Miranda Lawson is a 'former' Cerberus operative. And a very powerful one at that. While some others in the Alliance have been foolish enough to rely on her, I will not be so easily swayed. Cerberus is a terrorist organization, first and foremost. They'll use any means necessary to achieve their goal, including planting agents within government agencies."

Kaidan—normally reticent with his senior officers—scoffed. "Sir, have you forgotten that Commander Shepard also worked alongside Cerberus for a time?"

"Don't get lippy with me, Alenko. Commander Shepard came back as Alliance—relieved of duty—with intelligence on Cerberus, the Reapers, and the Normandy in hand. She turned the tide of the war." Admiral Mikhailovich curled his lip in disgust. "What has Ms. Lawson done, hmm? Have perfect genes? Her father was a monster."

"Admiral, sir, Ms. Lawson is the reason we were able to launch this mission in the first place. Placing blame on her is senseless. She was simply missing a piece of information. They were taken by surprise—"

Admiral Mikhailovich gesticulated grandly to emphasize his point. "And look at the result! Needless causalities. One of the turians' generals was nearly killed! What a disaster that could have been! Just what we need, to be on the turians' bad side." The Admiral's cheeks had gone red and splotchy, like a hanar with scale itch.

The two officers heard the sound of heels clicking with a brisk, steady cadence and turned to see who was approaching. Admiral Bhatt entered the room.

Admiral Bhatt stood tall, taking the scene in with her hawk-like eyes. She walked to Kaidan's side. "What's going on here, gentleman?" she asked.

"I was just admonishing General Alenko here. He seems to think that getting Miranda Lawson involved in our operation on Luna was a good idea."

"Admonishing?" Admiral Bhatt asked, astonished. "Miranda Lawson is the one who provided us with the intelligence, is she not?"

"Yes, but..."

"Then what exactly is the problem, Admiral Mikhailovich?" Touching her fingertips to her temple, Admiral Bhatt slicked a few runaway strands against the side of her sleek, dark hair.

"She's not Alliance, Admiral. How can we really trust her?"

Admiral Bhatt cracked a tight-lipped smile at Admiral Mikhailovich. "Why don't we discuss this matter between the two of us...privately." She turned to Kaidan. "Thank you, General Alenko, you are dismissed. We will hold a debrief when our team returns from Luna."

"Yes, sir!" Kaidan saluted both admirals and left them alone in the comm room.

Luna
First Defense Building

Garrus sat on a bench in the lobby of First Defense, cradling his forearm. A blistering graze wound, but nothing he couldn't handle. The dull pain in his shoulder, however, had erupted into painful spasms. Dislocation by biotic throw was not pleasant.

The lobby's revolving door swung open in a dramatic whorl. Wrex stormed in, armor clanking against his thick hide, late to the party again.

"You know, I'm beginning to take this personally, Vakarian," he needled.

"Oh Wrex, don't pout. There's plenty of violence to go around." Garrus hissed at the spasm seizing his upper arm.

"Like hell there is!" Wrex said brashly. "Ugh, this place is so boring."

"Well you didn't miss much. Thanks to Miranda and Jacob my team made it out alive. We have a few injured turians and two Alliance soldiers with mild concussions, but overall a clean job."

"So, did you catch 'em?"

"Uh huh. She's dead. And the rest of her thrall with her. I don't know how many more of them there are out there, but she was definitely the brains of the operation." Garrus shifted to lean back against the wall behind him. "You wanna know the messed up part? The Reaper parts….they don't even work," he mocked. "They tried to indoctrinate their test subjects, they even tried to reconstruct a Reaper core—none of it worked. It's like the Crucible made it impossible. Or the Catalyst? I don't know, Shepard's explanation was a bit out there."

Wrex shrugged.

"In any case, Miranda's already putting together a report. But I might ask Tali what she makes of it—its not like anything we've seen before." Garrus winced as the ache in his shoulder rolled into another spasm.

Wrex watched as he strained to keep the pain from showing on his face. "That looks like a nasty one. I think your arm's 'bout to fall off."

"When you've been shot in the face with a rocket, a dislocated shoulder is a walk in the park. Besides, I got that bastard back good. One concussive round and then a clean shot between the eyes with a pistol."

Wrex walloped the wall behind Garrus with a fist, sending crumbs of concrete raining down to the floor. "That's it. When I get back to Tuchanka, we're starting a gladiator tournament. All my men on their best behavior for almost a year? It's killing us, Garrus!"

Garrus snickered, then winced again from the movement.

The bench bowed slightly as Wrex sat, forcing him to balance on its edge. "Speaking of Tuchanka...have you heard from Liara?" he asked.

"Liara? Not in a while. Why?"

"She sent me a message yesterday." He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. "She hinted that the relay would be working soon."

Garrus flicked his mandibles involuntarily. "I thought they hit a roadblock?"

"I don't know, but Liara–she's got...Shadowbroker level intel. I trust her to have good information."

"It's not going to do any good without the partner relay," Garrus reminded him.

"One thing at a time, my friend. One thing at a time."

Garrus heard the rhythmic thump of the door and glanced over to see who was there. Quidros stood in the vestibule and raised his voice at the general. "Evac shuttle is here, sir! Would you like some help?"

"Yes, thank you, Sargent." Garrus held his arm and stood up gingerly.

Wrex sighed. "Time to get back to patrols and politics, I suppose."

"See you on the other side?"

"Mmmhmm."

Vancouver, Earth

A monolithic brushstroke of gray—it was overcast again. The mountains were barely visible below the line of clouds that shrouded their peaks. The sky was spitting too. Shepard estimated she’d run a good ten kilometers by looping west along the water past False Creek and Granville Island, then along English Bay and north to the Stanley Park District. If she crossed the bridge, she could get an even longer tour in. It was the first time in weeks that she’d run this long without any pain. Hesitant to push her luck, She stopped for a stretch near an information terminal at the foot of the bridge.

A spherical hologram materialized as it detected motion in its periphery. “Hello, welcome to the City of Vancouver Information Terminal. I can provide information or assistance in the following areas: geography, history, services, and tourism.”

“Hah,” said Shepard, surprised it was even functioning.

“Tell me about the Stanley Park District,” Shepard said as she sent her arms up and out for a forward bend.

“The Stanley Park District is a bustling business corridor, home to some of Earth’s most prominent companies in the medical and creative industries. Its main thoroughfare features sleek high-rise spires, as well as many midrise residential towers and shopping complexes. The Stanley Park District is named after Stanley Park, a large public park once located in the same area.”

Shepard surveyed the jagged, battle-scarred cityscape and snorted. While the city had repaired its many VIs, they’d forgotten to update the codex entries for the new post-war reality.

“So this whole district was a public park?” she asked the VI.

“Stanley Park was comprised of 405 hectares of densely forested park land. Unlike other urban parks, Stanley Park was not designed by a single architect, but was the product of forest and urban evolution.”

Shepard eyes scoured the land once more, searching for any remnant of what had once been a natural treasure. Nothing.

The VI continued, “In 2126 CE, the City of Vancouver determined that more commercial and residential development was needed to accommodate a sudden spike in population growth. Primary consideration was given for economic improvement and civic vitality.”

Reaching her hands together over her head, Shepard arced her arms to the right to stretch her side. She recalled her carefree childhood on Mindoir: bounding over rocks, scaling trees, and catching native initsee flies. That kind of upbringing was a luxury now.

“That’s a shame,” she said to no one. “They couldn’t have found a compromise?”

“I apologize, I am not able provide an opinion on that topic. As an informational VI, I may only provide you with objective facts and statements.”

She stared at the orb, forgetting she was talking to a what amounted to an enhanced database. If EDI were here, she would have formulated a nuanced reply, elaborating on the debate between practical needs and preservation. She’d have read Walden, or perused ancient Taoist texts between the time Shepard had said the words “shame” and “compromise”, then quoted a line from Walt Whitman to make her point. She never simply spat out facts. She found ways to synthesize knowledge with her own experiences, even rewriting her own code to accommodate them if necessary. She lived and she learned. And in that regard, Legion too had been no different.

Shepard lowered her arms and stared at the VI hovering listlessly above its projection platform. Again, it repeated, “Hello, welcome to the City of Vancouver Information Terminal. I can provide information or assistance in the following areas: geography, history, services, and tourism.”

A half surpressed laugh sputtered from her lips. She pressed a hand to her mouth as it distorted into a soft sob.

Shepard had nearly begun to weep when her omnitool pinged. It was Garrus. She wiped the tears away with her sleeve and sniffed, hopelessly collecting herself as best she could before answering his call.

"Hey, everything ok on Luna?" she asked, painting her voice with a sunny inflection.

Garrus huffed. "Yeah. Got a bad graze on my arm and a dislocated shoulder, but we made it out. I just wanted to let you know."

"Not the worst, then. I'm happy you're ok. Sounds like I missed the fun again though." Shepard swiped at her eye with her fingertips.

"Heh, second time I've heard that recently." Garrus paused. "Hey, you ok Shepard? You...you sound like you've been crying."

"Oh no, no, I'm just out for a run. It's raining out, so it's a bit cold—it's making my nose run." Another white lie. There had been a lot of those since she had woken up on the Osaka.

"Hmmm, ok. Then I'll let you know when I'm in Vancouver next. Primarch Victus will want to see me after I'm treated, before I head to Alliance Headquarters for a debrief. See you then?"

"Yeah, of course. Love you, G."

"I love you too, Circe."

2 days later
Vancouver, Earth

Miranda's wavy, sable hair flew out behind her as she strode out of the Alliance Headquarters lobby, the belt hanging down from her hip tapping at her upper thigh. She had worn her signature poker face throughout the debriefing; now it was beginning to come undone. Miranda pinched her lips together and frowned.

Kaidan—who had tried to speak with Miranda after the meeting—chased after her as she stepped out onto the busy street. "Miranda! Miranda! Wait up!" He waved enthusiastically.

Miranda looked over her shoulder and let out an abrupt sigh. She wasn't upset with Kaidan, but she didn't feel like rehashing the same talking points or defending her actions to anyone.

"Miranda, thanks for stopping. I just wanted to speak with you alone," said Kaidan.

"Yes?" she replied tersely. Miranda was not feeling particularly charitable at the moment.

"Um, can we take a little walk, maybe? I'd rather not be near the building."

"You and me both," panned Miranda.

Kaidan rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm sorry about what happened back there. Admiral Mikhailovich has always been a short-sighted hardass—as far back as I can remember anyway. He's not someone who likes to do things...differently."

"I surmised as much." She clasped her hands behind her back and pivoted on her heel. They strolled side by side, not having any particular destination in mind.

"I hope you don't take it personally." Kaidan's shoulders tensed as he dug his hands into his pockets. "Admiral Bhatt was impressed by your work. She said you remind her of herself in her younger days..."

"Well, she didn't express any of that to me," Miranda replied.

She heard the sweet little twitter of birds and peered up to see where it was coming from. The small birds—a pair of song sparrows—hopped down from the ledge they were perched on. They observed Kaidan and Miranda, then hurriedly pecked at the ground before flying away.

"No, of course, I know. But you know how it is, she needed to let the Admiral save face," explained Kaidan.

"Sure."

Kaidan thought carefully before offering his next words. He didn't want to come off as dense or dismissive; he genuinely respected Miranda and wanted to show her as much. "Miranda—have you ever thought about joining the Alliance, like, officially? I think you'd make a fantastic officer. With your leadership skills and tactical knowledge, you could do a lot of good there."

Miranda's steps slowed as she cast her eyes down. "While I appreciate your vote of confidence, there's no way I'd consider joining the Alliance. There are too many of the old guard like Admiral Mikhailovich still in power. And even if there weren't, the Alliance operates with too much red tape for my liking. I'd much rather work on my own terms."

"Ok, I'll grant you that." Kaidan narrowed his eyes and tilted his head at Miranda. "You know, now that I think about it, the Normandy was a magnet for people like you—Garrus, Thane, Mordin, Legion, Zaeed, Kasumi, Wrex, Jack, Grunt...heck, even Shepard, a bit. Every one of them playing outside of some boundary."

"What does that say about you then, Kaidan?" Miranda asked.

"What do you mean?"

Miranda lifted her chin toward the sky. "Well, you became a Spectre for one. Two, you rejoined Shepard on the Normandy even after you were promoted. It seems to me that you too enjoyed having a bit of freedom to bend the rules."

"Stranger things have happened, I suppose." Kaidan shook his head. "And they always teased me for being uptight..."

Miranda laughed quietly. "You know, they said the same thing about me."

"Hey, do you have somewhere to be right now?" Kaidan stopped at the street corner.

"No, why?"

"Wanna grab a bite to eat? I skipped breakfast, I'm starving."

Miranda smiled softly. "Yeah, sure, why not."

Chapter Text

PART I

Chapter 14: Photosynthesis

1 year, 2 months after the Reaper War

Tuesday, afternoon
Turian Dreadnought

Garrus sighed, flicking through Miranda's latest report on the remaining criminals who had been involved with the contraband Reaper tech. Their joint human-turian operation was finally in the clean-up stage, but it would probably be a couple of months before they caught the last person responsible for killing their soldiers. Primarch Victus—a man steeped in honor and justice—agreed to let Garrus stay behind in Sol until all matters were neatly tied up.

Truthfully, Garrus felt relieved that he didn't need to return to Palaven right away. He was worried about Shepard; her nightmares hadn't been getting much better, and she wasn't making much progress with any of her therapy. She took great pains to conceal her hardship from everyone—including Garrus—but slip-ups were inevitable, and she was slipping a lot more lately.

Wednesday, evening
Turian Dreadnought

The Turian Hierarchy's flagship dreadnought hung above Earth, surrounded by what remained of the turian fleet. Primarch Victus stood on the bridge of the dreadnought and broadcast his message for the entire fleet to watch.

"My turian brothers and sisters, the time has finally come for us to return home. While we may have lost the much of our fleet in the war, we survivors will return with news of victory.

Our time in Sol has not been wasted. We have made alliances that have saved lives, and will continue to save lives. Alliances that will bring us through to a new era of peace and prosperity. Let us not forget the old wounds we have mended, nor the new bonds we have forged.

I want to thank each and every one of you for everything we have accomplished here. You have stood amongst the brave, and it's thanks to you that the Turian Hierarchy will live on. I know how difficult it has been living so far away from your loved ones and your homes. But we lived to fight another day, and now we will bring that fighting spirit home, so we may rebuild Palaven, and our colonies, and come back stronger. Die for the cause!"

"Die for the cause!" the servicemen repeated in unison.

Primarch Victus gave the signal for the fleet to leave Earth. One by one, the turian vessels initiated their FTL drives, blinking away to the Sol relay.

Vancouver, Earth

Shepard sat alone in the Alliance courtyard, looking up into the evening sky. She could see the outline of the Citadel—its five arms open like petals on a flower, a symbol of galactic cooperation, diplomacy, and negotiation. It had witnessed cycle upon cycle of creation and destruction. It had served as a gateway for the Reapers. It had been the home of the Catalyst. The Citadel was the question and the answer all wrapped up in one. And a year after the war it had been rebuilt anew. Little by little, the people were beginning to return. Even if the Citadel was orbiting above Earth instead of neutral Council Space, it bestowed a sense of normalcy upon its inhabitants.

If the Citadel was the harbinger of a Reaper's birth, then the Crucible was the harbinger of its death. The Crucible—the collective endeavour of an entire galaxy—was dismantled, its parts used to repair the Citadel, or in the reconstruction of vessels and other vital infrastructure. In this small solar system with limited resources, any and all things were deconstructed and reused for new purposes.

The mass relay was the only exception to that rule. For a year, the priority of every capable being in Sol was to bring the mass relay back online. It didn't matter that they had no way of knowing whether its partner relay was operational. The hope that all the stranded would be able to return home drove months of research and innovation. For humans, removing the pressure on their home system would be a welcome relief.

Countless civilizations had come and gone without knowing how the relays functioned, or who had really built them. They used them under the assumption that things would work as they always had. Their suns would always shine, their planets would always be, and the mass relays would always send them to far flung corners of the galaxy.

Wednesday, early morning
Vancouver, Earth

BAM BAM BAM!

BAM BAM BAM!

Someone is trying to knock down their front door. Shepard's father is whispering to her.

"Circe, you need to hide. Don't make a sound. Don't come out—for anything. You have to survive. Promise me. You need to survive."

Shepard hugs her dad tight and doesn't want to let go.

"Go, hide... now!"

BAM BAM BAM!

Shepard jolted awake. She shoved the bedding away from her shoulders and sat up.

Confused about where she was, she listened, then looked around the room before realizing she was alone. Through the small tinted window near the door, she could see it was still dark out. Shepard checked her omnitool for the time. 3:58 am. Who the hell is at my door at this hour? It'd better be Armageddon, or at least a damn fire.

BAM BAM BAM!

"JUST A MINUTE!" Shepard shouted at the door, her voice throaty and crackling. She grabbed her sweatshirt from the chair and slipped it over her head.

Still barefoot and in shorts, Shepard pressed the bypass on the door and grunted. Garrus looked down at her; his mandibles flared into a big grin.

"G-Garrus?" she stuttered. "It's four in the morning, why the hell are you here?" There was a lot she could forgive him for, but he knew that interrupting her sleep was one of the unforgiveable sins. There must be something wrong, she thought.

"Get some clothes on, Shepard, we're going out," he said cheerfully.

Shepard furrowed her brow. "W-what?...NOW?"

"Yes."

"I don't understand..." Shepard rubbed her forehead, still wondering why a charming turian sniper was standing at her doorstep at FOUR IN THE FUCKING MORNING.

"I don't need you to understand. I need you to get dressed," the sniper said mysteriously.

"Um, ok...give me a sec."

Shepard went back inside and quickly put a pair of joggers on over her shorts. She got her running shoes and jammed her feet in, not bothering with socks or doing up the laces.

"Follow me." Garrus walked her across the courtyard and to a side street off the main thoroughfare. He stopped at a small, wheeled vehicle that took up the width of the street.

"What...what is this thing?" asked Shepard.

"It's called a car." Garrus crossed his arms and leaned his backside against it, like he had seen models do so many times in those gaudy skycar ads on the Citadel.

Shepard cocked an eyebrow. "It's so... small."

"Come on, it isn't the size that counts," Garrus replied innocently.

"Isn't it though?" Shepard flashed a saucy smile and waggled her eyebrows.

"Damn it Shepard, must your mind always be this dirty?"

"Don't act like you don't like it," she said, lowering her voice. Shepard stepped close to Garrus and wrapped her hands around his neck. "Why not just take a skycar?"

Garrus put his hands around her waist and drew her closer. "They say the view is better by ground." His subvocals drew out into a long buzz as he felt her soft belly press against him.

"Do you even know how to drive this thing?"

"Mmmm, not very well—but I'm willing to bet I can drive it better than you drive the Mako."

"Hey!" Shepard carped.

"Shepard, the last time I rode in that vehicle with you we were on some rocky, godforsaken planet, and you managed to flip the old girl over. Poor Tali had to finish the mission with vomit in her helmet. Not to mention all the calibrations I had to make when we got back to the Normandy."

"Heh..." Shepard thrust her bottom lip out sheepishly and shrugged.

Garrus brushed his nose against her long bangs. "So are you getting in or what?"

"Alright, if it'll make you happy, honey," Shepard teased.

Garrus opened the passenger side door and let Shepard settle into her seat before shutting it. He came around to the driver's side and stepped in.

"You're going to need to buckle that belt there," he warned her.

"Which belt?" she asked.

"This." Garrus leaned over and stretched the belt over her torso, then clipped the latch into the buckle.

"Awwwww..."

"What?"

"I thought you were leaning over to kiss me," she pouted.

"Oh...well I won't say no to that." Garrus held the steering wheel with one hand, then craned his neck forward and kissed her lightly on the lips. "Ready to go now?"

Shepard nodded shyly. Garrus started the car and turned on the navigation system.

"This'd better be good, Vakarian. I don't like being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night—unless it involves a) midnight snacks, b) sex, c) explosives, or d) all of the above."

"I can give you the first two if you like. The third I'm not so keen on." Garrus pulled the car forward and turned onto the main thoroughfare. "Check the back seat."

Shepard looked over her shoulder and found an unopened bag of potato chips resting in the middle seat. She yanked the crinkly package and plopped it into her lap.

"Garrus! You know me too well! Where did you even get these?" Shepard promptly tore the bag open and began munching.

"Mmm, I might know a certain quarian who's been trading her excellent engineering work for supplies and favors."

"Aw—thanks Tali, you're the best!" Shepard chewed contentedly, her smile insouciant and childlike. Plucking another chip from the bag, she reached over to feed one to Garrus before realizing what she was doing. "Oh crap, sorry. I could have ruined the entire date!"

"Date? Is this a date?" Garrus asked impishly.

"What else would you call this?"

"Mmmm... photosynthesis?"

Shepard stopped mid-bite and wrinkled her brow as she stared at him, but didn't ask what he had meant. She liked his mysterious answer.

They reached the main road out of the city and took off going north. Done snacking, Shepard rolled up the bag and set it down by her feet. She gazed out of the passenger side window as the shadowy city flickered by—like the slow exposure of a camera shutter, clicking over and over, its image caught between each closure. There was little light at this time of day, save for the car's headlights illuminating the empty road.

As they entered the Stanley Park District, Shepard gazed up at the buildings—a few still standing, most others being rebuilt—and hummed to herself. Part-way through the second verse she began to sing faintly:

"...and in this hole, there was a root, the prettiest root, that you ever did see. The root in the hole, and the hole in the ground, and the green grass grew all around and around, the green grass grew all around..."

"What's that you're singing, love?" Garrus asked.

"It's an old Earth tune. My mom and I used to sing it when it was time to plant seeds on the farm. It's about a bird in a tree, and all the parts of a tree that grow from the ground." Shepard's eyes followed a pedestrian skyway as they drove underneath it. "You know, this area of the city used to be a big park, with lots of tall, old trees. What a shame."

Garrus fixed his sight far down the road. "You don't talk about your mother much. Or your dad for that matter..."

"Yeah." Shepard picked at the pilled fabric of her joggers.

Garrus cast a glance at Shepard; if she was uncomfortable, he didn't want to push the subject too much. But since she had been the one to bring it up, he continued with the conversation.

"The two of you were close? It always sounded that way, from what you told me."

"The three of us—yeah, we were. And my older brother. But my brother left home when he was eighteen. I was only eight then."

"Spirits, Circe... you never even told me you had a brother."

"He died too, before the attack on Mindoir. In a skirmish on Elysium." Shepard leaned her elbow against the door and rested her cheek in her hand. In the side mirror, she watched the asphalt stream away in a ribbon behind them, disappearing endlessly into the darkness.

"Shepard, I'm sorry—"

"No, don't be. I choose not to tell people these things for a reason." Shepard sat up straight. "I don't want anyone ever feeling sorry for me. I'm a solider, I can handle myself."

The road began to rise as they crested the northernmost tip of the district; they were crossing a suspension bridge that connected the downtown core to the northern part of the city. Bright, starry lights dotted the cables that spanned the length of the bridge, bathing the black water below in a glowing wash of white.

Garrus cleared his throat. "So your brother...he was much older than you, then."

"Yeah... my parents always wanted another child, but they had trouble getting pregnant the second time around. They always said it was a miracle that I was born..."

Garrus' mandibles pulsed faintly as he took in Shepard's profile. Backlit by the bridge's lights, the shape of her placid face instilled a calm in him. His eyes traced the soft line of her forehead, down to her slightly upturned nose, past her full, bow-shaped lips, to her distinctive dimpled chin. Garrus tucked the image away in his mind.

He turned his attention back to the road ahead. "Well, your parents were right—you are a miracle."

Shepard snorted, then rolled her eyes in feigned exasperation. "And you're cheesy." She took Garrus' free hand and held it in her lap.

It was silent for the next fifteen minutes as they enjoyed each other's company in darkness, the peace of the world slipstreaming around them—still noiseless and asleep.

"How long until we get wherever it is we're going?"

"It's about an hour outside of the city, so...30 more minutes or so?"

"Alright. Do you mind if I take a nap then? I'm still a bit tired."

"Of course you can nap. It's going to be hard to see much on the way there anyway. You can take in the sights on the way back."

"Thanks, G."

Shepard pulled off her sweatshirt and rolled it into in a makeshift pillow. She watched Garrus as he drove, assured that she was in safe hands while she napped. Propping the sweatshirt up against the door, she lay her head down and closed her eyes.

Shepard heard the crackle of gravel beneath the tires as the car rolled to a stop. She squinted, lifting her head up from her makeshift pillow. "Oof, my neck," she complained.

"Hey, you're awake," Garrus said as he shifted the car into park. "We're here."

Shepard unbuckled and opened the door. She sat for a moment—one leg on the ground, arm holding the door open wide—and breathed in the moist, briny air. She stood up and shut the door behind her without looking as she stared out onto the landscape.

"Where are we?" she asked.

Garrus shoved at the top of his door to shut it, careful not to scratch the paint with his talons. "It's an estuary. Where the river meets the sea."

The sky was already lightening—a gray-blue blanket fading into washed out purple, lined with a thin braid of blush at the horizon. Shepard beheld the valley of tall grass. It was matted down and dotted with conifers and shrubs farther in the distance. A mist hung behind them, skirting the bottom of the serrated mountains that hemmed in the estuary.

"Wow...this place is amazing," she marveled.

"Let's walk farther ahead." Garrus pointed to a large patch of grass, beyond the wide stream of water that snaked its way through the marsh. "We can have a good view of the sunrise from there."

Garrus held Shepard's hand and led her through the grass as they trudged to the open area. A great blue heron—who had been standing absolutely still amongst the rushes and the sedges at the edge of the water—flapped its enormous wings and flew off toward the trees. The two peered east, where the sun had just started to peek over the ridge.

"This place is beautiful, Garrus...thank you for bringing me here." Shepard beamed, her face still pale with the subtle rays of morning light.

Garrus studied her as she faced the rising sun. The tiny freckles that peppered her upper cheeks. The purls and whorls of her ears—as strange as they were to him. Her expressive eyes that could scare and thrill in quick succession. The way she stood so tall, and was stronger than she looked. Her soft, vulnerable flesh underneath all her armor.

Tuesday, evening
Turian Dreadnought

An ensign interrupted Garrus at his station. "General Vakarian, something has come through to the ship's comm system. It's from Palaven, sir—a message for you. I've forwarded it to your personal account."

Garrus' mandibles went slack for a moment. "What? From who?" Garrus' stomach turned as he brought up his inbox on the screen. It was a message from his sister Solana.

Garrus,

I don't know if this message will even reach you. It's been months since we last heard from you. I hope you are alive and well somewhere.

I have news from home. Mom is being released from the Salarian facility. They say they aren't able to care for patients anymore because of a shortage of staff and resources. I don't know if it's true, but she's coming back to Palaven.

I don't know how I'm going to care for her, G. The situation here is dire, we don't even have regular power or running water. There are pirates and mercenaries in the city...it's scary.

And this isn't how I wanted to share this news with you, but...Dad is dead. He died in an attack on our escape shuttle. He died trying to protect us...he's the only reason I'm still alive.

If you get this message – please come home. We need you.

With love,

Sol

Chapter Text

PART II

Chapter 1: Abscission*

1 year, 5 mo. after the end of the Reaper War
Cipritine, Palaven

As the sun approached its highest point in the sky, the circular petals of the arx flowers were already beginning to close up tight, protecting themselves from the harshest radiation of the day. Their long, lance-like leaves, alternating in bunches, nestled themselves against their tall, wiry stalks.

She traced a dull talon up the petals, admiring their texture.

"Mom, you can't be out here without your mask on. The air isn't healthy." Garrus tugged at the breather that was hanging around his mom's neck and secured it around the lower half of her face. He could swear he'd only been away for a moment; he was helping Solana carry her belongings inside when his mom had wandered out the door without either of them knowing.

Bent over the patch of arces, Garrus' mom pinched at the base of a stem. She plucked a single flower from the ground—the only purple bloom in the bunch—then tore off a few of the inky-green leaves near the bottom to neaten it up. As she rose, a torrent of fine particles rushed against her face. She shut her eyes tight. The wind had brought a brume of dust to the parched dale, the dust blunting the sun's rays but also trapping heat against the lowlands.

Garrus' mother opened her eyes to see her son's concerned face. "Castis, look at you, you've grown so thin! C-Sec has been working you too hard. What about a nice meal? Vitul stew?"

Garrus held his mother's free hand and squeezed, patiently explaining one more time. "Mom, it's me, Garrus. I've come back after being gone a long time. Do you remember?"

His mother stared hard for a few moments, her clouded eyes studying his markings. "Yes of course, Garrus, my son! Of course it's you." She smiled blithely. "Where is your father? I want to show him this exquisite arx flower I found."

"Mom…"

She held the flower up to her nose and took a deep sniff. The familiar scent, redolent with the sweetness of young love, triggered memories of times long gone. "Did you know—your father brought a bouquet of these the first time he met your grandparents? I had told him how much your grandmother loved wildflowers, and he remembered. She was so charmed."

Garrus cast his eyes on the flower. "Dad's not here, Mom." He lowered his head, wishing he didn't have to keep saying it out loud so many times in a day.

"No, no, you're right. He's busy at the Citadel, I know. They rely on him so much…"

Solana poked her head out of the front door, observing the scene. "Hey Mom, why don't you come inside? We can find a container to put your flower into."

"Yes, thank you Solana," she said.

Inside, it was much cooler and the air was cleaner, though a bit musty and stale. The bermed home was built into the hillsides of outer Cipritine, modest in size and design. The quaint style hadn't been built in hundreds of years—it featured more natural lines than modern turian buildings—but their concealed nature meant they were some of the few structures to survive the war intact.

"Your place smells weird, G. Like the inside of an old boot," Solana prodded.

"I'm afraid it's the best Cipritine has to offer right now. You're just going to have to get used it," he replied. "Here, Mom, let me take that."

Garrus rummaged through a beat-up crate of empty bottles. Selecting the cleanest one, he filled it with a dram of water and plunked the arx flower in. He held the bottle out. "Would you like me to put this by your bed? Why don't I show you where everything is."

As Solana accounted for their few worldly possessions, Garrus led his mother around the home. There wasn't much to show. The common room, at the front of of the home, was abutted by a simple kitchen. At the other end of the common room, there was a door leading to a bathroom and another leading to the only bedroom. Garrus opened the bedroom door and set the impromptu vase on a side table."You'll share this room with Sol, when she's in Cipritine. I'll be in the common room."

"Thank you, son, this will do just fine." Stooping over the bed, Garrus' mom smoothed the bed cover several times, admiring the stitching of the worn, handmade bedspread. She froze as she snagged a talon on one of the many loose threads. Her mandibles began to twitch erratically. In a matter of seconds, they flew out wide, tensed in place as if pulled by strings.

"Mom!" Garrus hollered. "Solana, get in here, she's having an episode!"

Solana rushed into the room and instructed Garrus to lay their mother on the floor. Their mom's body went rigid, her eyelids flung wide, and her fingers clenched into a tight fist. Gently, they rolled her on her side and waited for the seizure to stop. When she came to, their mom had forgotten where she was or why she was there.

"Take me back to Nasurn!" she demanded, her eyes darting wildly around the confined bedroom.

"You're at my place, Mom—in Cipritine. You're staying here with me now," Garrus answered. He calmly placed a hand on her cowl. Despite feeling uneasy that the episodes had become more frequent, he knew the best thing to do was to stay collected.

She sat up, pushing herself up awkwardly with her weak arms. "Nonsense, take me back to Nasurn this instant! Where is the nice salarian doctor? The one with the blue freckles—" Their mom's breath was quickening as her anxiety began to spiral.

Solana knelt down and held her mother's gaze. "The salarians shut their facility down months ago. You and I went to Digeris together. You remember the neighbor with the pet umbralian? The black one? You liked feeding her scraps in the evening."

Garrus had been watching Solana's face as she spoke to their mom—never once did it betray how she might have felt inside. Maybe she'd had so much practice now that it came as second nature. Or maybe she was just that unflappable. Whatever the case, he understood the potential Solana had unlocked when she chose to go to medical school.

"Oh…oh yes," her mom said slowly. "That's right. He always woke us up in the morning with his awful yowling." She grinned with her mouth open, then caught sight of Garrus, who was worried that she might get too agitated if they had to explain once more. "And now we're in Cipritine with your brother…because you need to perform your medical work. Oh, I'm so proud of you, Sol!" She raised a hand and stroked Solana's forehead tenderly.

"Thanks, Mom." she replied, continuing to hold her gaze.

"Oh my loves, I'm a bit tired…" Their mother tried to stand up on her own, but Garrus held his arm out to help her up. She lowered herself onto the bed then pointed for Solana to assist with her shoes. "You won't mind if I take a little nap?"

Garrus shook his head. "No of course not, Mom. Make yourself comfortable." He pulled the bedspread back and draped it over her, taking care to tuck the edges in around her. "We'll be in the other room if you need anything."

"Thank you, Castis."

Undone, Garrus focused on his mother's figure for a few moments before shutting the door—a formless shape under the bedcovers, a woman who was his mom but not his mom at the same time.

Solana was unpacking in the common room. She lifted a stack of her mother's garments out of a deep duffle bag and set it on the kitchen tabletop. At the top of the stack, a simple silver cuff was loosely swaddled in a red handkerchief.

"How long are you away for?" asked Garrus.

"My team is making rounds in New Aeris for two weeks, then south to Tergeste for one week. The number of respiratory cases has just soared, way beyond what we can manage. But the psych team has had it so much worse—I feel awful for them." She picked up the silver cuff and began to polish it with the handkerchief it was wrapped in. "Do you think you can handle mom for that long?"

"The truth? I'm not sure. She thinks I'm Dad half the time."

"I know. Some mornings I'm not sure if she even recognizes me." Holding the cuff out at arm's length, Solana inspected each side for spots she had missed.

"Honestly, Sol, I wonder if Mom would be better off on Digeris."

She stopped polishing the cuff and stared pointedly at Garrus. "That's not a choice we have, is it?"

"At least some of their infrastructure is still functional. And there are more resources available for her there."

"But Palaven is Mom's home. With her condition, somewhere familiar is a lot better for her."

Garrus scoffed. "Familiar? Does any of this look familiar to you? The Reapers turned the planet to dust."

"At least here she has me and you." Solana rubbed a finger against her brow plate. "Listen, I know you were out saving the universe for the last three years—and for that we are all grateful—but there are lots of ways to make a difference. I'll be damned if I'm going to let my education go to waste because some asshole, sentient machines decided we all needed to be uploaded to some mega-brain or whatever. It's enough that they killed everyone. Besides, you're a Hierarchy big shot now—you're telling me we can't get Mom some extra help here on Palaven?"

Garrus picked up the rifle he had been calibrating before his family arrived. Left on the tabletop, it was now in danger of getting lost amongst their belongings. He lifted the rifle into position and peered through the scope."You know just as well as I do that everyone needs help. Mom isn't exactly high on the priority list of citizens that need saving."

Solana exhaled slowly, her drawn out breath filling the space of the entire room.

Garrus brought the rifle down from his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Sol. I know that sounded harsh. We both want what's best for Mom—and right now there aren't any right choices." The rifle felt heavy in his hands. It had been a long week. A long month. A long year. It had been a long time since he had been home. "I—I wanted to come home, so many times, but there were….things…that happened. I thought I was doing good—sending money home and keeping Mom at the salarian facility. Then the war came…"

"Then the damned war." Rolling the cuff between a finger and her thumb, Solana curled it upward to read the inscription written on its inner margin: For my Dearest Bellona.

She swayed her mandibles in sedate, meditative pulses as she set the cuff down on the table.

"Remember when Dad used to make you shoot those targets over and over? You'd come home from the practice field, all mopey and upset. Every time. I thought for sure you'd give up on sniper rifles forever." Solana chuckled. "Spirits, you hated him for that so much."

Garrus crossed the common room towards the wall opposite the kitchen and set his rifle down into one of the many cradles he had installed to hold his guns. "It took me a long time to acknowledge it, but Dad knew what he was doing. I should have listened to him more than I did."

"I miss him, Garrus."

"Me too, Sol."

Illuminated by rays of daylight streaking through the window, Solana's face looked sharper and more wizened than he'd remembered. Garrus draped his arm around his sister's shoulders and squeezed. "He'd be so proud of you right now. We're all proud of you."

It had been weeks since Garrus had paid any attention to the state of his new, old home. Despite only having one wall with windows, the house accumulated debris all too easily. He ran a damp cloth across the mantle, picking up a layer of black, clotted dust. He shuddered. This can't be healthy. Must do a better job for Mom's sake.

The mantle—recessed and built directly into the wall—had been empty until now. He began unpacking his mom's only box. It wasn't very big—maybe a quarter of the size of a standard footlocker, but it was pristine. There was not a scratch or a dent to be found on its surface, as if it had been packed only the day before. But Garrus knew this box. It was the one his mother always kept tucked away in her closet at their family home. He unlatched the clasps and removed the first item: the crude likeness of a turian general, made from glazed clay. Garrus rubbed a thumb over its rough-hewn surface, recalling how he had come home from school in a red hot rage, upset that the other kids had made fun of his work.

His mother had done her best to reassure him, "They laughed at you? That's no way to treat a friend. Well, I think your general is wonderful. I can see how hard you must have worked on this." She inspected the figure's face closely. "And can you imagine a turian general looking any other way? A military officer without scars is no real officer at all."

Scars—got plenty of those. Guess I'm a real general now, Mom. Garrus set the figurine onto the mantle. Next, he plucked a tattered manuscript from the box. He ran his hand over the cover his mother had made for it, then flipped through the pages with amusement. The manuscript was a manifesto of sorts. In it, nine year old Solana argued how turian society should do away with the tiered system of citizenship and allow for more shared power. He skipped over the handwritten text and jumped straight to the pictures. Drawn with the clarity and confidence of youth, the images had been painted with bold, flat washes of color. Under her illustration of a cook, an officer, a child, and a retired librarian holding hands, she had written the caption: "Everyone should get along and make the decisions together." Garrus snickered. Sol, you always did have an optimistic streak. He shut the cover with a clap and stood the manuscript upright on the mantle.

Then he reached down for the last item in the box; it was wrapped in several layers of soft cloth. He cautiously undid the wrapping and lifted it out, taking care to use the pads of his fingers. A tarnished metal bowl. The inner surface was knobby and textured, reminiscent of turian skin. Its outer surface adorned with intricate geometric patterns—shapes within shapes within shapes. Over time, however, the expert engravings had faded to mere suggestions of lines.

The ceremonial bowl had been a retirement gift from the Academy, where his mother was once a respected scholar and historian. Highly regarded in her field, her work on early turian colonies was considered amongst the most significant and comprehensive to date. Sadly, the effects of Corpalis Syndrome put an end to those pursuits. News of her retirement shocked the entire department—she was only in her fifties, afterall—but the truth was that her symptoms had come on much earlier than she let on. They were so subtle that it had been easy to deny anything was happening. Garrus remembered how his mother was quick to wave off extreme fatigue as stress or lack of sleep, or how she had forgotten their neighbor's name and said it was just part of aging. How her skin had begun to turn dry and sensitive, so that when he touched her she recoiled in discomfort. How he was so involved in his own young troubles that he hadn't understood it wasn't personal.

He thought of taking a cloth to the tarnish, but the tarnish had been deep-seated for too long to be removed. As he placed the bowl down, his omnitool pinged loudly. The metal bowl clattered on the mantle. Only one person could be calling him right now.

Primach Victus' voice came through. "Vakarian. My apologies for calling on a leave day—I know your mother only just arrived. But we have an urgent situation in New Aeris. One of the rebel groups is kicking up a fuss about energy distribution and they've taken hostages in the city center. I need you to take the lead in setting up safe camps and directing military activity there. I need you to go today."

He stared at the bedroom door. His sister had stepped out to organize supplies with her colleagues, but he couldn't let his mom wake up alone in an unfamiliar house without either of her children there.

"Understood, sir. I just need a bit of extra time. I'll contact headquarters as soon as I can leave."

"Thank you, Garrus."

Garrus immediately called Solana to see if she could come home early. When she didn't answer, he sent a message, hoping she would see it if she couldn't take his call. He continued to tidy the house as he waited. Moving his mom's box to the corner—the one he thought he had emptied—he spied a tiny object hidden along one of its edges. He pinched the object between his fingers and lifted it to his face. It was a smooth, black pebble. Why is this in here? Garrus figured it had gotten in while they were packing, but just to be sure he set it in the metal bowl for safe keeping.

Solana arrived home from her meeting an hour later. Pretending to sulk as she entered, she poked at her brother. "I'm not happy about being called back early, you know," she said as she waggled her mandibles. "But I know Hierarchy stuff takes priority, so I'm not going to make a fuss."

"I didn't think you would," Garrus replied coolly.

Even as adults, they were still playing parts that were cast for them long ago. He was the capable but disobedient son, and she was the spoiled baby of the family. But the truth was Solana was the least selfish person he knew. She was the child who wanted to care for everyone. The one who stayed near home when their Mom got sick. The one who cared for her when their Dad died. Even if it meant giving part of herself away, she would care for someone who needed it. And that made it even harder for him to face what he had left her with while he was gone for all those years.

"Garrus.…you need to take care out there, hmm? Mom can't afford to lose anyone else, not now." Solana gripped his wrist, her eyes downcast. "And I can't afford to lose you either."

"Come on, Sol. I've made it this far, right? I can handle myself on Palaven." Garrus gripped her wrist in return. "And same goes for you. It's dangerous out there right now." They let go of each other. "Look, I'll be back before you know it. And even if we can't find a specialist for Mom, we'll find a care worker through the Hierarchy. They can at least do that much."

Solana nodded. Looking back through the door, she saw her mother was up and about and had gone through the bathroom door. "I'd better go back inside, Mom will be looking for one of us."

"Sure. I'll just wait for transport out here, it'll be easier that way. Bye Sol."

"See ya, G. Do good out there."Solana shut the door.

He traced a line along the edge of the house—pacing back and forth in small steps—thinking of ways he might be able to repay Sol for being there when he couldn't be. No use in feeling guilty. It's already done. They're alive, that's what matters. 

He stopped near the patch of arces his mother had picked over when she arrived. He observed them, taking note that he had never seen metalloid flowers on any other planet except for Palaven. He thought of Shepard, and how much she loved wildflowers. Garrus brought up the image capture function on his omnitool and centered the flower in the middle of the frame. After taking shots from several angles, he chose the one he thought captured the essence of the plant best. He wrote a message to accompany the photo:

Circe,

Mom and Sol arrived in Cipritine today. Mom is doing ok, but she 's still having trouble remembering who I am sometimes.

Saw this near my place and thought you might like it. It's an arx flower. It's different than the ones you find on Earth or Mindoir, right? I hope someday I can show you in person.

Miss you more than you know.

Yours,
G

1 year, 2 months after the Reaper War
Earth

Driving back from the estuary, Shepard could now see the extraordinary views she had missed on the way there.

"Wait, pull over," Shepard said.

"Here?" Garrus continued driving several meters before finding a spot to stop on the side of the road. The road hugged the mountainside, overlooking a wide ocean sound pierced by several large islands.

Shepard gazed out onto the water and raised her arms high in the air. She took a deep breath in, filling her lungs with the crisp air. "Ahhh, the ocean..." She closed her eyes, a calm smile gracing her face.

Garrus couldn't wait any longer. He ran his hand along her back and spoke.

"I have something to tell you, Circe."

"What is it?" Shepard opened her eyes, her expression placid and satisfied.

He didn't want to say it. They would have surely had more time together, more time to say goodbye if he hadn't received word from home. But he needed to go. There was no escaping goodbye, now or later.

"I'm leaving—for Palaven. Tonight."

"…T-tonight?" A gust of salty wind battered the cliff, blowing Shepard's hair across her face and chilling her skin. "Like tonight tonight? Wait, why? I thought the Primarch wanted you to stay behind until the investigation was done?"

"Communications from Trebia have been coming through the relay. There was an old message from Solana. It's my mom."

Shepard's mouth dropped open as she searched Garrus' eyes for an answer. "Oh god, she's not…is she…"

"No, thank goodness." He let out a sigh of relief. " But the salarians are releasing her from the facility. She's probably already gone back to Palaven, or wherever my sister is."

"Oh thank god. I'm glad to hear she's safe."

"There's one more thing…"

"Hmm?"

Garrus pressed his mandibles hard against his face. He hadn't said the words out loud until now. He hadn't even told Primarch Victus. Saying it out loud would make it real. But he needed to tell Shepard, to tell someone he could be vulnerable with without consequence.

"Solana mentioned my dad. He...he's dead."

His throat began to close up. He'd been holding it in all morning, hoping Shepard wouldn't notice. It was his last day with her and he didn't want it eaten up by grief. Who knew when they would see each other again? He wanted to remember something beautiful, and to enjoy her company until the last moment. But now that the sun was up the light shone too brightly.

Silent, Shepard embraced him around the middle, squeezing hard around his arms and pressing her hands up his back. The sound of breaking waves roared in the distance, their ceaseless pounding choking Garrus' ears.

Chapter Text

PART II

Chapter 2: Last Bloom

1 year, 5 mo. after the end of the Reaper War
somewhere above the Pacific Ocean, Earth

The transport to Tokyo was only a quarter full. Which was a relief because the last thing Shepard wanted to do was sit next to someone who would talk her ear off for the whole flight. Or worse, pepper her with questions about the war or Reapers or galaxy politics. Shepard blew a burst of air at her bangs and clunked her head against the scratched, circular window. This would be the last leg of her goodwill tour. She was sure she had shaken more hands in one trip around Earth than she had across her entire lifetime—the world a sea of hands waiting for the chance to congratulate Commander Circe Shepard on a job well done.

With the admiration and declarations of gratitude came responsibilities—ones she took more seriously than receiving a key to the city. Speaking with fellow soldiers and veterans who weren't as privileged to receive the same care she had. Listening to the families of the dead, who needed someone to know their loved one had left this world a hero. Inspiring young people to keep defending their piece of the galaxy. Enduring protesters and ill-wishers who aired their battery of grievances, Shepard a proxy for the institutions and structures that had failed them.

From her window, Shepard could see the stars begin to glimmer; they felt apart from Earth, as if placed in the sky as an embellishing afterthought. In space, the stars felt close, like you could reach them within minutes even if they were countless light years away. Shepard fixed her eyes on the darkening horizon as she pressed her forehead against the window pane. Exhausted as she was, she was relieved to be doing something useful for a change. But it wasn't what she imagined she'd be doing after the war. She expected to be commanding the Normandy with a new crew in tow and venturing through the handful of relays that had reopened. The possibilities of what she might find in a fractured galaxy had stirred the curiosity that lived within her wanderer's heart—a frisson of uneasiness fluttering through her chest.

Tokyo, Earth

It was late afternoon. Shepard held a flat hand against her brow as she gazed up at the cascading trails of wisteria. The flowers hung down from their pergolas in bunches, undulating in soft waves when the wind soughed through their vines. Spring in Tokyo was pleasant but bustling. Shepard strolled shoulder to shoulder with the crowd and crossed a narrow bridge, moving with the flow of people like a drop of water carried away in a stream. It was Golden Week, and what little was left of the garden was packed with local visitors. No one seemed to mind, though; they would take beauty in whatever form they could find it.

The tired mistakes of an Alliance administrator had left Shepard with a full, free day to herself. Today she would play tourist, or at least enjoy not having to do anything in particular. Inevitably, someone would recognize her and draw attention to her presence, but for now she was content being another anonymous face.

The rest of the day brought some unexpected surprises. The first was being pulled into a crush of revelers who had been parading a portable shrine up a closed-off road. Several of them motioned for Shepard to join, urging her to take hold of one of the palanquin's poles. The humble shrine—made from local salvage and cast-offs—swayed side-to-side as the bearers called out and hopped in unison, a spirited team leader clapping the rhythm for them to follow. Reluctant, Shepard tried her best to decline but was swept into their midst. Shouldering a section at the front, she sandwiched herself between an asari maiden and an old man who rasped like the worn out reeds of a neglected accordion. She carried on like this for five or six blocks before her shoulder began to ache, the immense weight pinching her flesh to bone. The revelers waved down a fresh volunteer, and Shepard went along her way.

The second big surprise was running into James. James had been exiting the Alliance base with a platoon of other marines when he spotted Shepard shuffling through the gates. The sun had just begun to set, and she was returning for dinner and an early night's rest. James shouted her name, but she didn't respond. He yelled again. Drained and delirious, Shepard cranked her head over her shoulder and squinted at him through heavy eyelids. She stood motionless in middle of the wide concourse for a full three seconds before she realized who was speaking to her.

"VEGA." Her eyelids shot up, the whites of her eyes bloodshot and dry.

"What the hell, Shepard!" James beamed and streamed back through the throng. He offered his hand, pulling her in for a firm handshake and a one armed hug.

"Sorry, I'm so damned tired right now, I can barely see straight." She squeezed her arm hard around him. "Wow, it's good to see you! What are you doing in Tokyo?"

"I wanted to know the same thing! I would've expected you to be out there somewhere." James looked up and pointed toward the sky.

Shepard shook her head, her lips pinched closed. "Nah, they haven't put me back on active duty yet. Shouldn't be long though, I'm feeling good! Mostly."

"Ahhh, that's a shame. The galaxy still needs you, Commander. It's a shit show out there." A few of his men hung back, rubbernecking from beyond the gate. "I'm on shore leave today. Some of the crew and I are headed out, see what we can rustle up for grub and drinks. Wanna come?"

"Mmmm….maybe? I've got an early start tomorrow. I'm supposed to be giving a 'rousing' speech at the former parliament." Shepard waffled, thinking how she might not get another chance to hang with James for a while. It had been months since she had seen him, and just as many since she'd been able to enjoy a night out. Everyone else was too busy. Or gone. "Well, one drink can't hurt I guess."

"Heh—if you think you can handle it, Commander."

"How bad could it be?" she asked. Alcohol was yet another thing that was difficult to come by after the war. In fact, nearly impossible. She couldn't get herself into that much trouble, could she?

Yes, yes she could. The trouble is, when you're Commander Shepard, the impossible suddenly becomes possible.

Food stalls slung free snacks. Patrons and employees asked for pictures and autographs. Owners snuck them top-shelf, under-the-table liquor they'd stashed away for special occasions. 'One drink' was turning into a full night out as the raucous group roved from stall to stall to underground bar, and Shepard didn't regret a minute of it. Eating, drinking, talking shop with Vega's crew—it was a whisper of something that felt like home.

Several rounds into their ramble, the crew settled at a large yakitori stall along the river bank. It was just warm enough to enjoy the light breeze, which wafted through the canopy tent and carried the scent of musky water. Under the tent, patrons sat in snug rows, filling the benches that flanked each side. Shepard looked onto the river as the crowd hummed around her. Line after line of koi windsocks had been strung across its wide breadth, the fish hanging from thin ropes pulled taut. In the breeze, they appeared to be swimming toward the skyline beyond the river's bend—a shoal of half finished buildings and empty lots.

"My god, it's amazing, isn't it? Even with everything that's gone down, these people are still out here celebrating something," said Fitzpatrick, James' gunnery chief.

James held his skewer of scorching hot chicken up to the breeze. "I mean, when the world around you literally crumbles, what do you have left to hold onto? It isn't stuff, it's the people. It's your way of life."

"Sometimes not even that," said Shepard. Tearing a piece of dango from her stick, she rolled the tacky rice around her tongue before chewing.

"I forget sometimes, that you grew up on Mindoir," replied James.

"Me too." Shepard watched as the koi swam nowhere.

"Sorry, Commander."

"Don't be." Shepard took a swig from her cup and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "I have a lot of good memories from my childhood. I just try to keep them that way, you know? Good memories." She addressed Corporal Kamau, who was sitting directly across from her. "Anyway, what have you all been up to? How's it been out there?"

"It…it's been bleak," replied Kamau, who had spoken her first words of the evening.

"And we haven't even left Alliance space yet," said Fitzpatrick.

James gnawed at a piece of meat from the end of his skewer. "We've been tracking a large criminal ring. They're all over Sol, on Benning too." Examining the chicken closely, he furrowed his brow at its peculiar texture. "Benning, now there's a place that's been screwed over. Some assholes stole all the grain in storage, after the colonists left. It's been sold for a price, of course."

James didn't share many details about their current assignment, but Shepard gleaned enough to know it had something to do with mercenaries and slaves—a brutish and nasty business. She tried not to let on, but she envied him—the discipline, the teamwork, the tactical planning. The rush of adrenaline from taking down the enemy. It was the life she had led since she was eighteen, and now her protégé was taking up the mantle where she couldn't. This must have been how Anderson had felt.

James finished nursing a second serving of shochu and twisted the diminutive cup between his fingers. "I mean, you know how much profiteering and shit has been happening. We can't escape it. It's going to be a long time before any of it gets better."

"The shortages all by themselves…."said Corporal Kamau, quietly letting her sentence hang in the air for consideration.

"Hell, we barely have a functioning government! How long can we keep this up? And what happens when more relays open?" James poured Shepard more shochu. "What about the colonies we can't reach? I'm telling ya, it's gonna be another war. Just less guns. Hopefully."

Shepard nodded, then poured him another cup. She and James held their drinks aloft and took a sip in unison.

James tapped his cup on the table. "Anyway, enough shop talk. How's your goodwill trip going, Shep?"

"To be honest, I'm relieved it's over. I didn't really want to do it to begin with, but I think I owed it to everyone. And it gave me something different to do. There was only so much I could take from a desk."

Lieutenant Palmer—a rakish young biotic with dark hair and a steely gaze—brushed his knuckles along the side of his stubbled jaw. "Commander, forgive the insubordination, but someone like you should never be behind a desk."

Shepard ran her fingers through her hair, feeling self conscious under the handsome lieutenant's gaze. "It can't be helped, I suppose. There are rules."

"There must be some perks to this trip, no?" James shook his empty cup. "Free drinks aside."

"Mmmm…well, being able to travel around the world, obviously. And I've received a lot of gifts."

"Oh? Like what?" asked Fitzpatrick.

"Pfft.…you wouldn't believe some of the things people have given me. There's the usual stuff—flowers, stuffed animals, handmade cards, jewelery. But the one that takes the cake—" Shepard swallowed her last sip of shochu. "—definitely the fingernail clippings and lock of hair. Sealed in a clear container."

Fitzpatrick choked on her beer, some of it dribbling from the side of her mouth. "What in the actual fuck!"

Shrinking into her seat, Kamau appeared visibly ill, her soured face collapsing into a black hole.

"Yep. And the guy who gave it to me? Balding. Like, nearly bald. He didn't say a word when he handed it to me either."

"That's creepy as hell, Shepard," said James, pouring her another cup.

Palmer planted his elbow on the table and pointed his glass at Shepard, raising his eyebrows playfully. "Hey, who knows, maybe that was his last lock of hair. It could have meant a lot to him. That would make it a thoughtful gesture, right?"

"Doesn't explain the fingernails!" squawked Fitzpatrick.

Shepard cackled, spilling some of her drink as her arm swung out wide. "I guess that's a mystery for the ages now, lost forever." She finished what was left in her cup and rattled her head, a quick reset for her woolly brain. She made a finger gun and wagged it at Lieutenant Palmer. "Interesting fact for you: I've met more babies and one-year olds named Circe or Shepard than will ever exist in the universe at once ever again."

"That's actually pretty flattering," said Palmer.

"It's weird to hear my name being called everywhere. Confusing, anyway." Shepard's face contorted into an ugly yawn.

"Awww, did widdle Shepard miss her naptime?" teased James. A sharp elbow flew into his side.

"She did! Gah—I'm so tired, I don't know how much longer I can go on like this..." Shepard rubbed at her eyes with straightened fingers and yawned again.

"But we want to hear about the time you had to fight your own clone!" said Fitzpatrick.

"And you're our drink tab!" James teased again.

Shepard rolled her eyes and flashed a wry smile. "Fine, fine. But we need to take a walk first or I'm going to pass out."

Their bellies bursting and their heads roiling, the crew tottered along the riverfront and crossed back in the direction of Alliance base. They made two more stops. By the last stop, James' crew had decided to head back, unable to keep up with their intrepid Lieutenant Commander and the liberator of the galaxy. The two commanders stumbled upon an empty sidewalk izakaya—nearly out of food so late in the night—but the company was warm and the drinks were still flowing at a trickle.

Shepard dragged a stool beneath her tired legs and sat next to James. A tall figure caught in her periphery: a man across the alleyway, eating alone at a four-seat ramen bar. He sat hunched over a bowl of noodles, steam rising above his head in faint whorls. She squinted, unsure if it was the booze or maybe her imagination, but from behind the man looked an awful lot like Admiral Anderson. The same broad shoulders, the same short-cropped hair, even the same large ears. Her breath stalled as her big, whirlpooled eyes fixated on his bowed back, waiting for him to turn his head.

James interrupted. "Oi! ShepURRRD! Are ya there, girl?!" He snapped his fingers in front of her face.

Shepard jerked her head back and felt a dull swash rush through her skull. "Yeaaah, s-sorry. Hic—thought I saw someone—hic—someone I know…"

"WHO?" James shouted. He craned his neck and spun around on his stool to see.

"And—hic—erson?" Shepard asked in confusion.

James slammed his glass down. "Anderson? But how? SHEPARD! Shepard, did—did you forget…?"

Shepard flopped her arm onto the table and leaned toward James. "James….VEGA. Listen James Vega! Captain—ADMIRAL Anderson was the best…one of the best men, I have ever, personally, ever personally known. And that's coming from me, Commander Circe Shep-Shepurrd." She executed a sloppy salute to no one in particular. "You know, he was like—like a father. To me," she said, pointing to herself. "When my family died, when my friends died…..I, I didn't have anyone. Not a one. A single one. I was just a lonely refugee. A teenage refugee? On Arcturus. You see?"

"I'm sorry, Shep. That's so, so haaarrd…" James belched into his fist, then pounded his chest twice.

"Anyway, the Admiral, Anderson, he…he encouraged me. ME. After I joined up, he said I was sssstrong. A biotic, a fighter. He said I was tough, but not, like, hard. My parents—you know…my mom? My dad? Those people. They raised a good girl. A farm girl—of the land and all this." Shepard twirled her hands in circles. "A good PERSON, James! But Anderson, he taught me everything, everything I know, you know?"

James nodded emphatically, his eyes half closed. "Listen, Lola. You…you and him. You guys are like, why I'm here, ya know? Why I'm an N7, and not like, an N1 or an N2 or N3 or N57 or whatever number. You both believed, in ME, when I didn't….believe in me. To Andersooon!" He downed a shot before Shepard could join him in his toast.

"But JAMES! I'm why he's dead. I'm why… he DIED. He died, on the Citadel. Bleeding and sad because I shot him. I shot him, James…." Tears began to pool, her lower eyelids damming them back. Shepard was prone to getting weepy when she was three sheets to the wind, but these weren't the tears of an inebriated woman. They were the tears of an aggrieved friend and protégé.

"But Shepard…you didn't shoot him, honey! The 'Illusive Man' did that. HE did that! That pendejo, motherfucker…" James mumbled as he swung a fist through the air, nearly clipping the side of her face.

"But I didn't stop him. Sooner. Cerberus….Cerber.." Shepard wrinkled her face and began to sniffle as the tears threatened to breach the dam.

James grimaced and ruffled Shepard's unkempt bangs, pushing her head back with a quick thrust of his giant hand. "¡AYYYYYY, no seas TONTA!"

Shocked, she stopped sniffling and stared back wide-eyed. She froze under James' scowl.

"Shepard, don't be a FUcking idiot! Anderson, he would be proud of both of us… I know that for a FACT. Ya did good, Commander."

Anderson's words rang in her ears, a moment of clarity in an otherwise miry remembrance. "You did good child, you did good." A bittersweet smile crept at the corners of her mouth.

"VEGAAAA, I've missed yoooouu," Shepard blubbered. She leaned her head against James' shoulder and rubbed her cheek along his upper arm, leaving a wet smear of tears streaked across his skin.

James recoiled, scrunching his face at the unwelcome sensation. "Whoa, whoa, whoooa! Slow down there, Lola. Don't wanna piss off your BOYfriend. That guy is scary as fuuuuuck…"

"OH, so you AGREE then?" Forgetting James couldn't see her face, Shepard arched her eyebrows. "He's a grade-A, triple A, b-a-d-a-s-s. Tight-ass….tight ass?" She leaned her full weight against him as her eyes began to close.

"Shepard….Shep! Shepard?" James drew his chin in and peered down at the crown of her tipped head. "Missed you too, Commander."

The rest of the night was a morass of rambling banter and hapless meandering as she and James struggled to find their way back to base. When Shepard awoke the next morning, her head felt like a krogan battlefield—trampled and muddy. She wasn't sure how she'd managed to get back or heave herself into bed, but there she was, all static charged hair and dull skin, still in the clothes she wore the day before, her shirt sporting a mysterious black stain the size of a saucer plate. It had been a long time since she'd had any kind of hangover, and she remembered why she stopped drinking so much. (Had Jacob forgiven her yet, for the time she ruined his uniform at Dark Star?). She downed half a jug of water without taking a breath and sighed in relief. Her thirst slaked, she made her way to the showers. Bending her head back under the spitting water, she inhaled the steam through her nostrils in hopes of staving off a bigger headache. The water hit her neck and trickled down; a hot sting flared along the top of her right shoulder. Straining to focus, Shepard saw the skin was red and swollen, a wide welt spread across its length. She couldn't think of what she had done the last night to cause such an injury, but after a few moments of confusion she remembered that she had borne the shrine up the road with the beckoning revelers. What should have been a mark of celebration—an affirmation of life—was another pain that Shepard ignored.

Having traveled the world for the past two months, Shepard's body, unsure of what time it was or what it should be doing, had woken her up much earlier than it should have. She found herself more exhausted after a night's rest. But there was no going back to sleep. When she finished showering and dressing, she checked her messages which had piled up over the last two days. The one she had been looking forward to the most was finally in her inbox. She wrote back:

Hey G,

I'm leaving Tokyo tomorrow. Last stop! Glad to be going back, but not. Really anxious to hear back about active duty…it's been at least two weeks now since my physical. That's long enough, right? By the way - Vega sends his well wishes. I ran into him last night and we ended up going for food and drinks. Maybe too many drinks? This morning has been a little rough so far. Vega's doing ok, I think. I have to admit I am a little jealous.

Thank you for the sweet picture of the arx flower, I love that you thought of me when you saw it. What a beauty! I would love nothing more than to see it in person.

It must be a relief to have your mom and sister close now. Look after your mom well. Even if the time you have with her is hard, you still have time with her. Don 't take it for granted.

I miss you too. Let me know when you have time for a face to face chat--I miss hearing your voice. And seeing your ugly face. Take care, G.

Love,
Circe

A week she had waited for his message. She never considered herself a wistful romantic—working in the military killed any inkling of that in her—but the distance in this long-distance relationship was too much, even for her. Still, she knew there wasn't much to be done about it. The responsibility of rebuilding an entire planet from the literal ground up was overwhelming at best. Downright bleak at its worst. Caring for a seriously ill parent and grieving for another too—Shepard was just thankful she heard from him at all in these first few months apart. Her heart hurt for Garrus, knowing what lay ahead for him and for his sister.

Shepard arrived at the razed site of the former parliament which had been fenced off for reconstruction. A simple stage was set behind the short steps, the only part of the building still standing. Headache faded to a persistent drone, she looked a lot better than she felt, though she was sure anyone standing within three feet of her could see the dark, hollow circles engulfing her eyes. Good thing, then, that her audience was at a distance when she stepped up on stage.

Shepard took her place behind the podium and raised a hand in an aloof wave. "Hello, everyone, I'm Commander Circe Shepard of the Systems Alliance. Thank you for having me here today."

The crowd clapped politely, with a few hooligans whooping toward the back of the plaza. Most of the audience appeared to be made up of humans, though a smattering of blue faces, swept back fringe, and outsized carapaces—even some horns at the very back—filled in the spaces of the small plaza.

"It has been more than a year since we, the inhabitants of the Milky Way, defeated the devastating threat known as the Reapers. There is not a single one of us who has been untouched by the war. We've lost our homes. We've lost entire cities and towns and colonies. We've lost resources and industries. Worst of all, we've lost friends and loved ones." Shepard swept her bangs away from her eyes and looked out onto the crowd. Two pairs of penetrating black eyes—four eyes—caught her attention. She continued, "Their lives and their stories will never be forgotten as long as there are those alive to remember. And here we are today, still alive and still fighting…. "

Shepard looked again: eight black eyes. Two batarians stood near the front of the crowd, observing her with rapt attention. Batarians, here? A damp heat started at the back of Shepard's neck.

She continued, "….fighting for life, for a future. I am proud to have been one of the many who stood up and….and—" The damp heat continued down her back, and soon she was sweating all over, her shirt sucking itself to her skin. Stifled by her own clothing, garroted by the collar of her shirt, she wanted nothing more than to peel everything away. What do they want? Why are they standing so close? Her gaze kept returning to them. She could feel their eyes burrow into her, cold and judging, and she could feel the permanent derision they wore on their faces.

Shepard faltered. "Um, sorry folks. As I was saying—I am proud to have been…to have been..." She held a hand to her forehead and stumbled forward into the podium, her other hand catching her before she fell. They're after me…they want me to die. They want me to die. I'm going to die. Eyes wild with panic, face burning and dripping, she leered at the batarians as she hung off the podium. "W-why are you here? What are you doing here? What do you want from me?" The batarians stood silent, gawking, confused why the commander seemed to be speaking to them directly.

Shepard's breaths became shallow and weak as she panted for air, her pulse quickening. The tips of her fingers went numb, and her legs felt invisible. Nothing connecting her to the ground below her, nothing keeping her upright and strong. The world spun in a cyclone of foggy ribbons. Uprooted, Shepard collapsed to the floor of the stage, and the crowd erupted into a collective gasp.

Chapter Text

PART II

Chapter 3: Of Invasives and Interlopers

1 year, 5 mo. after the end of the Reaper War
New Aeris, Palaven

"Spirits, it's hot today." Laren squinted as he stared out across the open plain, surveying the land for the personnel carrier due to return for its shift change. He panted under his breather mask; the morning sun was already unbearable and the air was clogged with more particulate than usual. The bleak landscape only added to the misery. The arid plains surrounding New Aeris were brown, its meager river was brown, its plants were brown, even the sky was brown. The second largest city in Palaven's northern hemisphere had become a drab, impotent wasteland in the wake of the Reapers' destruction.

"I don't know how anyone keeps anything clean here," Quidros groused. He had been doing his best to keep his gun in good, working order, but the fine dust permeating every crevice negated his attempts.

Garrus' two most trusted sergeants were waiting for their orders at the Hierarchy's temporary base, just outside New Aeris. Military brass had wanted them closer, but gaining a foothold in the city center was proving difficult. It had only been a few days since most of the troops arrived, and the rebels had shown a surprising aptitude for urban tactics, making intelligent use of the city's radial design and strategically controlling the flow of supplies through the underground service tunnels that ran under the commercial areas. They knew Hierarchy coverage would be scant— either scattered in too broad an area, or too fragmented to handle any sizeable disturbance.

New Aeris was one of many cities where the Hierarchy was meeting increased resistance. Power and water shortages continued to plague the majority of the planet, while surviving colonies had been reduced to near antediluvian conditions. But the unrest in New Aeris had reached a fever pitch, with small-time government officials and bureaucrats being held hostage for more resources. Its citizens had more means than most to stage such a stunt, but the rarity of their privilege had been lost on them.

"I don't know what the Primarch expects us to do without hastatim units," said Quidros. "This is insanity. No one's gonna listen to a gang of soldiers who won't use their guns." Quidros finished installing the new scope on his rifle and replaced the magazine, clicking it into place before holding it up into the air to show Laren. "What are we carrying these damn things around for then?"

"Will killing anyone change anything? Change how they feel? There isn't enough energy to run basic filtering equipment. And the air here is worse. They must be angry when they think about Cirpitine," Laren replied.

"Don't tell me you're siding with these assholes, Laren," hissed Quidros.

"No, I didn't mean to imply that. I'm only offering a different perspective."

Quidros wiped off the stock of his rifle and threw the cloth down to the crate he had been sitting on. "Fuck that. Bunch of entitled brats, these New Aerians. Expecting everyone to cater to their whims. They seem to think they're the only ones suffering."

"You're not entirely wrong, Sergeant. But we're not going to win them over by insulting them," said Garrus as he strode into the open shelter.

While Cirpritine had been the seat of the Hierarchy—a government town, staid and guarded—New Aeris was where the young, the cosmopolitan, and the free-thinkers of Palaven resided. Where those who wanted to stretch the stiff boots of conservative meritocracy went to see and be seen. Garrus never cared for New Aeris, not as much as his sister did, but he did have to admire their reputation for going against the grain, as fruitless and aimless as it was.

"We want as little violence as possible. More dead turians is the last thing this planet needs," Garrus reminded his men.

Forgive us, sir," Laren said as he watched Garrus walk in.

Garrus gave Laren a quick nod, then addressed his other sergeant. "Quidros, I need you back at the safe camp as soon as possible. Major Paetrus negotiated a surrender—the faction holed up at the old university is willing to leave. Make sure the transfer goes smoothly. And we still need to cover east of the Libraxum Ward too." He handed Quidros a datapad containing all the information they had collected so far. "The Major needs to attend to his son in Cipritine, so you'll need to oversee the next round of door to door visits."

"Yes, sir." Quidros holstered his rifle on his back and saluted before leaving.

Laren spoke to Garrus. "Still hasn't gotten any better then, sir?"

"No, I'm afraid not. The boy's taken a turn for the worse. It's been six months—Major Paetrus is afraid this might be his last visit home."

"The eezo load of that debris must have been off the charts."

Garrus shook his head. "The kid is only five, couldn't have known any better."

"Spirits….far too young." Laren's mandibles went slack under his mask as he lowered his head.

"You remember being that age? Hell, I'd pick up any old thing as long as I could play 'war' with it."

The hurried shuffle of boots approached the shelter. Short-winded, Corporal Malion rushed in, his mask fogged up from his heavy breathing. "General Vakarian, sir!" he saluted. "There's been an incident in the Outer Philos area. One of our personnel carriers was attacked with an improvised device. There are at least ten casualties."

Garrus snarled, his mouth plates flared into a tense grimace. "Damn it! We can't afford to lose headcount. Dead?"

"None, fortunately, sir."

"Thank goodness for that. Where's the medical unit right now? Still near the city center?"

"Yes, sir. They're sending a small detachment to Outer Philos. They're on their way now," the corporal reported.

"Good. Thank you Corporal Malion."

Corporal Malion saluted and exited the shelter.

Taking a deep breath, Garrus turned to Laren. "Looks like we're headed to Outer Philos."

Vancouver, Earth

The door swished open. Shepard was standing in the hallway, her upper body a single, rigid line—head and back leaned flat against the wall, arms drawn down with her hands woven together in a loose cradle. She twiddled her thumbs as Kaidan stood in the doorway watching her. She looked back in silence. He knit his brow in response, wondering what thoughts could be coursing through her mind. 
 
“Heeeey, Kaidan….” 

“Hey, Shepard.”

“Wow, look at you—freshly gelled hair, crisp, button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up halfway—and well groomed five o’clock shadow. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you had a hot date.” Shepard peeled herself away from the wall and shuffled to the door. “You didn’t do that for me, did you? ‘Cause I’m taken, pal.” 

“Har har, very funny.” Kaidan stepped aside. “Come on in.” 

 “Thanks for having me over. I didn’t know where else to go today. The media are all over my prefab.” The door closed behind her. Hands clasped behind her back, she scanned the main room as she walked in. “Not big on furniture, huh?” 

“It’s a start. Who needs a lot of furniture when there isn’t anything to go with it?”

“True.” Shepard swept a few fingertips over the dusty leaves of an ivy plant. Its vines trailed down from a floating shelf and choked the stalks of the rubber tree below it. “Never took you for a houseplant kind of guy.”

“Uh, I’m not. Those are my mom’s. She likes the apartment to have a bit of ‘life’, as she puts it.” Returning to the kitchen counter, Kaidan picked up a knife and resumed slicing the onions he had begun preparing. “I’m just cooking a quick dinner, make yourself at home.” 

Shepard followed him into the kitchen and poked around, then picked up a squat, red onion resting near the cutting board. “Where did you get these onions?” she asked, bringing the bulb to her nose and taking a deep sniff. “These are an heirloom variety.” 

Kaidan raised an eyebrow. He could hardly tell the difference between a zucchini and a cucumber, let alone different onions. “How do you even know that?” 

“We used to grow these on my parent’s farm.” Shepard palmed the onion, squeezing lightly as her gaze went blank.

“They’re from our building’s greenhouse. New buildings have a growing area on the roof, sometimes the top floor too. Easy access.” 

“Oh that’s handy. Can’t rely on food supply, why not grow your own?”

Kaidan motioned for Shepard to take a seat at the kitchen table. She hadn’t given him much notice before she showed up at the apartment; a few minutes before she arrived he had been tossing things into cupboards and drawers in a desperate attempt to appear tidy. Outside of showering and sleeping, he wasn’t spending much time at home, and his mom—an outgoing and industrious woman—didn’t care much for staying in. He’d be traveling soon anyway, then she could do whatever she wanted with the place.
 
Tears dangled at the corners of Kaidan’s eyes as he finished slicing the onions. He dabbed at the pads of his under eyes with the back of his hand. “My god, they’re relentless, the press. You know there were a couple of reporters at the rehab facility this morning? Guess they didn’t get the memo about you moving.”

“Eh, serves them right.”

“So.…you wanna talk about it?” He set the knife down with a clap.

“No, not really.” Shepard shoved a hand through her thick hair and squeezed the roots between her fingers. “But you’re not going to give me a choice, are you?”

“Have you talked to Garrus yet? Does he know?”
 
“No.”

“And when did you plan on telling him?” Kaidan lifted his chopping board and slid the onions into an awaiting pan. He blessed them with a generous rain of salt, rubbing his pinched fingers together high over the cooktop. A fine trail of bubbles appeared as he spread the sizzling onions around the pan. 

“Umm….never?”

Spatula still in hand, he crossed his arms and glared at Shepard—a paternal mannerism with echoes of his father. If his dad could see him now, Kaidan was sure he’d be laughing.

“Ok, I don’t mean that. It’s just...he’s got enough on his mind right now. He’s still mourning his dad. Actually, I’m not sure he ever started.”

Kaidan turned back to his cooking and stirred the onions, which had started to go limp in the hot pan. “Mmm… I know that feeling all too well.”
 
How long had it taken him to acknowledge that his own father was dead? There was a tempting succor in the label of MIA—the thin hope he would see him again when the war was over. It wasn’t until he’d known his mother was safe that he accepted the likely reality.

“And his mom…well, you’ve heard what’s been happening. She’s getting worse.” 

Kaidan shook his head. “I don’t imagine being a general is doing any wonders for his stress either.” He understood that part all too well too. 

“Nope, it isn’t.” 

“Still, Shepard. You know he wouldn’t like it if you didn’t tell him. I know I wouldn’t.” He stirred the onions one more time, then reached for a pot that hung on the adjacent wall.

“Well, that’s a foregone conclusion.” 
 
After filling the pot with water, Kaidan placed it on the other heating element. “You want something to drink? I don’t have a lot—water, tea….some homemade hard cider my mom brought home.”

Shepard grimaced. “Ugh, no thank you. Water for me. I’ve had enough drinking to last me the rest of the year.”

 He filled a glass and set it down next to her, then seated himself in the opposite chair. “So, you wanna talk about it?”

Hesitant, she held her lips tight to the rim of the glass, the water kissing the crest of her upper lip. She took several tentative sips before speaking. “Well, for one, the press has it all wrong. I wasn’t accusing anyone of anything. I just kind of…freaked out.”

“You never had a problem around batarians before, though. I mean, other than Balak. And a few others.”

“A few others, huh?” She scratched a fingernail on the table as she stared down at her hand. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“So what was different this time?”

“I don’t know….I…I…” Shepard inhaled hard and held her breath for a moment. “Got scared? I wasn’t really thinking. My body…reacted. It was like autopilot—like I wasn’t even there.”

Big red flag. He had seen Shepard like this before. At the tail end of the war, when the pressure of shouldering crucial decisions had begun to take its toll, and she was plagued by nightmares of the dead. Back then, she had swallowed her grief and did what she needed to to see the end. Now? Now didn’t make sense. The war was over. There was no immediate danger, and no one had been asking much of anything from her. 

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“Probably not.”

“What are going to do now? Shouldn’t you see someone?”

Shepard shrugged again.

Kaidan laid both hands on the table and leaned forward. “I’m worried about you, Circe.”

“Not the words I wanted to hear right now.” 

Shepard’s protestation dangled dead in the air. Kaidan dragged a hand down his face and rested it over his mouth, eyes locked with hers as she bit her bottom lip and gazed back. He had never seen her green eyes so gray and listless, yet they brimmed with fear and self doubt. Had Garrus really missed it? No, that’s the wrong way to look at it. Shepard had been doing her best to keep everyone at arm’s length; the immense buffer of physical distance gave her an easy excuse to keep doing it, even to Garrus. The gutsy commander Kaidan had loved so well was now a coward in the face of her own troubles.

Their silent standoff was interrupted by a ping at the door. Kaidan glimpsed over his shoulder towards the small foyer, then let out a long exhale. As he stood up, he ran a hand down the front of his shirt, pressing down the wrinkles that had formed.

Shepard furrowed her brow. Arcing back in her chair—neck scrunched, head dipping—she followed Kaidan’s figure to the front door. The door slid open to reveal a shapely woman in red. 

“Hello, Kaidan. Nice to see you again,” Miranda said coolly. Sheathed in a simple boatneck dress and nude pumps, she met his eyes with her usual confidence. 

“Come on in, Miranda.” Kaidan tried to maintain a neutral expression. His dilated eyes, however, betrayed his best efforts at composure. In the few moments it took to cross the threshold, he had drunk in her sultry features: her beguiling, closed-lip smile, her keen blue eyes and dark lashes, and most of all, the sinuous line of her body—how the fabric of her dress hugged along each of her curves before coming to a taper halfway down her calves. Admiration for her intellect aside, there was no ignoring her in that dress. 

Entering the foyer, she held a clutch bag in front of her, her slender fingers clasped over its flap. “Are you ready to go? The reservation is for eight o’clock. I made sure to request a seat by the window.”

“Sorry, there’s been a bit of a…bump. I tried to call, but you didn’t answer.”

“You did?” Miranda glanced down at her omnitool.

Shepard spoke from her seat at the table. “Hey, Miri….” 

Startled, Miranda looked up and craned her head toward the kitchen.“Commander Shepard?” 

Shepard offered an awkward finger wave.

“Yeah, sorry…she called me on short notice. The media are in front of her place right now.” Kaidan ran his hand over the back of his head. He hadn’t thought it through before he said yes, as if he had said it upon instinct. Looking back now, it was probably the wrong thing to do. 

“Oh, I see,” replied Miranda.

Shepard pushed away from the table and crossed to the foyer. Furtively eyeing Miranda up and down, she placed a hand over her chest in apology. “I’m—I’m sorry, Miranda. I didn’t know you two were going out. Otherwise—”

“Oh…no. No, um, we were only going for a quick dinner, to discuss some work. Nothing special.” Her dark hair, set in fresh, loose curls, cascaded in waves over her shoulder as she tossed it back. “Don’t worry, Commander, your safety takes priority.”

“Listen, no need to lie to me. I think I know a bit of ‘how’s your father’ when I see it,” Shepard teased, waggling an eyebrow.

Kaidan’s entire face went hot. It was enough that his ex-girlfriend had shown up practically unannounced. Now her former second-in-command was standing in his foyer—stunning and flustered—likely furious their first real date had been spoiled by the woman whose life she helped save twice. 

The muscles around Shepard’s eyes tightened as the pair stood glued to the floor. She raised her eyebrows at them, sputtering through closed lips, then broke out into rising laughter. “Wait, really? I wasn’t being serious!”

Kaidan avoided Shepard’s gaze. He had developed an abrupt but intense fascination for the ceiling in the corner of the room. Miranda, who seemed to have gained a similar appreciation for the floor, also averted her eyes.

“Wait, how long has this been….a thing?” she asked, her finger waving back and forth between the two of them. “What happened with Dr. Paulsen?”

 “Shepard, really!” blurted Miranda. She shoved some errant strands of hair away from her face.

 Kaidan was sure he had heard wrong. Wasn’t Dr. Paulsen the doctor who had attended to Shepard aboard the Osaka? “Wait, what? Who?” 

“Nevermind.” Preserving her restrained demeanor, Miranda clenched her teeth and burned two eye-sized holes through Shepard’s skull. 
 
“Oh crap—sorry…” Shepard recanted, trying to restrain her laughter. 

“Um…okay, then.” Kaidan shook his head. “Moving on.”

Involuntary giggles bubbled their way out as Shepard failed to stifle her giddiness. “Sorry, sorry—I’ll be good.” Shepard clapped a hand over her mouth and turned away. 
 
Miranda blazed another set of holes into Shepard’s skull, this time at the back of her head.
 
“Since we’ve had a change in plans, I thought I’d make dinner, just for today. Is that okay with you?” Kaidan asked Miranda.

“Ah, that’s what that…smell…is.” 

Kaidan sniffed at the air. “Ah crap, the onions are burning!” Scuttling to the kitchen, he muttered under his breath, then hurriedly turned the heat down and gave the onions a quick stir. He had been caught up in his conversation with Shepard and had forgotten all about the onions. They might have to make do with ‘well charred’ instead of ‘beautifully caramelized’.

Shepard had seated herself at the table again. “This isn’t going to be another steak debacle, is it Kaidan?” 

“Steak debacle?” asked Miranda, who was peering over Kaidan’s shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of the chef’s blunder.

Kaidan pointed his spatula at Shepard. “Hey, as I recall, you liked my steak. I believe you used the phrase ‘I’m impressed’.” He turned the heat up on the pot of water. 

Shepard squinted. “Mmmm, that’s not what I remember….” 

Miranda glanced at Shepard with a scrunched brow as she pulled a chair out from the table and joined her. 

“Oh—after we busted that harpy, Maya Brooks, Kaidan invited himself into Anderson’s kitchen. He made me the ‘food of his people’.” Shepard made exaggerated finger quotes for emphasis. “ I assumed he meant a tourtière, or like, poutine.  No, he made me a plain steak.”

“You’re forgetting the bacon. And the beer. No self respecting Canadian is going to make a steak and leave out the beer,” Kaidan quipped.

“The beer was the best part!” 

“Well, tonight we’re skipping the meat and going vegan.” 

“Vegan? Damn Alenko, you sure know how to ruin a mood.”

“Look, I figure if the meal involves anything that used to move you might trash the place. Ya know, like you did at Ryuusei's.”

“Hey! Low blow!” 

A hearty chuckle rattled from Kaidan’s chest, his broad smile crinkling the skin around his eyes. He missed laughing with Shepard like this—throwing barbs and quips, making friendly dunks like it was a game of biotiball. They were usually at his expense, but he got his payback once in a while. 

His smile dropped as he snuck a look at Miranda. She seemed agitated, but then again, he couldn’t be sure. Nearly a year of working with her, and he still hadn’t cracked the code of her facial expressions. Not that they weren’t different, more that so many were similar. A study in Mirandaisms meant paying careful attention to every muscle in her face. Shepard’s face, on the other hand, was like warm rubber. It stretched in every which way, especially when she was feeling playful or angry. And when she tried to hide things, she rarely hid them well.

“Ah, sorry Miranda. Don’t mean to keep you waiting on food. Let me get the pasta in.” Kaidan pulled a package of pasta down from the cupboard and grabbed the only lemon from a wide bowl on the counter.

“Of course, Kaidan, take your time. A good meal should never be rushed.”

How does she always find the right thing to say? Kaidan got back to cooking while the ladies chatted.

“So, Shepard—how was the rest of your trip?” Miranda asked, folding her hands on the table.

“Oh don’t tease me, Miranda. If anyone would know, it’s you.”

“Well I’ve heard from everyone else. I’m asking you.”

“F-fiiiiine?” Shepard answered in a lilting tone.

“You know, I can recommend some trustworthy mental health professionals in the area—psychiatrists, psychologists, therapists that would suit your particular set of symptoms. A trauma specialist, perhaps? Just say the word.”

“Of course you have a list ready…”

“I can’t vouch for them personally, but their reputations are impeccable.”

“Uh huh. I’ll—I’ll let you know.” 

Kaidan stirred the onions one more time before letting them finish. “Ok, shouldn’t be much longer.”

Skeptical, Shepard took a long whiff. “Hey, that’s smelling better already.”

“I look forward to it,” said Miranda. She raised her eyes to catch Kaidan watching her from the kitchen, his hands occupied with cooking but his attention elsewhere. “May I help you, Mr. Alenko?”

Kaidan smirked. “Uh, no ma’am. Just admiring the scenery.”

Shepard rolled her eyes as she bent over in her seat and pretended to gag. 

“Come on, Shepard. That kind of thing never bothered you before,” said Kaidan.

“Yeah, not when it was directed at me. Hearing it about other people is different. In front of me no less!” Her wide eyes and wild gestures dripped with exaggeration. 
 
Kaidan laughed, happy to see that Shepard could still find the humor in things, even when she was at her lowest. Miranda, however, did not seem as amused by her sarcasm.

New Aeris, Palaven

Garrus tapped on the dim lamp that hung from the top of his tent. Miserable lighting for a miserable situation. He supposed it was some form of irony that the energy shortage angering New Aerians was also affecting the turian sent to deal with the situation. If the city’s spirit was drumming up sympathy, he hoped he’d appeased it enough to gain its favor. 

Garrus set his terminal down on a folding table, then lowered himself onto the tensed fabric of his cot, sinking as he relaxed his weight into it. His leg shook as he turned the terminal on. He checked the power indicator: twenty-five percent. That would be be good enough for what he needed. He checked the time. Fifteen minutes late. Damn. He tapped on the communication suite. 

Shepard’s impish face appeared, staring somewhere beyond her terminal, unaware that her video was live. Garrus didn’t say a word. He wanted to sit in silence with her, if only for a little while. Crossing an ankle over his knee, he leaned forward toward the screen and perched an elbow on the edge of the table. He watched as she preened herself—mussing her bangs, straightening them out again, smoothing her eyebrows with a finger. The familiar habits he had seen her perform so many times before were a salve for his careworn psyche, a morning invocation for a brighter day ahead. It had now become an indulgence to find comfort in the mundane. 

His talon traced the arced path above her eye. When she had stopped fidgeting, he switched his video on and waited for her to notice him. He mouthed her name. Oblivious to his presence, she flicked at her omnitool, scrolling through what appeared to be an unremitting list of unread messages.

“Circe,” he spoke softly, his tongue curling as best as it could around the hissing consonants of her name. 

She furrowed her brow and cocked her head, listening for the mysterious sound. Garrus repeated her name, elongating the second ‘C’ like a snake issuing a caution signal. 

Peering up from her omnitool, Shepard jerked back and threw her hand up at the screen, the feet of her chair squeaking across the floor. “Oh my god, Garrus, don’t do that! You scared the living crap out of me!”

Garrus feigned ignorance. “I did what, now?” 

“You scared the living crap out of me!”

“Sounds unpleasant.”

Shepard’s eyes retreated into the backs of their sockets as she first pulled her mouth down into a mock frown. “You….”

“Hi.”

“Hi.” Her fingers wiggled in that funny little wave as the frown cracked into a grin. 

Garrus thought it was a little creepy that humans and asari had so many fingers, but they were Shepard’s fingers, and he loved them just the same. “Miss me yet?” he asked, half smug.

“Oh I’ve missed you, Garrus.”

“I miss you too, Shepard.”

“You look awful.”

“I feel pretty awful.” Garrus yawned, his mouth opening so wide that the muscles in his jaw began to seize. He snatched at the joint above his mandible and massaged it with his knuckles. “Sorry I’m a bit late, it was hard to get up today.”

"No, sorry to wake you so early. I know it's not the best time."

"It's alright, there's not really a good time anyway.” Checking the time again, he remembered it was deep into the night on Earth. “It must be late there."

Shepard turned to peek at the dark sky, the small window behind her perfectly framing the waning moon. She shrugged. "You know me, a night owl."  

"A what?"

"Um, it's a kind of bird. An Earth animal that sleeps in the day and is awake at night."

"Got it. Sorry, I think you explained this to me before. My mind's not all here right now.” Garrus yawned again, this time trying to keep his mouth closed. 

"Is there something going on? Other than being tired?” 

Garrus sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Where to start? I’ve lost ten perfectly healthy troops to injury—their personnel carrier got caught in an IED. Don’t know when we can get replacements. And the vehicle, the vehicle is nothing but burnt scrap now.  Spirits, I’m not looking forward to filing that report—we’re short enough on equipment as it is. Procurement will set their fangs on me.” He ran a hand over his forehead and continued along the length of his crest. “These New Aerians have learned a thing or two, I’ll tell you that. Can’t say it’s going to get them what they want. The Hierarchy won’t let them.”

“Yeah, of course not. Then what’s to stop people elsewhere from doing the same?”

“You get it. Oh, and our medical unit is burned out, short-staffed as hell. It’s been that way since the war, really. But I don’t know how much longer they can go on like this. And at the rate we’re training up, there won’t be enough new blood to replace any losses.”

“Damn. No wonder you’re tired.” Putting her elbow on the table, Shepard leaned her cheek into her fist and knit her brow as she gazed at Garrus. “What about your family? How’s your Mom? Solana?”
 
“Heh, not sure I want to get into that. We’ll be here all morning.”

“That bad, huh?”

“More or less the same. I just don’t have the energy.” The cot creaked as Garrus shifted his weight. Sitting on a cot for any length of time wasn’t the most comfortable thing. 

Shepard pressed her lips together, sighing quietly through her nose.

A cozy bed caught Garrus’ eye. Fluffy pillows and a soft mattress sounded amazing right now—even better if Shepard was sharing them. He dipped his head toward the screen and lowered his voice, subvocals purring. “Hey, your new place looks nice. And that bed of yours looks roomy enough for two.”

“Actually…I’m at Kaidan’s.”

Garrus waved his mandibles. “Kaidan’s? What are you doing there?” 
 
“Got reporters waiting at my prefab like a bunch of vultures.” Shepard paused. “Sorry, vultures—they’re birds too. Scavengers.”

What is it with humans and birds?  

“Anyway, I asked him if I could hang here for the night.” She tugged at her ear. “Although, he didn’t tell me he was having company…”

“Company?” 

Shepard raised her eyebrows high. “Guess who came over looking like a trillion credits…”

“Umm, Aish Ashland?”

“Nope.” Smirking, her eyes went wide as she revealed the mystery guest. “A one Miss Miranda Lawson.”

“Waaaiit, Kaidan and Miranda? Those two…?” 

“Mmmhmm.”

Garrus chuckled. “Well damn. If you’d have told me three years ago that Alliance ‘good boy’ Alenko and the Cerberus ice queen were doing some private sparring, I’d have said you’d had one too many shots of horosk.”

Shepard laughed. “Uh huh. It’s weird.”

“Weird for them, or weird for you?” 

“Both?” Her face contorted into a twisted smile. 

“Fair enough.” 

Shepard’s smile faded as Garrus’ blinked back at her, his expression turning pensive. As strange and surprising as this gossip was, he wasn’t going to let her distract him.

“So, are we going to talk about it?”

“About what?” Shepard leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms and furrowing her brow.

Garrus remained silent, waiting patiently for her to realize what he knew.

“That,” he said.

Knotting her arms together even tighter, she hesitated. “Ah. That.” 

“Yes, that. What the hell happened? That looked like a nasty fall you took on the stage.”

"Figures you saw it…” she muttered. 

"We still get the news out here. I might be busy, but I have alerts setup."

"You stalking me, Vakarian?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

"Mmm, is it stalking when your girlfriend is one of the most famous people in the galaxy?”

 Shepard let out a soft snort. 

“Well? Out with it already, Shepard.”

 She looked away, her eyes darting down as she slowly released her arms. "I…I think I had a panic attack,” she said in a soft voice, almost in a whisper.

She said it. The words came out of her mouth. It was a relief to hear her say the words. “You did.”

“I did.”

Mandibles tightened, Garrus began, “I’ve been thinking for a while now—before I came back to Palaven. Since that night you woke up screaming. I…I know you won’t want to hear this. But you need to hear it.” He paused, taking a moment before he said the hard part. “You can’t fight this thing on your own. There’s no urgent mission, no one who desperately needs you to be Commander Shepard right now. It’s time to just be Circe—Circe who lets other people help her.” 

Shepard’s face crumpled into a bitter scowl. “God, not you too. How about a 'Cheer up, honey, I know you can!' ?" she mocked in a chirpy, exaggerated voice.

"And that would work, would it?"

“Couldn't hurt." Shepard held her hands up toward the ceiling, shrugging. "Look, what is someone else going to do about it? I’ve had Alliance mandated therapy before. They just want to talk about all the fucked up things I’ve ever seen or done, and blah blah blahbitty blah. Like talking about that crap makes it any better. Screw that. I’ve done fine on my own. I didn’t become ‘Hero of the Galaxy’ by whining about all my fucking problems."

Garrus knew she was being sarcastic about the last part. She hated being called ‘Hero of the Galaxy’. But he didn’t like how she seemed to be using it like a shield.

Shepard jutted her chin out. “What about you, Garrus? Aren’t you hiding in your work? You haven’t talked about your dad once since you left Earth.”

Straight for the weak spot, huh, Shepard? Scarier than Shepard’s biotics or prowess on the battlefield was the way she could use words to slice right through someone—clean, precise cuts that targeted their rawest vulnerabilities.

Garrus’ subvocals rumbled low. “That’s different, and you know it.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, it is. I don't have the choice. We’re trying to rebuild colonies, an entire homeworld.” Garrus was growing agitated, but he recognized that Shepard was deflecting. He reminded himself not to get sucked into her vortex. “Besides, we're not talking about me. We’re talking about your very public panic attack."

“What else do you want me to say?” she scoffed. “Listen, I know you’re only looking out for me. You always have. But I don’t need you to. These—these are the cards I’ve been dealt. I’ve done this more times than you can imagine. You, you have enough of your own problems without adding me to the mix.”

There were only two times Garrus had ever felt the urge to shout at Shepard: the first was when she had advised him to let Sidonis go, and the second was when she had forced him to board the Normandy on the last day of the war. This would be the third. 

“Yeah, I do have problems. Lots of ‘em. But ignoring yours isn’t going to make mine better. It is what it is, Circe. You can’t make my life easier by suffering alone. I’ll worry with or without your permission.”

Shepard put her hands over her eyes and winced. “Goddamn it, Garrus.”

“Face it, darling, you’re stuck with me.”

“Shit. I guess I am.”  She removed her hands and gave a wry smile.

Victory.

Garrus smiled back, his plates and mandibles relaxing again. “When are you meeting Hackett?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Let me know how it goes?”

Shepard nodded, “Yep. I will.”

“Now, promise me you’ll get some help? Because Solana and Primarch Victus will be furious if I have to drag my ass back to Earth.”

 “I’ll do what I have to, love. Promise.”

Chapter Text

PART II

Chapter 4: Wilted

1 year, 5 mo. after the end of the Reaper War

Evening (PST)
The Citadel, Sol System

The pointed heels of Miranda's boots nipped at the tiles of the Embassies lobby as she rushed to catch the elevator. She slipped her hand into the slim opening, just catching the doors before they shut completely. Two elcor were already inside, their enormous bodies eclipsing the floor of the car like living bowers. Miranda lowered her head to acknowledge them, then pressed herself into a corner near the control panel, taking slow, deep breaths through her nose as she thought about what to do.

The elevator arrived at the Presidium Commons and she slipped through as soon as it opened. Her arms drawn down into fists, she leaned into her long, clipped stride, hurrying towards the C-Sec outpost.

There had better be a damn good explanation for all this.

Earlier that day, morning (PST)
Vancouver, Earth

Shepard squinted as light pierced through the rustling leaves above her. Hugging a cup of coffee between her hands, she absorbed its warmth into her palms, trying to get the feeling back into her stiff fingers. The sun was out today, but Shepard was still cold.

A steady, mechanical flapping rumbled through the air. A crashing thunderclap followed. Shepard's heart leapt, then raced, forcing her to take a series of deep breaths. The din of demolition and construction filled every waking hour, but she still jumped at sudden sounds. The cheerful gentleman running the makeshift cafe didn't seem to mind, though. He was outside day in and day out; the noise was like the air he breathed: invisible and polluted.

Shepard set her cup down on the small folding table and surveyed the nearest intersection. With the weather turning warm, pedestrians were returning to the streets, enjoying the simple pleasures of a morning stroll. Amongst the eager throng was an older man, walking slower than the rest.

The Admiral was shuffling toward her, veiled in a thin plume of dust, his gait stilted and favoring one side. A stalk that had bent in the wind. He seemed smaller than before too. Shepard raised her hand to get his attention. When he approached the table, that was when she really saw it: his hard edges had blunted to subtle contours. His wrinkles were settled and deeper. The right side of his face drooped, with the corner of his mouth pulling down and giving the appearance that he was half frowning. The long scar across his cheek—once a mark of his mettle—now invited curiosity instead of awe.

Admiral Hackett rolled his hunched shoulders and straightened his back. Without saying a word, he pulled a chair out and sat down.

It was odd to see the Admiral in a civilian setting. Like a child running into their teacher at the shop, Shepard couldn't fathom that her superior existed outside the confines of the Alliance. Seeing Hackett in civilian dress was stranger still. She could only think of one other occasion she had ever seen him out of uniform. She and a crew of other privates had staggered into Armax Arena, still buzzed from a night of poker and drinks. Winning the last six rounds of Skyllian Five had saddled Shepard with the obligation of buying snacks for the whole crew, a long-standing tradition she was often the 'victim' of. An unhappy volus customer—droning on about the meager amount of popcorn in his bag—was holding the concessions line hostage. Her eyes wandered around the lobby as she resisted the impulse to roll the obstinate volus down the stairs. That was when she caught sight of Hackett slipping out of the infirmary, limping slightly with a fresh shiner kissing his face. Hackett had a reputation for being fearless and was a formidable fighter by all accounts, but Shepard had never imagined him indulging in battle arenas in his off time. Before she and her crew left that night, they reviewed the leader board for the latest scores. Their shipmate, who had made it through all three super elite waves, had come in second with a score of 9,631. The first place spot, with a high score of 9,999, was claimed by someone named Stone Hard. Her crew, drunker than before, howled at the puerile pseudonym. Shepard gave a knowing smirk and kept that piece of serendipity to herself.

Now the stone hard man was doing his best to keep from slumping in his flimsy chair. Hackett shifted several times, then tugged at the flaccid sleeve of his button down shirt, straightening the cuff into place across his rigid hand. After finally settling into a comfortable position, he addressed Shepard.

"Commander Shepard—I'm glad as hell to see you. Back safely from your travels too." Hackett spoke with a measured cadence, enunciating each word front to back before moving onto the next.

An abrupt rain of concrete rushed down in the distance. "You too, sir! I haven't seen you since the debrief!" Shepard shouted. The staccato sound died halfway through her sentence, leaving her embarrassed that she was shouting at the Admiral.

"Here I am, in the flesh. Imperfect flesh, mind you, but flesh nonetheless."

Hackett's forehead was damp with sweat. He lifted his right hand from his lap, slowly circling his arm around to his back pocket. His arm stayed pinned in place as he fumbled for something, his fingers failing to get a good grasp. After a breathless struggle, he produced a cotton handkerchief and dried his flushed forehead with heavy, labored dabs.

"Sorry, my hand—it's still weak. I'm forcing myself to use it more often. And I get sweaty sometimes. My body doesn't seem to know if it's hot or cold."

"I hear you're coming back to work? Is that right?"

"The end of this month. A trial basis. The doc cleared it under the condition that we reassess the situation in another month's time."

Shepard admired the man's dogged persistence. The Reapers couldn't kill him and and neither could a stroke. "Dr. Paulsen doesn't mess around, sir."

"No, he does not. Speaking of—" The atonal clang of metal being struck rang out to interrupt the Admiral. "—you're probably wondering why I wanted to see you."

Tensing her shoulders to her ears, Shepard pushed a cup of black coffee toward him. "Can't say I ever expected to get a social call, no."

The Admiral took a careful sip. "Woof! You have to wonder what they put in this crap. That's pretty heinous, even by Alliance standards."

"I've learned it's best not to ask, sir."

"I want to be honest with you, Shepard." The Admiral shoved his cup away. "I don't want you to be alarmed, but before you woke up from your coma, I asked General Alenko to keep an eye on you—as a personal favor to me. Don't get me wrong, I don't mean spy. Just….in case things got rough." He met Shepard's eyes and cleared his throat.

Now it made sense. Why Kaidan seemed so interested in her day to day, why he was always hanging around when he should be busy. Shepard was worried that he'd let old feelings resurface, or that observing her vulnerability triggered some latent need to care for her. She was relieved to hear otherwise.

"You were concerned."

"Then you do understand. I realize what the Alliance required of you was a lot to ask of one person. To be frank, I was in awe that you survived. I don't think anyone expected to find you alive after it was all over. "

"It's my duty and privilege, sir."

Hackett opened his mouth, but no words came out.

"And I want to continue serving my duty. I—I'm actually grateful I have the opportunity to speak with you, outside official channels. My apologies if this sounds too forward, Admiral…." Wagging her heel in nervous arcs, she ground a mound of grit underneath the ball of her boot. "...but I'm hoping to be put back on active duty."

"Commander, you know very well that decision doesn't rest with me. You need to be cleared by medical first. Until then, my hands are tied."

"I understand that, sir. But Dr. Paulsen has given me the all clear…my biotics not withstanding. There's nothing preventing me from returning to service."

Admiral Hackett sighed and mopped his brow again. "Shepard….you and I both know that isn't true."

Of course she knew what Hackett was talking about. But she didn't want to say it. The void between them said it for her. It should have been good enough, being physically fit for duty. She could run faster than before. She could still draw her weapon and hit a quick moving target from a distance. Her field tactics were a little rusty, but nothing some practice wouldn't fix. And she was still capable of planning and executing missions.

Memories? Feelings? Trauma? The galaxy went on spinning regardless of how she felt. Life hadn't stopped after her brother died. Or after her parents died. Her grandparents, her aunt, her friends. Everyone she had grown up with. She left Mindoir with a single footlocker—half filled with her mother's antique books, a pair of shoes, and a toothbrush—nothing more. And life moved on.

The endless parade continued on after Akuze. The lone survivor lifted her knees in the air and marched onward. It didn't stop after Saren, or Sovereign. Her own death. Her cybernetic resurrection by way of Cerberus. The Illusive Man? The Collectors? Harbinger? The batarians in the Bahak System. The Geth. Discovering and killing her own clone. The death of dear friends. The destruction of entire planets. The Catalyst.

At no point had anyone asked her to stop–told her to stop. Hell, they encouraged her to keep going. They said they needed her. Commander Shepard.

Life will drag you through the muck, darling. When that happens, you hold on tight and get yourself back up. Then you keep on fighting, do you hear me? Don 't hide. Don't run away. You fight.

A high-pitched, monotonous whir sounded off in the distance. It skimmed the air and funneled straight through Shepard's eardrums. She furrowed her brow and tried to ignore the sound, but the maddening whine bound her chest in a tight corset of anxiety.

Shepard's knuckles went white as she gripped her pants at the tops of her thighs. "Please, sir. I need to do this. I can't keep on like this. The galaxy is a wreck…and everyone is doing something. But me, what am I doing?"

"You've been taking a well-earned rest, Commander."

"It's been a year since I woke up. That's not a rest, that's a goddamn sabbatical!" she said, indignation winning over tears. "I never signed up for this. I may as well have died on the Citadel like I was supposed to!"

"Shepard…"

Realizing what had spilled out of her mouth, she began to panic, her cheeks burning with shame. She had just snarled at her superior officer, and worse, let her emotions break through to the surface. Her eyes darted around the Admiral's face. Was he angry? Shit. Fuck. FUCK!

"For-forgive me, Admiral," she sputtered. "That was uncalled for. Unprofessional. I…I'm just…"

"I get it, you're frustrated. Restless. You don't like sitting still."

Shepard looked down into her lap, too embarrassed to meet the Admiral's gaze. His gentle reassurance could not allay her anxiety.

"I've been there, Commander. More than once. You know the path my career has taken—I came up the ranks, just like you did." Admiral Hackett cleared his throat. "Allow me to share a story."

Still looking away, Shepard kept her lips tightly closed..

The Admiral began, "The very first time I faced the black dog was after the First Contact War."

"Black dog?"

"Mmm….that's what I call him, my demon." Pausing, he licked his lips as he gathered his thoughts. "I was a second lieutenant at the time. My unit was amongst the first wave of reinforcements on Shanxi. I'm sure you know how the turians destroyed the living hell out of the cities, tried to starve us out. Anyway, my squad got separated. I was leading a group of three greenhorns through the city center—we were trying to reach a known cache of supplies at a decommissioned power station. One of my men, D'Angelo was his name, rushed the door when we reached the building. Something felt off—I can't explain what, just a feeling—but I didn't say it. Thought I was just imagining things. As soon as he crossed through the door…BOOM! The turians had set an explosive trap. I watched the poor man get torn to shreds. One of my other men, Pulaski, was close behind. He got lucky. Just a missing arm and part of his leg blown off."

Shepard shook her head. She understood how losing your first subordinate felt.

"I blamed myself for it. Because I wasn't quick enough, because I doubted myself. I thought I made the wrong decision. It paralyzed me. I didn't want to make another wrong decision. D'Angelo's family…they never blamed me. But I couldn't forgive myself. That was the first time the black dog came for me. And he… he just kept visiting. Every time there was a loss, every time I questioned my decision. Every time I pushed myself beyond my limits, he was there. Always there, stalking me."

"What did you do, sir?"

"I just pretended he wasn't there." Handkerchief still in hand, he dabbed at his forehead. "I'm career military, Shepard. Before my stroke, it had been years since I'd taken more than a few days of leave. I didn't want to. While I'm proud of the work I've done, I can say that it came at a cost. All notions of a traditional life—marriage, children, relationships outside work? I put those out of mind. For the sake of service. And I liked it that way. Or at least I thought I did." Hackett gave the bitter coffee another chance. He grimaced again and spat it out. "Let me ask you something, Commander. And be honest with me."

"What's that, sir?"

"How old do you think I am?"

"What?"

"In all seriousness—how old do you think I am?"

Shepard hesitated. "Uhh…seventy-one?"

"I'm fifty-four."

Stunned, Shepard's lips parted into a silent gape.

Admiral Hackett chuckled. "You're probably wondering why I haven't had more work done. To be honest, it never appealed. I'm not a very vain man. My life is written on my face—I don't see any reason to change it."

"Sorry, sir, I'm just…astonished."

"Anyway, the reason I'm telling you this—well, it's a warning. Ignoring the black dog will cause you hardship beyond what you've already experienced. He'll come back to bite you, again and again, until one day he's consumed all of you. And your dog…I suspect he's bigger and meaner than mine.

"Recovering from this stroke has been one of the hardest thing I've ever done. Even with all the treatments and therapy, it's taken every ounce of strength to get here, to be speaking with you today. I'm telling you this because I have immense respect and admiration for you as a fellow officer." The Admiral's eyes, still sharp even now, implored her to listen carefully. "Don't end up here, Shepard. Find a firm footing and ground yourself. Before you drift away."

Shepard pursed her lips and took a sip of coffee, which had now gone tepid. Her legs ached from sitting too long. All she wanted to do after this was go for a run, but she needed to leave. Javik and Liara would be waiting at the Citadel.

Early Afternoon (PST)
Citadel, Sol System

Shepard grinned when she spotted the odd pair from afar. Liara gazed out onto the Presidium from a courtyard balcony, her face soft and serene. She was studying the diligent keepers who were tending to the landscaping on a terrace below. Javik, who stood next to her, was leaning his elbow on the railing as he looked down his nose at the crowd around him.

From this vantage point they looked like an old married couple—the way they were standing so close but disinterested in one another, the focus of their attention somewhere else entirely. If Shepard hadn't known better, she'd have guessed they had grown closer since their time on Mars. But Liara had made it clear in her messages that there was nothing going on between them beyond a mutual respect and understanding.

Now Liara had finally worked up the nerve to return to Thessia, this time with Javik in tow. Beyond that, Shepard wasn't sure what their plans were—only that they involved investigating Prothean sites with fresh eyes and writing their book together. Maybe this time Liara would find real answers. Javik had changed everything, as had Mars, and her life as the Shadow Broker seemed like a temporary insanity driven by grief and propelled by survival. Liara was tight-lipped, however, about who might take over her role as one of the galaxy's most powerful information brokers.

Shepard started down the stairs; she would sneak up from behind and give Liara a harmless fright. Teasing her had always been Garrus' specialty, but without him here it was up to her to keep up traditions. Shepard had only made it to the first landing before an errant arm flew out in front of her, nearly smacking her in the chest.

"Commander Shepard, fancy meeting you here," a voice said in a goading tone. "You've been rather elusive since your trip to Tokyo. I'm surprised to see you show your face so plainly."

Shepard stumbled back. "Move it, Al-Jilani. I'm not interested in answering any questions today. I'm here to meet friends."

"I'll only be a moment, Commander." Al-Jilani swiveled her head, scanning the faces of people nearby. "I see you don't have your guard dog with you today."

"Guard dog?"

"Kaidan Alenko? He's always barking at the press to leave you alone."

"He's a General in the Alliance, I'm sure he doesn't have the time to waste." Shepard tried to step past the reporter, but al-Jilani blocked her path, this time with her entire body. A searing jolt whipped through Shepard's spine.

"Commander, I just want to get your statement on the incident in Tokyo. Word on the extranet is that you believed the batarians were terrorists. Based on your history and past actions that would be a logical conclusion."

"There's simply no truth in that."

"Oh, I believe you. I think it's pretty clear from the footage there's something else going on." Al-Jilani turned her omnitool on and brought a video up on the small display. She held her arm out for Shepard to see. "This particular shot was provided by a loyal viewer."

This was the first time Shepard had seen any footage from that day. Long before the war, she had made it a habit not to look herself up on the extranet. Extranet users could be rather nasty, and she didn't need the added pressure of anonymous public opinion weighing on her conscience. But a nervous curiosity rose from the pit of her stomach; she couldn't help but watch as the image of her walking onto stage flickered on the omnitool.

A wide angle showed Shepard stopping to make a few shallow bows at the crowd before taking her place behind the podium. The shot tightened into a medium close-up, the footage juddering as she spoke with confident gestures. Abruptly, she stammered. Shepard watched herself wither in real time—hanging onto the podium as she sagged from its edge, her face chlorotic and glazed with sweat. She heard herself shout nonsense. Things she didn't remember saying. "You're here to kill me… you want me to die! You want to kill us all! We're all going to DIE!" she half sobbed. The shot pulled back to expose her glassy gaze frozen upon the batarians, even as she wilted under the sun's bright rays. She was panting, rocking back and forth on her heels like she might launch herself into the crowd. Finally, Shepard watched her knees buckle as she crumpled into a spent heap.

Al-Jilani flicked the footage away and drew her arm back. "Only the people who stood at the very front got a good view of what really happened. As you can see, Commander, you looked very unwell."

Shepard's throat wrung itself dry into a gulch of pebbles. She swallowed hard to make room for her words. "If you must know—I ran into an old comrade I hadn't seen in a while. We went out for food and drinks the night before. I may have overdone it a little. That's it. I was dehydrated from a hangover."

There was a grain of truth to her lie. It was still a lie, of course, but it was as measured a response as she could muster.

"A simple hangover doesn't explain your actions." Stepping closer, al-Jilani scoured Shepard's face. "Is this related to your experience on the Citadel? Or perhaps your close contact with the Reapers?"

"Are you insinuating that I'm indoctrinated?" The pitch of Shepard's voice had crescendoed into a breathless shrill.

"You wouldn't say 'yes' if I asked."

"I don't have anything more to say about this."

Like boulders in a creek, the women dammed the landing, forcing others to stream around them. Once again, al-Jilani inched closer to Shepard, blocking her from going down the stairs. Shepard's heart began to pump overtime, rushing blood to the surface of her cheeks. Her breath quickened with desperation.

"A source tells me you are seeking to be put back on active duty. Is this true? If so, do you truly think you're fit for duty? Are you in a state of mind to make life or death decisions?

"Shepard!" A gentle voice hailed from below. Liara waved from the balcony.

Shepard was deaf to her call. An intense pressure was building in her head. And the searing jolt had returned, surging into her limbs, to the tips of her fingers and toes. Her expression hardened into a flinty glare. "I need you to get out of my face, now," she growled.

"Commander Shepard, isn't it unfair that you've received special treatment when—"

Shepard couldn't make out the rest of what she was saying. The reporter's lips were moving, but Shepard's ears were stuffed with cotton. It felt as if al-Jilani might snatch her by the hair and strip the the skin off her face—a ribbon of bark being peeled from a tree. Al-Jilani's eyes began to burn yellow. They scorched her chest, desiccating her from the outside in.

She blinked furiously as the Presidium receded at the edges of her vision. From this narrow tunnel, she felt her sharpened elbow pull back. She saw her fingers lock into a fist. Her arm and shoulder primed to surge forward. No…no, don't do it. Like a passive viewer, she was watching footage again. This time she saw herself swear and spit and bellow. She saw her lips curl. She saw her sneer turn feral. The last shot, slowed to half time, tightened into an extreme close-up: al-Jilani's spluttering, frightened face as Shepard's fist pummeled her unguarded stomach.

Evening (PST)
Citadel, Sol System

Dated pop music buzzed through speakers at the Silver Coast Casino as Miranda waited for Oriana to arrive.  She found herself tapping a finger to the beat, despite the trite lyrics and overwrought vocals. As usual, she was punctual, but Oriana was not. She took a sip of her martini and surveyed the room; it was nearly empty except for a human couple nestled in the corner booth and a krogan security guard stationed at the top of the stairs. The casino wasn’t quite what it had been since the last time she was here. Half of the lower floor and the entire top floor had been rebuilt during repairs to the Citadel. The gaming section was reduced to make way for a lounge and restaurant (a wise business decision by Miranda’s estimation) and the lavish decor replaced by more austere choices. Even the waterfall that once graced the casino level was gone.

Head resting in her hand, Miranda swirled the speared olives of her drink in mindless circles. She should have been thinking of how to support Oriana in her new endeavors, or what she could do to ensure her safety, but her mind kept returning to her scrapped date with Kaidan. If it hadn’t been foiled by Shepard’s ‘situation’, would they have gone on a second, or third date by now? Would they have slept together? Would she still have this unfamiliar feeling of insecurity? The questions played ad infinitum, like the intrusive personalized ads that plagued Zakera Ward. It wasn’t like her to obsess over someone—her sister excepted. Certainly not a man. Men could be a bit of fun, but she had learned a long time ago not to count on them sticking around for long.  There was always something. And despite her evolved impressions of him, she was beginning to wonder if Kaidan was just the same.

Still lost in her romantic fixations, she felt a sudden tapping on her shoulder and jumped.

"Heeeey, sis…," said Oriana

"Oh god, Ori, you scared the daylights out of me! I nearly spilled my drink."

"Mmmm, you were looking a little lost in thought there. Or were you pouting? Your lips looked a little pouty." Oriana chortled, then set down the stack of datapads she had been clutching and sat down.

"Me? Pouting?" Miranda's brow stiffened at the accusation.

"Oh yeah, big time. Other people might not be able to tell, but I can."

Miranda took a cursory sip of her drink. "Uh huh."

"So what's up, Miri? Work problems? Boy problems?"

"Something like that."

"Like what?"

"Nothing. Forget I said it."

"You sure?"

"Mmmhmm," Miranda hummed around the rim of her glass.

"Alright then…" Oriana tucked her hair behind her ear and pulled a datapad out from the bottom of her stack. "Well, if you want to talk about it, I'm here to listen."

Miranda nodded as she swallowed a big gulp of the weak martini.

The asari maiden tending the bar turned her attention to the two sisters. "Hi there pretty thing, what can I get you?"

"She'll just have a sparkling water, please," said Miranda.

"Hey, I'm old enough to drink now, you know!" Oriana pursed her lips in disapproval.

"Are you?"

"Yes, I'm twenty-two!"

"Oh. I suppose you're right. A white wine spritzer for her then."

Oriana rolled her eyes. "Miiiriii!"

Miranda smirked as she raised an eyebrow at her sister.

"I'll have a full biotic kick," Oriana told the bartender.

"You got it, miss."

"Well, you know exactly what you're doing, don't you?" Miranda teased. "Isn't it a little early in the evening for such a stiff drink?"

"Nah. I need it after so many hours of sitting on my butt."

"How did the informational session go, then?"

"It was a lot to take in and process. Some pretty heavy stuff. It was enlightening, though."

"Do you still think you're ready to go out to the colonies? Given what you've learned?"

"What's the point in waiting? The Alliance needs people to help rebuild. I can be one of them. Besides, I think it will give me a lot of experience for when we start establishing new colonies again."

"That's a fair assessment."

"Oh, I almost forgot. You said you wanted to see my proposal." Oriana handed her the datapad she'd separated from the others.

Miranda perused the text and gave small nods as she came upon ideas she thought were worthwhile.

"Wow, I'm impressed so far, Ori. You've got quite the head for planning. Have you shown this to anyone else yet?"

"No, I wanted to run it by you first. You always catch the things I don't."

"Mmm…do you mind if I take this? I still have a few contacts in the colony sector who might be able to help you. Would that be alright with you?"

"Gosh, of course! Thank you Miri!" Oriana said with a squeal.

The asari maiden returned with Oriana's drink and slid it in front of her. "Here ya go lovely, on the house."

"Oh, you didn't have to…" said Oriana

"Don't worry about it." The bartender grinned and slinked away.

Oriana beamed at her sister. "This day just keeps getting better!"

Miranda smiled back, happy to see her so contented and well-adjusted. With everything that had happened, it was more than she could have hoped for her.

The dated pop that was playing earlier had transitioned to a bland dance mix. Two sad vorcha shuffled on the dance floor, their jerky movements out of time with the monotonous tss tss tss tss of the electronic kick. The sound nearly drowned out Miranda's omnitool, but she had caught it blinking just as she set down the datapad. Seeing the message was from Kaidan, she read it right away.

Miranda — sorry to bother you, but I remember you said you 'd be meeting Oriana on the Citadel. If you're still there, I need you to go to the C-Sec outpost at the Presidum. Shepard is being held there. Please help her? I won't be back in Vancouver for a few more days. Thanks, Kaidan

"Oh for fuck's sake, Shepard!" Miranda called out.

The asari bartender and the two vorcha whipped their heads around to see what the fuss was about.

"Miri, is everything ok?" Oriana asked, her face wrinkled in confusion. "I don't think I've ever heard you swear like that before…"

"No! Christ. Stay here. I'll be back as soon as I can." Miranda choked down the dregs of her martini and slapped it down on the bar. "On second thought, you should probably go home, Ori. I have a feeling this is going to be a long night."

Huffing, Miranda approached the desk at the C-Sec outpost and drummed her fingers on it. A distracted turian officer glanced up from his game of solitaire, taken aback by the stony-faced human standing in front of him.

"Yes, how may I help you miss?"

"I'm here for Commander Circe Shepard. I received word she is being detained here."

The officer's eyes lit up. "Oh-ho-ho, you're here for Commander Shepard, huh? She's a real treat. We could barely get her into the holding cell. A real animal, that one."

"I'm sorry? What is she being detained for?"

"She mauled an innocent reporter. Sent her to Huerta Memorial. A bloody mess. The reporter was unconscious when they took her away." He tapped a talon on the desk and shook his head.

Miranda inhaled sharply. "May I speak with the Commander? I was sent by General Kaidan Alenko of the Alliance."

"Alenko? Ok, but you'll have to register first."

The officer handed her a datapad. When she was done filling out the forms, she followed him to the small cell where Shepard was being held.

A languorous figure sat hunched on the metal bench, head in her hands, stringy brown hair hanging down to obscure her face in a protective curtain. Miranda stood at the barrier, baffled. Did she know this woman? She looked too frail and defeated to be Shepard. The woman shifted, the baggy neck of her sodden shirt falling to one side and revealing her sharp collarbone. The ropey scars on her shoulder caps peeked through.

"Shepard?" Miranda asked plaintively.

The woman jolted. She tore her face away from her hands and blinked up at Miranda between strands of hair. Red and purple bloomed across her upper left cheek. The eye above it was swollen and streaked with blood, a stripe of bright red right through the white.

"Miranda…." she said in a shaky whisper. "What are you doing here?"

Moving closer to the barrier, Miranda spoke in a calm voice. "Kaidan received information that you were taken into custody. He's away on duty, and asked if I would come. What happened?"

"They're saying… they said I assaulted Khalisah al-Jilani. That she's in the hospital." A slow stream of tears began to trickle down her bruised cheek.

Miranda tilted her head toward the floor. She wasn't sure whether the Commander needed sympathy or an old-fashioned tongue lashing. "I've considered you a friend, Shepard. One of my only true friends. You helped me save Oriana, never asking for anything in return. I've supported you because I believe in you, and because I know you'd do the same for me. But, Commander…I can't support this behavior." She raised her head again, making it a point to look directly into Shepard's eyes. "I know you don't like her, and with good reason, but you simply cannot assault a member of the press. Being court martialed is not a good look when you're desperate to return to service."

"I….I don't understand why I'm here."

"I'm going to see about making an arrangement with the authorities. If they might release you under my care until the matter is resolved. If I'm successful, please consider this payback for what I owe you."

The officer who was on duty in the holding area was speaking with someone over commlink. After he finished his conversation, he approached Shepard's cell.

"Excuse me, Commander Shepard? I have some news."

Shepard looked up. "Yes?"

Oh no. Al-Jilani's dead, isn't she? Miranda worried things were about to get worse for the Commander.

"Officer Gavion has spoken with a representative of Ms. al-Jilani. She's informed us that Ms. al-Jilani will not be seeking charges. You're free to leave." The officer disabled the barrier and held his arm out to usher her away.

"Wh-what?" Shepard stumbled out of the cell, then turned to Miranda. "Did you arrange for this?"

"Me? No, I came straight away when I heard you were here." She tugged the neck of Shepard's shirt back over her shoulder and gave her a rueful smile. "We can find out what happened later. Let's just go, Shepard."

The women made their way to the end of the corridor and exited the holding area. Shepard stared into the C-Sec lobby from the threshold. "Liara?"

Miranda peered around Shepard to see Liara standing at the front desk with Javik right behind her.

"Shepard!" Liara strode toward her, meeting her halfway. She looked Shepard over with watery eyes, then brushed the hair away from her face.

"How did you know I was here?"

"We saw what happened, Commander. In the Presidium Commons," said Javik.

"You did?"

"I called your name, but it seemed you were having a disagreement with Miss al-Jilani. You didn't hear me," replied Liara."I came right after they took you away, but they wouldn't let me see you."

"Dr. T'Soni was quite disturbed when the authorities did not give us access to you. I advised her that we should see Ms. al-Jilani in the hospital," said Javik.

"We convinced her not to seek charges."

"So it was you, then?" said Miranda.

"But how?" asked Shepard.

"I made her an offer she couldn't refuse." Liara massaged her forehead with her fingers. "Javik and I will grant her an exclusive interview regarding our findings on Mars. With discretion, and with permission from the Alliance, of course."

Miranda was impressed that they had thought of such a plan. "How is she? Al-Jilani?"

Javik answered. "Wretched. The whole of her face is swollen and covered in deep bruises. She has several fractured ribs, a broken wrist, and a minor spinal injury. Fortunately, she has no major damage to her brain."

"She was able to speak with us, at least. She's very fortunate not to have worse injuries—not after what you did to her. You could very well have killed her," said Liara.

Shepard ran her hands through her hair. "What? Killed her? I..I didn't do that to her… I hit her in the stomach, that's all. I didn't do that to her face…"

"Shepard…you punched her in the gut, repeatedly. She got up long enough to hit you back, but you shoved her down the stairs. When she tumbled down, you followed her," said Liara.

"You kicked her, Commander. Then you punched the woman in the face until she was unconscious," said Javik.

"Javik had to pull you off of her. I put you in a stasis field to stop you from going after her again."

"No…how is that possible? I don't remember doing that. I didn't…" Holding her hands out, Shepard examined her knuckles. Each one was swollen and bruised. "…did I?"

Javik clasped his hands behind his back. "Dr. T'Soni and I witnessed the beating."

"I've never seen you look so…unhinged, like a wild animal," said Liara, who had begun to cry as she took Shepard's hand and stroked it with hers.

"Liara…" Shepard cried silently.

To her surprise, Miranda began to tear up too. "Oh Shepard…"

Chapter Text

PART II

Chapter 5: Depletion

1 year, 7 mo. after the end of the Reaper War
New Aeris, Palaven

"We can't take any chances. I'm calling it off." Garrus had had enough of failure. He was feverish, shattered by exhaustion and defeat. If this is how an officer felt, he knew it was that much worse for his men. It was time to pull out of east New Aeris for good.

"Sir, this is our chance to end these petty skirmishes. If we don't act now we'll lose the advantage we gained in the Libraxum Ward. It would be a waste," said his sergeant, Quidros.

The hot wind refused to die. It churned the dry, unmoored earth about the camp in elliptical whorls. Garrus shut his eyes for a moment to block everything out.

"A waste? I'll tell you what would be a waste—losing more lives. And if we go forward with your plan, that's what we risk doing. Do you think the rebels are going to cut us a break if we get caught? They'll just add our men to their collection of hostages and call it a day. Hell, they're angry enough. They might do away with formalities altogether and kill everyone."

Five days ago, Quidros had proposed a plan to rescue the remaining three hostages and sabotage the rebels' weapons cache in the process. It would involve sending a small, incognito team, who would assume identities as former students at the university. He'd already gathered plenty of intelligence during his time in the Libraxum Ward and understood the rebels' command structure and daily operations. Yesterday, he proposed he lead the team, as he possessed the most knowledge of the area and had the advantage of biotics, bypassing the need to carry extra weaponry. Garrus voiced his skepticism, pointing out that Quidros' face had already been seen by a number of rebels; adding biotics to the mix could expose his identity even further.

Quidros stretched to his full height. "Respectfully, General, I disagree. There—"

"Then that's where we end it. It's late, we're all tired. We can discuss it again in the morning." Letting his head hang down, Garrus kneaded the back of his neck where it met his cowl. He wasn't going to entertain anymore subordination or backtalk from his men. He'd been far too lax with them. They were getting flabby and lippy, and their lack of discipline was showing.

Sergeant Laren glanced at Quidros. The red markings on Quidros' bone-white face seemed to glow as his brow plates slanted together in a spark of fury. Laren flicked his mandibles in warning, but Quidros was too busy brooding to notice.

Garrus shook his head at them and skulked away to his tent for the night.

After Garrus was out of sight, Laren turned to his friend. "You need to watch yourself."

"What? He needs to hear it."

"That's for Primarch Victus to tell him, not us."

"If the Primarch won't talk some sense into the General, then I don't mind walking point."

"You're going to get yourself relieved of duty."

"General Vakarian is going to relieve me of duty? Come on, look at us. We're barely holding onto New Aeris as it is. Anyway, don't you know anything about Vakarian? He used to have a reputation for playing fast and loose. It's why he quit C-Sec." Quidros relaxed, leaning into a tall stack of crates. "And everyone knows he was Archangel. That's been an open secret for months."

"General Vakarian? On Omega? Taking down Blue Suns? Nah, you're plucking my frills…"

"Nope. I swear it."

"Hey, keep it down out there! I can hear you, you know!" Peering out from the flap of his tent, Garrus added, "The Blue Suns, Eclipse, and the Blood Pack. How 'bout that? G'night, boys."

Laren froze, his mouth formed into an absentminded grin. "Good night, sir."

Garrus removed his armor in the dark, tearing the cumbersome pieces off in swift succession and tossing them to the ground. His knees complained as he sank down to his cot, the slack returning to them like worn out elastic. Nothing made him feel older than joints that ached for no good reason, except maybe his young sergeant implying that he was losing his edge. That made him feel utterly ancient. Thirty-two was youthful by turian standards, but time was slipping by faster than ever, and the days and months and years had not been kind to his body since his time hunting down Saren.

With one arm flopped over the side of his cot, and the other draped over his forehead, Garrus let his eyes relax as he directed his gaze to the unlit lamp at the top of his tent. In a bittersweet, twisted way, he wished he could be back at the beginning, before the war. The danger had been high, the stakes even higher—immeasurably higher than now—the outcome always balanced on a knife's edge. Joining the Normandy had been one of the best things to ever happen to him. It had altered the course of his life, removing him from the frustrations of mundane bureaucracy and thrusting him into the wider galaxy to fight forces much bigger than he could ever imagine. And meeting Shepard—someone who was as passionate as he was, who was competent and driven—was the zenith of that remarkable time.

Where was she, anyhow? An entire month had passed since he'd last heard from her. Her last message was curt and without detail, only saying that she would be "MIA for a while" and had some things to take care of. It wasn't much to go on. There was no news of her on the extranet, and there was no one to ask. Tali didn't know anything; she was traveling with the Migrant Fleet in the Athena Nebula. He hadn't heard from Wrex at all since he'd made it back to Tuchanka. And Liara had gone back to Thessia with Javik. Garrus thought about getting in touch with Kaidan, but the idea that he might know better than Garrus did was too much to consider—tantamount to a breach in trust. Shepard would never do that. And Miranda, even if she did know, would never tell him. He'd have to keep his faith in her and wait. That was probably for the best. He didn't have time to worry about her right now. Between the pressure to hold the Hierarchy together and the gravity of his family's situation, there was enough worry to last him for the rest of the year.

Garrus had become accustomed to keeping the strain at bay. But it hadn't abated since the Reapers' first attack, and he was growing weary of being alone with his thoughts. When he was a child, his mother often found small ways to ease his troubles. She would begin by fixing him a snack or offering to play a game with him. Then, while he was occupied, she would probe with care: "Oh, look at that…you took my last dreadnought! That's disappointing. It's so hard to be disappointed, isn't it?". With her mindful composure she would hold a space for him, and Garrus would share his concerns on his own terms. It didn't matter if she had already known what he was going to say; his confidence was undergirded by having someone who made the effort to listen and to listen well.

Now, conversations with his mother had degraded into a source of anxiety. Garrus had last spoken with her a week ago, after her new caretaker had urged him to keep up a regular schedule of talks. He was careful about what information he shared and how he shared it. Without thinking, he had once made the mistake of correcting her about his father. It ended poorly. He learned, the painful way, that reliving the news of a loved one's death over and over again was a form of bitter cruelty. He did his best to spare his mom that pain, but he felt it every time she asked about his dad.

The truth was that the mindful version of his mother didn't exist anymore. She was trapped between folded proteins, denatured of her calm spirit and emotional generosity. That mother only lived in his memory. Still wide awake in his cot, Garrus sighed and slid his arm over his eyes. He pictured his childhood home in Cipritine, hoping to find her.

The gamey, savory tang of spiced meat tickles his nose as he passes through the door, home early from a failed target practice. Its robust aroma is plaited with the perfume of fresh arx blooms and warm bath oil. It smells like the entirety of Palaven in one room. He drops his kit on the hallway floor, knowing his mom will probably nag him about it later. At the end of the hallway, a large, square mirror hangs on the wall. He turns his head from side to side and sees that he's twelve again, not quite old enough to serve, but old enough to be a good shot and old enough to know better than to leave his grimy things lying around. He walks toward the kitchen. Solana is lounging in a cushioned saucer chair in the sitting room, both legs pulled up and crossed, her face shoved into the latest installment of "The Taetrus Diairies". She acknowledges him and goes back to reading.

The smell of the meat grows stronger as he floats into the kitchen. Arces are nested in a vase at the end of the counter, the blooms spilling out from all sides—his mother's favorite. He doesn't have to look, he already knows his dad isn't here; he's at the Citadel as usual. Standing with her back turned to him, his mom is rinsing fresh herbs in the sink. Before he has a chance to tap her on the shoulder, she turns around, her eyes brightening as she sees him. He's already taller than she is by a couple of heads, but she still commands the room when she is in it. She sets the herbs down and takes his hand, then squeezes it between hers. Her mandibles flutter slowly as she nods in sympathy. "I know, son. I know."

 

It was a rough start to the next morning. There was no discussion of Quidros' plan, only a hasty advance to the northern part of the city before a gathering there turned violent. Garrus had tried to remain as hands off as possible, but this particular rally was swarming with reckless youth, some of them armed and spoiling for a fight. They had gathered outside a safe camp, which was staffed by a rotating squad of six to eight soldiers and overseen by an officer.

Garrus, Major Paetrus, and his sergeants rode together in one vehicle, while the rest of the unit drove ahead in a large personnel carrier. They made their way via a residential neighborhood, one of the only routes running north that wasn't barricaded or blocked with debris.

"Looks like they aren't planning on rebuilding here." Major Paetrus nodded to the many abandoned apartment buildings, most of which were still in the same state they had been in at the end of the war.

"It's eerie. You wouldn't guess this was here if you'd only seen the other side of town," Quidros added. "Hard to believe it's the same place."

A dreary color languished in the air. A high pressure system had settled over the plains, creating a stagnant blanket of contaminants that set off the environmental warning system. Garrus secured his breather over his face. It was quiet in the cabin; there was only the rattle of the team's gear and his own steady breath inside the mask. The vehicle hummed along, occasionally treading over segments of road that had been rended from the ground.

The personnel carrier slowed to make a right at a corner. The road had narrowed to a space just wide enough for it to fit with some careful maneuvering. Garrus was looking up toward a row of intact balconies—some movement of shadows had caught his eye—when an explosive shockwave ripped through the air. High plumes of black smoke erupted out, obscuring Garrus' view of the personnel carrier.

"IED! IED! GET OUT! GET OUT! MOVE!"

"SHIT! Fuck!"

"Medical—call for medevac!"

Garrus and Major Paetrus rushed out of the vehicle with their subordinates grabbing whatever medical supplies were under the seats. Quidros contacted base for a medevac as Laren ran towards the still smoking carrier. A miasma of ozone stung their eyes, acrid and electric; even through their breathers they could taste the metal that crackled around them.

The carrier had been flicked into the air and thrown on its side. The men stood just beyond the murky cloud that engulfed it. Confused and bewildered soldiers crawled out of the carrier, their eyes nearly shut and their faces enveloped in a thick skin of dust. As Garrus reached down to help one of them up, a barrage of gunfire erupted from above.

Major Paetrus whipped his head up towards the balconies. "Combatants at two o'clock!"

Shots zipped past as Garrus dragged the soldier to safety behind their vehicle. He crouched next to the wheel well and drew his sniper rifle, readying his weapon for a quick takedown. Laren and Quidros ducked for cover in separate doorways; they let their assault rifles loose toward the balconies above. As two of the shooters took potshots, Garrus peered through his scope—finger readied over the trigger—and waited for the third to pop out from cover. The moment she sprang up from the rail he let off a round—CRACK! The woman's head instantly slumped forward, sending her tumbling over the balcony; her body landed on the ground with a flat whump.

Meanwhile, Major Paetrus had taken out the shooter behind the farthest pillar. Quidros pulled the second from the balcony and threw him hard against the side of the building, hairline fractures crazing outward from the point of impact. When the action settled, everyone made a check for more combatants before standing down.

Major Paetrus stood up from behind the vehicle and shouted, "What the hell happened to detection! They were supposed to sweep this morning!"

"I don't know, but let's get everyone out first. We can ask questions later," said Garrus.

The men helped the rest of the soldiers out and away from the wrecked carrier. While the sergeants assessed each of them for major trauma, Garrus checked on the bodies of the two shooters who had fallen from the balcony. The first, a woman, was tall and svelte, donning a pastiche of armor likely assembled from whatever she could salvage from the abandoned homes. She lay on her belly with her face turned to one side—gray as stone, with her bright green eyes still wide open. She wasn't much younger than Garrus' mom.

Garrus sighed as he closed her eyes. "These rebellions used to be fought by turians in their prime. Now it's down to the old and the very young."

"Entire generations, lost. We'll lose more if we're not careful," replied Major Paetrus. He shook his head. "I'll go check the body on the balcony."

Quidros and Laren finished assessing the soldiers and tried their best to attend to the two in the most dire condition. When Major Paetrus returned, he went ahead to the safe camp along with the soldiers who were still on their feet. Twenty minutes later, two medics arrived. They evacuated half a dozen; those with minor injuries stayed behind with Garrus and his sergeants. Remaining vigilant in case of another ambush, the men waited until another vehicle arrived to take them all to the safe camp.

This time they drove on heightened alert—signals reverberating between the nerves in their bodies—circumspect of the route they chose, and suspicious of anything that appeared the slightest bit unusual. On the way there, they finally received word of the IED detection team.

"Sounds like they got held up in the industrial district. They never made it this far north. They only just reported in to base," said Laren.

"Crap, I guess that explains it," Garrus said. "Let's review protocols when we get back. This can't keep happening—everything's going sideways."

Quidros scoffed as they turned off the main road. "What we really need is a good gunship or two. Some combat drones. Blackwatch."

"The Primarch isn't going to spring for gunships in a civilian situation. Not yet, anyway," said Laren.

Garrus uttered a dark laugh. "Joke's on you, Sergeant. What few gunships we still have left are locked away. Saving them for a rainy day. That goes for combat drones too."

Bits of gravel popped under the tires as the transport vehicle rolled to a stop outside the camp. The crowd had already dispersed, but they left behind a gruesome scene. Injured protesters and soldiers alike lay strewn on the ground, their bodies like stringy strips of blood-soaked meat drying in the sun. There were so many that a backup medical unit had to be called from a civilian aid center. Their staff, harried but efficient, treated both groups with sincere care, not making any distinctions aside from medical labels.

Garrus secured his weapon and crossed the empty lot. A young turian woman was kneeling near a bleeding patient propped up against the fence. She squeezed a dollop of medigel onto his wound, then pressed a cloth over it as he winced. Garrus narrowed his eyes. He would recognize those blue facial markings anywhere.

"Sol? Sol! What are you doing here?" he shouted as he bounded closer.

Solana looked up in surprise, then made sure the young man was okay to hold the cloth. "Just hold this for fifteen more seconds, okay? I'll check on you in a few minutes."

"Garrus!" Solana strode to meet him half way and gave him a hug.

"Is your whole team here?" Garrus asked.

"Yep, all of us."

"What about Tergeste? Weren't you assigned to treat civilians?"

"We were. But we got orders to come to New Aeris. We were told there's a critical shortage of medical personnel. To be honest, I'm not very happy about it."

Laren, who had gone straight to the gate, jogged over. "Sir! Lieutenant Falco is requesting to speak with you."

"Be right there." Garrus turned back to Solana. "Look, I've gotta go, but stop by base later? Let's catch up. I'll give them the heads up."

"Sure, G, let's do that. See you then?"

Garrus affectionately clapped his sister's arm and waved once as he walked toward the entrance of the camp.

Lieutenant Falco was there to greet him. "General, sir, thanks for making the time. I wanted to speak with you regarding staffing at the camp. Given the recent uptick in confrontations, we're going to need more soldiers in rotation."

"You know I can't give you that, Lieutenant. We're stretched thin enough as it is."

"Respectfully, sir, you saw what transpired this morning. The situation could have been much worse if the crowd had been better armed or a lot more worked up. They come to protest and harass those who surrender at the safe camp, but we don't have many means to ward them off."

It would never be enough, and Garrus knew it, but he had to tell his men something. He had to at least try.

"Point taken, Falco. I'll see what I can do, but I won't promise anything."

The rest of the day was a blur of consultations and attempts to assuage members of the community, many of whom were wavering between support for the rebels and openness to the Hierarchy. Garrus felt a little better having swayed some opinions, despite the fact that they had nothing tangible to offer in return. It would have to come down to a clarion call—an appeal to shared history and identity—if they were going to change minds. The fact that Garrus had been the special adviser on Reapers didn't hurt his case either.

When he finally arrived back at base it was well past midnight. Solana had already been waiting for over an hour and was having a friendly chat with a few of Garrus' men. Her face, lit by the flames of a campfire, blazed with a puckishness had not seen in a long time.

"Hey, there you are," she said. "Thought you might be dead in a ditch somewhere!"

"Good evening, sir," said Laren. The corporals seated on either side of him saluted.

"General Vakarian, sir! Your charming sister has been sharing some stories with us." Quidros wagged a metal cup in front of his face. "Care to join?"

Garrus shook his head. "I can't, I've got an early morning meeting scheduled with the Primarch."

"Aww, come on, you can wiggle the stick out of your ass just a little, right?" Solana pulsed her mandibles as she mocked him.

Garrus' men snickered.

"Spirits, Sol, what have you been telling these boys?"

"Nothing much. Just about the time you tried to impress a girl by calibrating her training drone without permission."

"In my defense, the algorithm on that thing was way off. I was doing her a favor."

Solana tilted her head. "Multiple burns and a broken arm is a favor?"

"I didn't anticipate that she wouldn't keep up."

Bursting up from her seat, she pointed a finger at her brother with wild excitement. "Oh, oh, oh! What about the time you got your 'thing' caught in—"

"I THINK THAT'S ENOUGH FOR TONIGHT THANK YOU!" Garrus snatched Solana's empty cup and crossed his arms. "Thanks so much for sharing with the class. Is it my turn now?"

"No!"

"Heh. Well, sorry to spoil the fun, but do you all mind if I borrow my dear sister? We've got some catching up to do." Garrus set the cup down on the ground.

"Good night Ms. Vakarian, it was nice meeting you!" Laren said enthusiastically.

Quidros gave her a snappy nod and saluted.

"Thanks! Lovely to chat with you all. Very enlightening conversation!"

Garrus grabbed his sister by the arm and led her through a maze of tents and crates. "Did you just come here to trash talk me?"

"I was in good company, I'm not going to apologize." Solana brushed her brother's hand away and looked at him pointedly. "In times like these, I'll take laughs wherever I can get 'em—even at your expense!"

"I suppose there's some sick logic to that. But we're done, right?"

"Yeah, yeah.."

The siblings came to a clearing just past the last command shelter. It had been set up as a provisional meeting area, with an outdoor table and a few stools strewn around. The tall grass surrounding the clearing bowed as if genuflecting to the ground beneath it, somehow thriving despite the dry, bleak conditions of camp.

Solana parked herself on one of the stools and turned to her brother. "I take it from today's happenings things aren't going so well here."

"That's an understatement." Garrus remained standing.

"Your sergeant, the one with the white face and red markings—"

"Quidros?"

"Yeah, him. He said there was a plan you disapproved of? That you were being too cautious. I told him that didn't sound much like you."

"Mmm…he did, did he? That insubordinate little shit…" Garrus wasn't sure if he should be mad or proud. "He's shrewd, that one. Maybe too shrewd. His friend Laren does what he's told, but Quidros…he gets under my cowl sometimes."

"Oh, that's because he's like you. But younger."

"How do you figure that?"

"Let's see…hot-headed? Terribly skilled? Single minded? Sound about right?"

"How the hell did you pick that up from just one hour?" Garrus took a seat next to his sister and planted his boots firmly into the ground.

Solana shrugged. "It's kind of my job. I have to read between the lines when I see patients. Practicing medicine is more than healing wounds and curing illness."

"You know, come to think of it, I've never seen you on the job. When I left home you were still in school."

"You never saw me at all, Garrus."

"I'm sorry."

"At least when you were at C-Sec I could count on you visiting home for a few days here and there. After that you just disappeared."

"The contract job—I couldn't come home. It wasn't possible with the kind of work I was doing." He still hadn't been able to bring himself to tell her the truth. It wasn't worth explaining, nor reliving. "I really was trying to help with Mom."

"Is that what you thought? That you were just helping Mom? Did you ever think about me or Dad at all? We needed you too. We're family, Garrus. That means being part of something bigger than you."

Did Solana really think so little of him? "I was part of something bigger than me. I am part of something bigger than me. Bigger than our little family. That's why I'm here."

"Oh please, don't give me that self-righteous crap. You were in it for you. Because you had this idea in your head that you needed to catch every bad guy, to clean house like some kind of warped superhero. And while you were out playing vigilante, I was here with mom. Going with her to doctors appointments, researching the latest treatments, making sure she didn't hurt herself. I did the cooking and cleaning when she couldn't anymore."

Solana had worked herself into a frenzy. She paused. "Did you know there was one time she nearly burned the house down? She left a pot on the burner and walked away. I woke up coughing and my room was full of smoke. I called the fire department, and when we found her, she was outside picking flowers. The kitchen ceiling still had scorch marks on it until the day we left Palaven. Another time, she called the cops on me because she thought I was trying to kill her. She told them I was slowly poisoning her. Dad had to use his pull to get the authorities to let me go. And she got worse. So much worse than before you left. But it happened so slowly...it was like watching the sun move across the sky. Then suddenly it was dusk.

"I felt helpless. And seeing her suffer again and again….you didn't have to see any of that, G. The pain she was in—the seizures, the spasms, the way she would scratch herself until she bled. Dad did what he could, but he was still at C-Sec up until you left. I was trying to finish my studies and work on top of it… "

"You were working too? I… I had no idea, Sol."

"No, of course you didn't. The truth is, when you stopped sending much money home someone needed to make up for it." Solana hung her head. "Oh, spirits, that's without even getting into what happened after Dad died—just the two of us, alone. I can't even think about it."

Ashamed he hadn't heard about any of this until now, Garrus lowered his head. Either his family had taken great pains to hide it from him, or he hadn't been paying close enough attention. He knew the likely answer. "I'm sorry, Sol. You should never have gone through that alone. Not Dad, and not Mom most of all."

"And now… now you're finally home, but Mom is the worst she's ever been. And you're out here…but…" Solana's voice had begun to crack, her subvocals trembling high and low. She looked away.

"What is it?"

"But—I'm here too. And you know what? You know what? Part of me is relieved. I'm relieved to be away from Mom. I can't take much more. I feel like I'm going to break, G. I know it sounds awful, but I'm just so tired.…" She hugged her mandibles tight to her face and rubbed her arm. "Are we bad kids, Garr?"

Bad kids? Garrus knew what being a good son or daughter meant in turian culture. It meant showing respect. It meant upholding family honor. It meant performing your filial duty. What did bad mean, then?

"I might be. I don't know. Not you though, Sol. I owe you more than I can ever repay. And I can't change what's already happened, but I can be here, now." Garrus put his arm around his sister's shoulder and squeezed. "Ahh…it's all too much, isn't it?"

"It is."

"Don't worry, we've got this—we're Vakarians. And if there's one thing you can count on, it's that Vakarians are stubborn as hell. So we're not going to give up, and we're not going to let this destroy us. Am I right?"

Solana nodded and took a deep breath, then let it out in a long stream. Garrus did the same. Five years of guilt and hardship exited his body in a ribbon of air. Feeling a sudden weightlessness, he studied Palaven's moons as he stared into the inky sky. The once mysterious bodies had taken a thrashing in the war, but from here they looked as pristine as he remembered.

Garrus woke up just as tired as he had been when he went to bed. There might not be much of a point in sleeping if it weren't a respite from all the nagging worries and doubts that beset him. And at least when he was asleep it was silent. No one asked for anything, no voices rang out or whispered behind his back.

It was early enough in the morning that most of the base was still slumbering away, or at least what passed for slumbering in a desolate military camp. Craning his neck from the flap of his tent, Garrus spied a hazy line of light peeking over the low ridge in the east. He stepped out, fully dressed and armored, and turned to face the sunrise. Every morning he relished that minute or two before he went about his business, taking the time to remind himself of why he was here: he was a turian, and Palaven was his home. The place where he was born. Where his family lived, where he became a soldier and a man, the place he fought to save and won.

He headed for the comms shelter with a datapad in hand, in case the Primarch wanted some figures and tactical data to go with his report. Ironically, someone like Primarch Victus—who would never have been promoted if not for a death—was the leader they needed to move forward, someone willing to take a hammer to the ossified structures of the pre-war Hierarchy and build a new, resilient empire from its remains. And if it was Victus' job to secure mutual aid and re-establish relationships, then it was Garrus' job to make sure things didn't fall apart at home. Garrus could not fail the Primarch. Success would need to start here and now on Palaven. So far it had all been falling apart.

"Garrus, my apologies for not checking in with you sooner. I've been traveling so much I don't know my left from right anymore." Primarch Victus appeared sallow on the screen; his shoulders rolled forward as if he were carrying a heavy pack on his back. "How is the situation out there?"

"Not the best. The rebels are still holding several hostages, and the conflict isn't showing any sign of letting up."

"I see. And casualties?"

"It's worse than the last report you read."

"What's your assessment, General?"

"If you want my unpolished opinion, sir, we're trying to fit a square peg into a round hole."

"A what?"

"It means we're trying to put something into a place where it doesn't fit. Our citizens, they know how to fight. It's what they've been trained to do. They know how to mount an attack, how to organize supply lines. They know where to apply pressure. Normally we'd suppress an uprising like this with hastatim. Without them, our toolbox is pretty empty. We're caught up in skirmishes all over the city, just buying time. They want energy, they want water, and we have nothing to bargain with. "

Primarch Victus mulled over Garrus' words before speaking. "Then that just proves how much we need change, doesn't it? We're not going to get anywhere repeating the same behaviors. If we do, there will be war. The situation is desperate all over the empire, not just far off colonies."

The Primarch was right. Old divisions of meritocracy, position, class, colony—turians would need to put them aside to go forward, or risk suffering a repeat of the War on Taetrus, or worse. The Reaper War had pushed everyone to their limits and beyond. For Garrus, it had made him see that sometimes he needed to hold back; making tough calls meant becoming more discerning and calculating, eschewing passionate crusades for broader goals. With so many lost in the war, preserving the lives of those that survived had become priority.

Primarch Victus continued. "We'll need to be lighter and more agile. We don't have a choice…we don't have the manpower or the logistical means. We need to convince the citizenry that we're stronger working together and not as disparate factions."

"Maybe it's time we get a bigger toolbox," said Garrus.

"Yes, it is. And for that we're going to need more incentive for our people, to earn their trust. That's why I'm doing my best to secure resources for the Hierarchy. But that means I need you to do the work of quelling these…disturbances. Once we've reduced the disturbances, we can go about the harder work of restructuring."

"Yes, sir."

"I realize that is a lot to ask, but I know you can accomplish it." The Primarch cleared his throat. "Oh, and by the way, I'll be coming back to Palaven in a week's time. First I'll meet with Urdnot Wrex in Tuchanka, then you can expect to see me in New Aeris."

"Of course, Primarch."

"That's all for now." Primarch Victus motioned to the datapad still in Garrus' hand. "You can save the numbers and such for when I get there. See you soon, Garrus."

The screen faded as the Primarch signed off. Primarch Victus would be here in a week; Garrus needed to get his act together and needed to do it fast. He tucked the datapad under his arm and made a beeline for the mess. First, a light breakfast, then a prudent talk with his maverick sergeant. Like Shepard always says, no rest for the wicked.

Chapter Text

PART II
Chapter 6: Inosculating*

1 year, 7 mo. after the end of the Reaper War
Asgard System, Exodus Cluster
SSV Shanghai

Kaidan stared himself down in the mirror, taking note of the dark circles that had taken up residence under his eyes. He turned his head to inspect the rest of his face. Running his hand over the side of his jaw, the stubble of his long five o'clock shadow scraped under the pads of his rough fingers. Five? Eight o'clock shadow's more like it. Better shave. He reached for his shaver and tilted his chin up, but was interrupted by a voice hissing over the ship's intercom.

"Pardon the intrustion, sir, but the party from the Normandy will arrive shortly."

"Yes, thank you Specialist Chen. Um, if you could, I'd like to request to meet aboard the Normandy when they dock."

"Yes, sir."

No time for gettin' pretty. Kaidan set his shaver down, then grabbed his uniform jacket and hastily did up the buttons.

The door hissed behind him as he stepped onto the deck of the ship. The air aboard the Normandy was unmistakable, distinct from the Shanghai—a clean, pristine smell, as if it didn't exist at all—and its array of spotlights painted the deck with stark drama, not unlike the lighting found in galleries But instead of accenting artistic masterpieces, the lights showcased monitoring stations and communications terminals. But the atmosphere didn't strike Kaidan as unusual. It was part of a well-worn rubric, like the uniform he put on everyday, or the route he walked to headquarters. He expected to hear Joker call out from the cockpit and make a smart-ass remark, or for Shepard to step down from the bridge and tease him for being late to his own meeting. A strange feeling washed over as he strode past the CIC and toward the conference room: he was now boarding the Normandy as a senior commanding officer and not one of its crew.

Two young privates saluted as he crossed through the doors to the conference room. James, still dressed in his requisite N7 armor, was there to greet him.

"Alenko! Or should I say General?" He saluted his superior. "Long time no see, glad you're here." James extended his hand; his grip was as strong as ever.

Kaidan studied the red and white stripe that ran the length of James' arm. A strangled pang of wistfulness bubbled up, and Shepard's hard-edged battle mask appeared and disappeared. "How's N7 life, Vega?"

"You know how it is—it's tough. Not just here, all the assignments we've had so far. Haven't caught a break since the war ended."

"I may not be in the field, but I have eyes on everything. You're right, it's not pretty." Kaidan circled the table to stand on the side opposite James. "Would you believe—since I got promoted, my life's been mostly meetings and paperwork? Some days I wish I was still a grunt. Tossing bad guys with biotics beats an inbox full of messages and forms."

James snorted. "Be thankful you aren't seeing it up close. We've run into some horrific stuff. Only the enemies aren't Reapers anymore, just other people. That makes it worse in some ways."

Kaidan leaned against the conference table and slid a hand across the slick surface. "How's the old girl?"

"The Normandy? Still in top shape. Best ship left in the fleet if you ask me. But it's a little weird without EDI here. Or Joker in the cockpit."

"Hey—have you heard from him at all? Joker?"

"Last I heard he was headed to Tiptree, said he wanted to find out what happened to his family."

"Yeah, that's what I heard too."

Both men avoided each other's eyes, the mood now somber. Kaidan rapped his knuckles on the table to break the ice. "I suppose we should discuss the matter at hand."

"I'll be straightforward with you, General." James stroked his bristled chin. "The mercenaries on Terra Nova are pretty entrenched. They've been here since the war, and the colony was cut off for an entire year. That gave them plenty of time to scare the shit out of any survivors. Now, we've been trying our best to take them out, but their network's only grown since we reopened the relays in Alliance space."

"That would be why I'm here," said Kaidan. "Vega—what would do you think of outside help?"

"How do you mean?"

"I mean, if we were to get someone, on the inside."

"You think you can do that? All intelligence agents are engaged in other missions as far as I know. I submitted a request a about a month ago—brass shot me down."

"I think I have someone that can get the job done. Scratch that—I know can get the job done."

"I'm all ears, General."

Laying on his back, Kaidan held a datapad out above his face and scrutinized the layout of the mercenaries' base. He squinted at the screen as he traced the perimeter of the building and struggled to keep the lines in focus. A wave of fatigue battered his body. He yawned, then set the datapad down on the bed and rubbed his eyes before shutting them briefly. If only he could catch a nap. But there was a lot of intel to review before the next meeting.

The captain's quarters on the SSV Shanghai were modest by modern standards—the Shanghai had been in service longer than any of the remaining Alliance cruisers—and the amenities spartan compared to the luxury of the SR-2, but it beat anything Kaidan had ever experienced living aboard Alliance ships.

His eyes had begun to close again when the chirp of his omnitool startled him awake. This was the fourth time he'd heard it in the last half hour. Must be something important. Kaidan unlocked his omnitool and opened the latest message.

Hi sunshine,

I know I said I'd be fine without you (and I am, I promise!), but I can't help but worry when you go away for so long. How is space? Is it as bad as they say? Whatever's happening, I just know you're doing a stellar job. You were never want for a work ethic. I hope someday some nice lady or gentleman can appreciate that about you.

By the way, how is your friend, Commander Shepard? I haven't seen her around much lately. You haven't mentioned her. You should have her over for dinner sometime!

I've been keeping busy with the grower's cooperative. We're trying to find people to fill some roles in the Interior, but there aren't a lot of qualified candidates. It seems they've all gone off world to help elsewhere.

Speaking of which…when you've got everything in order, you're going to keep good on your promise of taking me off world, right? :)

Stay safe!

Big hugs,

Mum

Kaidan snorted; his mom had never been one for subtlety. Even when she thought she was being slick it almost never came out that way.

There was no time to reply. There were still details to iron out with Vega before their meeting, and Miranda would be arriving in less than three hours. He pushed himself up from the bed and examined his face in the mirror again, dismayed at the state of his appearance. In just seven days, his eight o'clock shadow had nearly grown into a full-fledged beard. His mother often remarked that the men (and some women) in his dad's family were blessed with the gift of hair, but the good-natured jest felt like more of a curse than a blessing: thick tussocks of whiskers made it look patchier than it actually was, and the edges of his jaw had somehow grown out more than the other parts of his face.

The man in the mirror narrowed his eyes, careworn. "It's not like we're going to have a date on a war-torn colony. Miranda's here on business—get your act together! Be professional." Pep talk over, he tugged a comb through his quasi-beard, then snatched the datapad from the bed and made his way to the war room.

A holographic projection of the mercenaries' base filled the room with an insipid blue glow, casting a pall over James and Kaidan's faces. They were bent over the facsimile, deducing the best way to penetrate the perimeter, which was lined with an impressive array of heavy turrets, rocket launchers, and shield generators.

Kaidan pursed his lips as he frowned at the plan in front of him. "Damn. How did they even get a hold of this kind of artillery? They're better armed than some Alliance outposts."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say this is some Cerberus level preparation," said James.

A charming voice called out from the entryway. "Did someone say Cerberus?" Miranda sailed down the steps, expertly avoiding the holes that might catch the heels of her boots.

"Ah, Miranda, you're early," said Kaidan as he ushered her into the room.

"I make good time, General."

"Miranda, nice to see you again." James took Miranda's hand, then pressed his other hand atop and shook. "I haven't seen you since Shepard's shindig at Anderson's."

"Commander Vega—as I recall, you were the one who blew a hole in the Citadel Archives, were you not?"

"Heh, you have a good memory ma'am."

Miranda's face soured at his words. "Please, you can call me Miranda. Or Ms. Lawson, if you want to be formal about it."

"This is Lieutenant Palmer and Corporal Kamau, both members of my crew." James gestured toward each of them.

A lithe man with dark hair stood tall with his shoulders squared. He scanned Miranda up and down with his pithy gaze and cracked a smile. "How do you do, miss? Lieutenant Palmer." he said, his voice falling in pitch with each word.

Lips closed, Miranda smiled back.

The petite Corporal Kamau—barely visible behind the console she was manning—raised a hand politely and nodded once.

"Lieutenant Palmer has been head of reconnaissance on this mission, and Corporal Kamau is our resident tech specialist. They make up the backbone of our intelligence," said James.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance. I look forward to working with both of you." Miranda tugged at the top of her glove to straighten it. "Full disclosure: you should know that I am a former Cerberus officer. I left Cerberus before the war. Since then, I have been working with the Alliance on a contract basis to capture remaining Cerberus operatives and to help where there is need for intelligence or covert operations. If you are uncomfortable with this arrangement, I suggest you speak up now. We don't have time for petty workplace drama or squabbling."

Lieutenant Palmer's smile grew into a full grin. "No, Ms. Lawson. On the contrary, I'm rather impressed that you were able to get away from Cerberus the way you did. I hear they're ruthless about going after ex-operatives."

"And you, Corporal? Any objections?"

Corporal Kamau shook her head.

"Good. Now that that's out of the way, let's get down to business, shall we? We have a mercenary group to infiltrate."

James began."The group doesn't have an official name that we know of, but ears on the ground say that the colonists call them Pipers. They've been expanding the territory they cover." He pointed to a map on the display. "And they're actively recruiting new blood. Palmer tells me they've crapped the bed on operations logistics—that could be a way in for you."

"I see. Don't worry, Commander, I'll find my way."

"Miranda is exceptionally good at what she does. Almost perfect, in fact. It's kind of annoying…" Kaidan smirked and shot a look at Miranda.

She glared back. Kaidan was sure he'd pissed her off, but then she raised her eyebrows and shrugged.

Without missing a beat, James continued. "I'm sure as the General has informed you, there are some child victims involved, the majority of whom were orphaned or separated from their families during the war. This is going to be very difficult work. You'll see and hear more than any of us, so I want you to have fair warning."

"I'm no stranger to the horrors we can inflict upon one another. But I appreciate the reminder."

Miranda's words brought Mindoir mind. Kaidan remembered Shepard's encounter with Talitha, the young woman on the Citadel dock who had threatened to kill herself. How after years of slavery she had been reduced to a living husk, not believing she was worth saving or even worthy of being called human. The scene had sent chills through his heart; it made him see how fortunate Shepard was to get away like she did, and to go on fighting. The line between living free and living a life of suffering had been dictated by a kitchen cupboard.

"I can see why the colonists call them 'Pipers'," said Miranda.

"Why's that?" asked Kaidan.

"Have you heard the legend of the Pied Piper? It's an old Earth story, dating back to the Middle Ages. A town suffers from a rat infestation, and a man, dressed in a colorful costume, uses his musical pipe to lure the rats away from the town. He leads them into a river where they all drown. When the mayor refuses to pay him for his services, the piper exacts his revenge by returning to the town and luring their children away while everyone is at church. The children are never heard from again."

James shook his head.

"What an absolutely dreadful story," said Lieutenant Palmer. "Is that what passed for entertainment in those days?"

"I suppose it's meant to be a warning," replied Miranda, leaning over the console to pore over the plans. She looked up at Lieutenant Palmer—who had been staring at her the entire time—and locked eyes with him. "So, Lieutenant, tell me me what we're working with."

"The way I see it, our blind spots are here and here." The Lieutenant pointed to two large areas where there was a sudden rise in site elevation. "The main structures are built right up to the base of these escarpments. There's no way they aren't hiding something inside the rock."

James nodded. "We need to know what we're dealing with—how big, what's there, and most of all, who's there and how many of them."

"What else?" asked Miranda

Corporal Kamau's voice squeaked from behind the console. "The mercenaries have at least two high-level tech experts on their payroll. Maybe ex-Cerberus, or former corporate engineers. We know one is ex-batarian military. We don't know the full extent of their capabilities, but they do have access to technology beyond what most groups of their size can typically acquire at this time."

"Those are quite a few unknowns."

"That's why we need you, Miranda," said Kaidan.

Miranda clasped her hands behind her back and began to pace. "If we're going to be successful, then we'll need some back up plans. An exit plan in case the worst comes to pass."

"I've come up with several contingency plans should the operation fail at any point in the process." Lieutenant Palmer brought up several outlines on the display.

Stopping mid-step, Miranda scanned them carefully. She nodded with approval. "Impressive, Lieutenant. You're very thorough. A man after my own heart, I dare say."

Kaidan's gaze shifted to the Lieutenant, whose smarmy mouth had curled at one corner. He was clearly proud of getting on Miranda's good side.

"So those are the basic parameters. If you're ok with it, we'll go ahead and forward the plans to you, Miranda," said James.

"Thank you, Commander Vega."

"You can review them when you have the opportunity. In the meantime, Corporal Kamau and our gunnery chief will complete their ordnance assessment. We'll reconvene after that. That's all for now Lieutenant, Corporal."

"Yes, sir," they replied.

Lieutenant Palmer's silver eyes lingered on Miranda as he shuffled to the exit. Only when the doors opened did he turn his head the other way. Observing the lieutenant's dubious behavior, Corporal Kamau rolled her eyes and sighed, as if she had sat through this charade many times before.

As the doors shut, Kaidan turned to Miranda. He gestured toward the spot where the lieutenant had been standing. "Is it me, or was that guy flirting with you?"

"Who, Lieutenant Palmer?" James raised an eyebrow and scoffed. "He flirts with anything that stands on two legs. Man, woman, alien, doesn't matter."

"I suppose that makes me feel a little better," said Kaidan. "Although…he was interested in Miranda but not me?" Teasing, he feigned a frown.

"What are you on about?" asked Miranda."He checked your ass out at least three times that I saw. And that was just during the meeting. I imagine that number is a lot higher when you consider how long you've been here."

Kaidan instinctively rubbed the back of his neck, which had gone warm to the touch. "You're joking. Right?"

"You don't believe me?" Miranda's impish eyes glinted. "Too bad, now I'll never tell."

Laughing, James winked at him. Kaidan still didn't know whether they were joking or not.

"Well my day's done. I need to get out of this gear, I'm sweatin' like a pig under here. You guys up for some poker tonight?" asked James.

"Poker? With you?" Kaidan rubbed his cheek. "I don't know, the last time I played you, you cleaned me out of house and home. No way, man, I'm broke enough as it is!"

"Suit yourself. Miranda?"

"I think I'm going to to turn in early tonight, I've got some things to catch up. Rain check for tomorrow?"

"Sure thing. See you tomorrow, then?"

"See ya around, James," Kaidan replied.

"G'night guys."

Despite the pep talk he had given himself several hours earlier, Kaidan found himself standing in the airlock of Miranda's personal corvette, bottle of wine in hand. He had lied to James about being too broke to play poker—though he hadn't lied about getting his ass handed to him—and Miranda had lied about needing to "catch up on a few things". Though really, when Kaidan thought about it, they did have some things to catch up on. They just weren't work things.

He held his hands behind his back and let out a quick huff. When the air lock finally opened, Miranda was there to greet him.

"Hey," said Kaidan. "I brought something." He swung the bottle from behind his back and held it out. "Don't tell anyone—this was hard to get."

"My god, a bottle of wine? I bet it bloody was." Miranda took the bottle and glanced at the label. "I don't have the right glassware….but who the hell keeps wine glasses aboard a corvette anyway? Follow me."

Miranda led him down the main corridor and toward the cramped living space at the rear of the ship. Every last inch of space had been meticulously organized, with tidy shelving and compartments lining each wall. The only visible personal items sat on a narrow counter: a crisply folded towel and a brand new toothbrush resting in cup.

"As you can see, I'm a bit limited on what items I can bring aboard. Have a seat." She gestured toward a built-in love seat with no arms.

Kaidan sat down and swiveled his head. "And from the looks of it, the only seat in the house. It's like a cozy studio apartment—very chic."

"You joke, but this little ship set me back a fortune. Unfortunately, the Alliance doesn't provide much for services rendered. Most of my savings is tied up right here." Miranda rummaged through a high cupboard above the counter and pulled out two glasses. "Hand me the bottle?"

Miranda took the bottle and held it in one hand. Fingers set aglow, she began working the cork out with expert precision; a satisfying pop filled the cabin and she floated the cork down to the counter.

"Miranda, that's incredible! I don't think I can do that with anything smaller than a canister."

She winked. "Just a little party trick I picked up in my younger days."

"You must have had all kinds of adventures."

"Adventures? I suppose if you call being on the run from my controlling, narcissistic father an adventure. When I joined Cerberus it was all work, all the time. Though when we did celebrate something, we celebrated it with gusto." She filled each cup halfway, ending the pour with a gentle twist so as not to spill a drop."You're very lucky to have both a father and mother who loved you so well."

"I am. I've always felt blessed to have grown up with parents who cared. Sometimes I feel guilty that I had that. Is that weird?"

Miranda handed Kaidan a cup and sat next to him."No weirder than being bitter about your existence as an Übermensch vanity project." Sticking her nose into the cup, Miranda took a big whiff, then swirled the wine and did it again. She took a tentative sip. "Mmm…this has quite the bouquet. It's gorgeous. How did you even get your hands on it?"

"My family. Our orchard is in BC's wine country. A friend of my mom's gave her a few bottles for helping out at her property." Kaidan took a sip of wine, then smacked his lips. "Listen, I'm sorry we had to meet here like this. It would have been a little too obvious if I tried to sneak you into the captain's quarters. Our ship runs a little tighter than the Normandy…"

Miranda swirled her cup as she leaned back into the seat. "If the Normandy had run any looser it would have caught an STD."

Kaidan chortled. "You say that with such a straight face."

"I actually have a delightful sense of humor, thank you." She flipped her hair over her shoulder. "Just because I don't advertise doesn't mean it doesn't exist."

"You know, I love that underneath that serious demeanor of yours, you've got all these…surprises. Like little buried treasures."

"The first time I met you, I thought you were boring."

Lips pursed tight, it took all of Kaidan's will to keep the liquid in his mouth and not choke. "Gee…wow, what a statement! Hah!"

"Well there's no point in lying now, is there?" She smirked.

"I guess not!"

"Yes, I admit it. I thought you were proper boring. You were certainly handsome, but not someone I'd be interested in. Too serious, too straight-laced…too reserved. At best I thought we'd come to loggerheads—just look at what happened with Shepard on Horizon."

Kaidan had perked up at the word 'handsome'. "And now?"

"Still serious, still straight-laced. Still boring…but in good way."

"How is is that good, exactly?"

"You're grounded, Kaidan. You try to see the good in people. And you're warm, like a comfortable blanket." Miranda pulled her legs up onto the love seat, tucking them to the side. "As an added perk, you have a surprisingly dry sense of humor."

"I see. But…what about that other thing you mentioned?"

"Which? Reserved?"

Kaidan leaned closer. "No…the thing you said about handsome. Tell me more about that."

Miranda laughed. "How about after you refresh my drink?" She dangled the cup from her hand and held it in front of him.

Kaidan rolled his eyes playfully and did as he was told. Standing at the counter, he could feel the burn of Miranda's eyes on his back. He looked over his shoulder to find her staring. "Uhh, what are you doing?"

"Performing what I will now call the 'Palmer'. It's very simple, really." She raised her eyebrows and leered again, this time making her action much more obvious by fixing her eyes on the object of her admiration.

"Are…are you…checking out my ass?"

"I think the Lieutenant was onto something. It's a pretty good one."

Kaidan set the bottle down and turned around, curling his upper lip in protest. "Just pretty good, huh?"

"Mmm….I'll have to go beyond a visual inspection to answer that I'm afraid."

Miranda rose from the love seat. Cupping her hands along the tops of his hips, she slid them down and around, then smoothed her hands over his cheeks and squeezed lightly. "C'est exquis!"

Kaidan smiled as he caressed her shoulders with a light touch. "I do believe that's the first time a woman has ever had her hands on my backside before we kissed."

"I'm not shy when it comes to things I like." Miranda's hands skimmed up his back as she pulled him closer.

Speaking softly into her ear, he asked, "What else do you like, Miranda?"

Her icy eyes shone as she gazed up at him. Normally intense and knifelike, they softened as she searched for the answer to an unspoken question. Kaidan replied by running the backs of his fingers along the hair that framed her face, his fingertips grazing her cheek as he moved the hair aside. The warmth of her skin brushed his knuckles.

In a fit of longing, he swept his hand up the back of her neck. He tangled his fingers gently in her hair and his other hand came up to cradle her cheek. She leaned her face into his hand. She shut her eyes. A breathy purr started at the bottom of her throat, almost inaudible to both their ears. Kaidan drew his face closer to hers. He held steady as he waited for her to open her eyes again.

Taking heaving breaths through her nose, Miranda let her head relax into his hands. The taut thread between them grew shorter and tighter as they wound themselves toward each other, neither giving an inch. Kaidan's parted his lips. When Miranda's eyes finally fluttered opened, the thread snapped—he pressed his mouth to hers in an urgent plea. Her soft lips tugged at his as she kissed him back, her tongue slipping into his mouth as he continued to cradle her face and bury his fingers further into her hair. She exhaled and he inhaled deeper still. Her breath sent an ache through his chest as he yearned to fill his lungs with her scent.

The familiar pulse of biotics still tingled on their lips as they pulled away from the kiss.

"I do like that. Very much," Miranda said, her voice uncharacteristically timid. She brought her hand up to stroke his cheek, and he reciprocated by putting his hand over hers. A soft smile crossed her face as she scratched at his new beard.

"I tried to shave, but I didn't have time. Is it bothering you?"

"Not at all. It suits you."

"Shall we…?"

The words spilled from her mouth. "I've waited long enough. I don't want to waste another minute." Taking him by the hand, she led him to the bed and turned down the lights.

Chapter Text

PART II
Chapter 7: The Endurance of Perennials

Perennial roots, tall leaves, O the winter shall not freeze you
delicate leaves,
Every year shall you bloom again, out from where you retired you
shall emerge again;
O I do not know whether many passing by will discover you or
inhale your faint odor, but I believe a few will;
O slender leaves! O blossoms of my blood! I permit you to tell
in your own way of the heart that is under you

- Walt Whitman

1 year, 8 mo. after the end of the Reaper War
Okanagan Valley, British Columbia, Earth

It was early evening when the borrowed skycar scudded along the edge of the lake, the sun dipping down behind the mountains that lined its shores. Shepard peered down from the passenger side window.

"Wow, this lake sure is long," she said. It was a typical touristy thing to say, but she had never ventured very far from the B.C. coast. Kaidan had mentioned his family's property in the Interior, and he had mentioned their orchard, but he had never mentioned it was on the shore of such a grand lake.

"We're almost there, Commander," said Kaidan's mother, who was piloting the car. "Would you look at that sunset! Doesn't matter how many times I see it, it still takes my breath away."

Haze in the air had turned the sky into a gilded pool of orange—a side effect of wildfires burning in the region. It reminded Shepard of the torrential rainfall that sometimes fell on Mindoir in the summers, flooding the rivers and streams. But as the clouds and their storms retreated, a rainbow would be left in their stead; destruction carved a place for beauty, and someday in the future, renewal.

Summer in the Okanagan Valley, however, was dry and scorching. She stared down at the many boats dotting the lake, and the latecomers swimming by the beaches to escape the August heat. They stood out against the brilliance of the water, which was wide and flat like a sheet of gold.

"Lots of people down there. This place must get busy."

"It sure does. It's seasonal, though. Winter is pretty dead around here. Not a lot to do outside of typical snow sports. But who knows, maybe that will change. They say the atmosphere won't stabilize for years." Kaidan's mother slowed down. "Ah, here we are!"

The gabled roof of a modest home came into view, set back from a dirt service road. It was nestled on a gentle slope in a thicket of brush and grass, with tall pines punctuating the back of the property. Areas like this had survived the war unscathed; they held little interest to the Reapers, who were focused on large population centers for maximum 'processing'. Those who took shelter in the countrysides and agrarian regions, like Kaidan's mother, were spared that grisly fate.

The skycar came to a gentle stop in a large clearing at the foot of the service road. As the doors rose, the subtle odor of smoke hit Shepard's nose. She wrinkled it to keep from sneezing. "You didn't need to escort me, I know how busy you are. I would've been okay going on my own."

"Nonsense, it's such a short ride away. Besides, I wanted to introduce you to a few people. Best done in person."

Shepard stepped out, then grabbed her lean bag from the back of the skycar. "Thank you so much, Mrs. Alenko, really. Letting me stay here—this is beyond generous…"

"Just Katie. Mrs. Alenko sounds so stuffy, don't you think?" Katie reached for a crate that was behind her seat and closed the door.

"Katie and Kaidan? That's cute."

"My full name is Katherine, but almost no one calls me that." Katie started up the gravel path that lead from the road to the house, with Shepard following close behind. Her short salt-and-pepper hair bounced with each step. "And you're welcome to stay as long as you like. If we can't rely on friends or family, who can we rely on?"

In Shepard's case, the family of a friend. That was more than a lot of people had now. And she had had her crew—her brothers and sisters in arms—but they were scattered across the galaxy, gone to their own homes or ships, serving others who needed them.

As they approached the house, Shepard's stride shortened. A warmth filled her chest. Along the long side of the house, in an open courtyard, an unkempt patch of flowers bloomed with abandon. Tufts of showy asters, fluffs of yarrow and alumroot, and stalks of penstemon and indian paintbrush stood amongst the fescue and pinegrass, which had been left to grow wild between the house and the outbuilding on the opposite side of the courtyard.

The house itself was a single large volume; it evoked images of cabins built in earlier centuries, the kind Shepard had seen in children's books and old illustrations. The simple brick and timber facade was lined with windows that reached from floor to ceiling.

Katie opened the front door and groped around for the shade controls. The house was a void, save for the light coming through the door. She tapped the pad. The darkness of the window panels faded, replaced by the fiery light of sunset. Pristine pieces of antique furniture populated the room—21st century, as far as Shepard's amateur eye could tell, but they could have been older. There was an understated elegance to the space even she could appreciate.

"Wow, your home is a real gem."

"It's simple, but we never needed it to be anything more. Our family had some happy times here, when Kaidan was young." Katie crossed to the kitchen, which along with the large common room, created a single, uninterrupted space. Only a large kitchen island delineated the two areas.

Shepard set her bag down in the foyer and walked into the common room, approaching the largest window on the south side of the house. Flanked by built-in bookshelves, it offered a wide view of the courtyard and its carpet of wildflowers.

"Are all these books yours? It's an impressive collection. My mother kept some antiques of her own, but I was only able to save a handful of them."

"They belonged to George's grandfather. I wanted to sell them—I'm not much into collecting paper books, they just gather dust—but he insisted on keeping them. My husband was a very sentimental man. So we moved them here for safekeeping. You're free to read them, dear, no need to be too precious about it if you ask me."

Katie busied herself with putting away the food she had carried in. "You're doing me a big favor, you know," she said as she peered into the refrigerator. "Looking after the orchard is it's own job. It will be lovely to see it thriving again. George saw to the care after he retired, but most of the work was done by a friend of ours. He died during the Battle of the Citadel."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Thank you. Mariano was a brave man."

"I imagine there's a lot to be done, then. I have more experience with farming than I do trees, but my family kept a small grove of natives at the edge of their land. Fruit on Mindoir is pretty bland though. Nothing as decadent as apricots or cherries."

Katie gasped and brought her hand to her chest. Her ornate wedding ring sparkled in the light. "Oh, imagine cherries being decadent! You must have had quite the surprise having fruit from Earth! "

Shepard took note of the large diamond. She had always suspected that Kaidan came from money, seeing how he and his mother lived. But learning that they owned property on English Bay, along the Sunshine Coast, and in the Interior confirmed it. It was quite a bit of valuable real estate. To his credit, Kaidan never once flaunted his wealth or behaved in a way that made her think he was spoiled. As for his mother, she was a proud and industrious woman. Katie Alenko always seemed to be on her way to somewhere, busy with volunteer work, or looking after friends. Shepard wasn't sure if it was the loss of her husband or if she was like this before, but she was a kind person, and now Shepard understood why Kaidan had turned out the way he did.

On the exposed brick wall, several candid family photos hung in an orderly row. The middle picture was of a wild-haired Kaidan—who looked to be about four or five—taking an enormous bite from an apple, his stubby, dirty fingers clutched around its blushing skin, and his eyes bulged wide toward the camera.

Shepard sputtered as she pointed to the photo. "Hah! Look how cute he was!"

"Oh, you don't know the half of it, darling. That boy was a terror!" Katie said as she tore through the cupboards.

"What? Kaidan Alenko, a terror?"

Katie nodded with wide eyes. "Did he ever tell you he got suspended in grade one? He'd led a class rebellion. Didn't like that his classroom kept a hamster, said it was wrong to keep an animal captive. Well, didn't the kids storm out and set the hamster free. They chucked the bedding from the cage and tossed that in a dumpster. That wasn't the bad part, though. The bad part was that he bit the school principal after being sent to the office. Absolutely no remorse."

Shepard sputtered again, this time breaking into laughter as she imagined a tiny Kaidan sinking his chompers into some poor administrator over a kindergarten coup.

"He calmed down a lot around by the time he turned ten, but then his biotic abilities began to manifest. That was a scary time."

"I was only six when mine developed. It started with low-grade fevers and terrible body aches. My parents worried I might be sick with leukemia or some other awful thing. Then one day I was playing by a stream on the far side of our farm. I went to reach for a lilotu—I don't know if you know them, they're kind of like…frogs? Anyway, this thing hopped out of the water and I got really excited. I tried to catch it, only when I reached out, the lilotu burst in midair. Just made an awful squelching sound and painted its blue guts all over the rocks. I screamed. I'd obliterated this innocent creature without even touching it. I didn't understand. I ran home crying to my mom, my shirt soaked with tears. She thought I was talking nonsense."

"What a horrible shock you must have had! Poor thing. That's terrible, Circe."

"It really was," Shepard replied. "Gosh, I haven't told that story in a long time. I can still see those rocks so clearly, the water washing everything away. Of course, we didn't know much about biotics in those days." She slid onto one of the stools that lined the kitchen island. "Now that my ability is gone…I feel just the same. Like I want to scream and run home crying."

Katie put her hands on the counter and looked directly into Shepard's eyes. "If there's one that I've learned again and again in my years on this earth, it's that everything changes. All the time. Even the things you consider fundamental. If you can remember that—if you can accept it," Katie stretched her arm across the island to put her hand on Shepard's. "Then the change feels less like a burden and more like an opportunity."

Accept change? Shepard and change were old friends. They didn't always get along; it was more like they co-existed. But for the most part, she ignored it.

"Thank you, Mrs. Alenko, I'll keep that in mind."

"Katie." Katie smiled and patted Shepard's hand.

"Thanks, Katie." Shepard smiled back ruefully. She had almost forgotten what it was like to have a mom.

At dusk, shadows creep away from the orchard.

What was once fruit-laden is now barren. She's curled up, a tiny seed beneath an apple tree.

The crisp crack of a twig.

A peacock struts past, its long feathers dragging behind. It cocks its head at her in curiosity. Its crown quivers as it fans its tail out in a protective shield. The clouds overhead clear.

"Circe…"

She untucks her head from beneath her her arms.

"Mom?"

Her mother stands over her—her mother's fastened mouth hard and ascetic.

"Get up, Circe."

"Mom…"

"Get yourself back up, miss. There's no need to hide here."

"But I'm scared."

"Why?"

"There's someone here. They've been here all night. They're going to find me."

"You can take care of yourself, can't you?"

She holds her arms out and stares at the backs of her hands. They look smaller, like a child 's hands. "I can't…"

Her mother crouches by her side and strokes her hair.  "I didn't raise a slouch. Work isn't done until it's done. You should know that. Your work's not done. You need to dig."

Her mother points to the ground. The peacock pecks at the spot with its hooked beak.

Out of the retreating darkness, four eyes flit towards her mother.

Her mother's lips part.

"Mom!" She lunges forward to seize her.

Before her fingers close around her mother 's wrist, a nimble hawk swoops in, its graceful movement a whisper. It snatches at her arm with its piercing talons.

It 's too late. The ground rends in two, absorbing her mother whole.

Shepard's eyes cracked open. Another fitful sleep. She had been waking up tired every day since the blackout, but this morning her body was a lead weight that refused to be moved. Maybe it had just been the wine at dinner.

She shuffled barefoot down the hallway. Katie had left her a pair of padded slippers, but the cold hardness of the concrete floor was oddly comforting—the solid ground pushing up against her, forcing her to stand tall.

Light poured through the front window of the house, unfiltered and unbidden, as she came into the common room. She walked toward the window in a daze, squinting with an arm held above her forehead. After her eyes had adjusted, she surveyed the scenery: a sweeping view of the lake unfolded between the overgrown vegetation that grew along the property. To the northwest, she could see the corner of the neighbor's sprawling vineyard, which was already busy with harvesters filling crates with ripe grapes.

This place was a far cry from the glittering towers of Illium, or the fetid, dingy corners of Omega. Even the Citadel—with its perfectly landscaped terraces and artificial rivers—could not compare to land in its natural state. It had been two decades since Shepard had lived in a place like this, since she had called that place home.

There was no home now. The Alliance was home, wherever she was stationed. And while things always changed, the constants in her life were service and her service weapon. Or at least they had been.

After her blackout on the Citadel, Shepard lived like ghost. She apologized to Khalisah al-Jilani in person and disappeared. Confining herself to her prefab, she ignored communications from nearly everyone, only going out when necessary; when she did go out it was at night. She didn't tell Garrus what she was up to either, not at first. She was too ashamed, worried about what he might do if he knew. He had joked about abandoning his duties and coming back to Earth for her before. She was sure he would follow through this time.

When word of her assault reached the Alliance, Admiral Hackett, who was now back to work permanently, strong-armed her into taking a sabbatical. His message was candid but clear:

Commander Shepard,

You may have been able to keep it out of the media, but word has come back to headquarters about your recent run in with Khalisah al-Jilani. Because there were no formal charges or reports, we have chosen to overlook the situation. We felt it prudent to afford you some leeway, considering your status. This does not mean, however, that we condone your behavior. I 'm sure you know full well what this could mean for your career should you continue down this path.

That said, I strongly advise you to take an official sabbatical. The Alliance will give up to three years for the pursuit of professional or personal goals, or for major life disruptions. I would consider this a major life disruption, wouldn 't you?

I have contacted the medical corps. They will be sending you information regarding any available psychologists or therapists. You will avail yourself of their services if you wish to return to active duty.

On a personal note: I hope this serves as your wake-up call, Commander. I spoke to you of the black dog. This is not information I have shared with anyone outside of a clinical setting, and that has been to my own detriment. Please, for your own sake, do not follow in my footsteps.

Regards,
Admiral Steven Hackett

 

The morning she received his message was the morning she brushed her hair, put on a freshly laundered shirt, and went out in the day for the first time in a month. Too long cloistered with only her own ruminations for company had her going in circles.  She was running a mental rut, wearing it deeper every time, and Admiral Hackett’s appeal was a ramp—a way out of the trench she had made for herself. No one was going to keep her from continuing her career, not even Circe Shepard.

Kaidan, who had learned of the assault as soon as it happened, was the first person to check on her after her disappearing act. His comms went unanswered like all the others. In his last message, he offered his family's place as a working retreat. He suggested she could clear her head and reconnect with life beyond the Alliance. He said it had been his mother's idea, and that there was an open position at the grower's cooperative that might suit her. When she returned from her day out, she immediately wrote him back.

It wasn't the call of the bucolic that spoke to her. The happy moments of her childhood—the ones that predated the tragedy and the ruin—remained solidly in the past. She needed to be somewhere where she could be someone other than Commander Shepard. That wasn't going to happen in Vancouver or any other big city.

Today she'd take a walk through the orchard, to figure out what kind of work lay ahead of her. The orchard was a manageable size, a little less than four hectares, but she'd still have lots to do if she was going to bring it back to full health.

She shambled back to the bedroom to unpack the rest of her things. She removed a neat stack of clothes from the top of her bag and tucked them away into the empty dresser. At the bottom of the bag, several books were bundled together with a canvas ribbon, which was dingy and frayed. She brought the books back to the common room and pulled the ribbon from the stack. The fine, gold letters embossed across the first cover were nearly rubbed away, the edges of the book dented and faded. Shepard opened it to the first page. Written lightly in rough pencil was the name Hera Dallinger. She stared at the name, her eyes unblinking. Then she placed it on the shelf with the other books, leaving the rest of the stack on an adjacent side table.

After a quick shower and a bite to eat, she pulled her boots on and trudged down the hill, crossing the service road. Shepard held a hand over her brow to shield her eyes. Rows of trees snaked up and down the slopes that undulated along the shore, with a steep precipice separating the orchard from the lake. Spent cherries bled under her feet as she walked down one of the wide alleys, but the apples were still hard and green, and the apricots were ready to be picked, their usual velvety skin blighted by unsightly brown lesions. The long forgotten trees showed their neglect: oozing cankers of amber sap, rusted leaves; unproductive water sprouts that shot out in response to stress. Some trees would need to be cut down all together. And the rest were in sore need of pruning, their untended branches crowding and crossing in all the wrong places.

Shepard crouched and frowned at the weeds choking the soil. She scanned them with her omnitool. Most were resource-sucking invasives not native to the region. If she could secure more machinery or a couple of drones, she would be able clear them in no time. But times being what they were, that was a tall order.

As she studied the information on her omnitool, a loud ping alerted her to an incoming audio communication. The line hissed and clicked when she answered.

"Garrus?"

"Shepard! I've fi—got you on a comm line!"

"Garrus!" Shepard's big smile gleamed under the canopy of an apple tree. "You're breaking up a little."

"You can hear me—"

"I can, big guy."

"Ok, good."

"I've missed you, I've missed you so much."

"I've missed you too. How are you holding up?"

The last time they spoke, the conversation had ended with awkward silence. Garrus was upset, but she had spent her emotional reserves holding back the shame that ate away at her heart. "I know I said it before, but I'm sorry, again. I'm sorry I disappeared like that."

"We don't need to rehash it. I'm not going to pretend like everything is ok—because it's not—but I'm not holding it against you. You've been through enough. I'm not upset, not at you."

Shepard rubbed a leaf from the tree between her fingers. A fine white powder coated her skin. "Mmm. I understand."

"So you got in ok? You're at the Alenkos' now, right?"

"Yeah, I arrived last night. Kaidan's mom came with. We had dinner. She introduced me to some of the people I'll be working with at the cooperative. They seem like good folks. Reminded me of people from home. Well, from Mindoir."

"Never thought I'd be so thankful to an ex, but thank the spirits for him."

Shepard nodded to herself. "He's good people. And his mom. She said I could stay as long as I like. She's only asking me to see after the orchard."

"Sounds like you've got your hands full, then."

Garrus' words could have been a put down if they had been said by someone else. After the high stakes of planning and executing a galactic war, looking after some fruit trees and helping farmers was hardly work. But he meant well, and she took his words at face value. "I'm not saving any lives here."

"Hey, at least you're away from the things getting you down. That's a start, isn't it?"

"I suppose," Shepard replied. "Had my second therapy session, so that's something."

"Good. Think Hackett will get off your back now?"

"He's just looking out for me. "

"After everything you did for that tough son-of-a-bitch? He'd better be."

Shepard snorted. "Speaking of tough guys, how are things with the Primarch?"

"He'll be on Palaven another two weeks before he goes to Sur'Kesh, then off to Thessia. He'll meet with the quarians while he's there."

"That's quite the itinerary. He must fucking hate it."

"Of course. But he's good at what he does. We'd be drowning at sea without him."

"Did he say anything about Tuchanka? Or Wrex?"

"Mmm…the krogan situation is…delicate. Post-war celebrations got a little out of hand. Let's just say that the cure for the genophage worked about as expected.

"Too many mouths to feed already?"

"Not yet, but there will be. Though it looks like fertility rates aren't as high Mordin suggested. Still, I'm afraid they'll slip back into their old ways. Not unless Wrex can find some way to keep them in line. And they're going to need colonies sooner rather than later." Garrus took an audible breath. "I still think we made the right decision, but damn if it isn't going to bite us all in the ass."

"It was going to bite us in the ass no matter what we did. Those are just the cards we were dealt. At least we've got survivors. That's thanks to them."

"And what are these survivors doing on Palaven? Fighting other turians, fighting the people trying to keep them together. How is it after everything they've been through, they don't still don't know what the hell they're fighting for? Not really."

Shepard brushed the dirt from her knees."You know, can't say things are sunshine and roses here either. It isn't making the news, but a little bird told me the Alliance has their hands full fighting pirates and mercenaries."

"A little bird told you? Sunshine and roses?" Garrus sounded incredulous. There was silence on the line and Shepard could hear his mind turning. "Nevermind," he said. "I'd prefer that to having to fight my own people. At least I'd have an excuse to shoot."

"You don't want it. They're controlling resources and committing atrocities, they're choking us out." Shepard meandered in and out of the trees, crossing from one row to another.

"I guess a year was plenty of time for the shitbags of the galaxy to organize themselves."

"At this point, I don't see any of us avoiding more war."

"I can barely contain what's happening on one small patch of Palaven. What happens if it gets bigger? We can't afford for this thing to drag on." His voice was coarse and low.

Shepard cocked an eyebrow. "Hey…anything you want to talk about?"

"Actually, yeah." The exhaustion in Garrus' voice crept through the line. "I wanted to ask for your advice last time, but uh, there were other things to discuss."

"Shoot, partner." She was more than happy to wear her commander's stripes. She strolled along an alley and towards the lake, her hands clasped behind her back.

"How do I put this?" he asked. There was a pause. The line hissed again, making Shepard wonder if they had lost connection. "I—I haven't gone…soft, have I? Lost my edge?"

"What do you mean?"

"I built something of a reputation, cultivated a 'legend' if you will, as Archangel. The guy who will stop at nothing to put the bad guys down."

"No kidding!" Shepard said sarcastically.

"Well, word of Archangel got around to my troops. They're all expecting me to do something bold—to grab the krogan by the quads and be done with it. The problem is, I don't know if that's the right thing to do."

"Since when do you care what people think of your reputation?"

"I don't. But one of my sergeants, he's got a way in. It could end the hostage situation and sabotage the rebel network. I shot him down, but now I'm having second thoughts."

"You think this plan of his has some merit?"

"It does, I won't deny that. The tactician in me is quietly cheering. We could shut this thing down for good if we do it right. But it's risky. It could end with a lot more dead turians—there are enough of those already. And able bodied soldiers are a precious resource."

"What does your instinct tell you?"

"The old me would have said 'screw it' and gone for the kill. But…it's different now. The citizens are desperate, they're barely holding on. My instinct is telling me to play it safe."

"In that case, the question you have to ask yourself is: who am I doing this for? Me? My soldiers? The Primarch? My people?"

"Is 'all of them' a good answer? What would you do, Shepard?"

She knew what her answer would be. But this wasn't her fight and it wasn't her place. Garrus had spent long enough in her shadow, looking to her for guidance. "That's not for me to say. They're your people, Garrus. You know them best. I'm only here to listen and ask the right questions." Shepard plucked a ripe apricot from an obliging tree and sniffed it. Its perfume was lush and honey-like, the skin of the fruit golden and unblemished. "I may not know the details, but I know you. You've always had it in you to be a good leader. Omega was a brutal lesson, but you went on and made the most of it. And what about the war? What other turian could have gotten the stuffy Hierarchy to make a move? Your dad may have been the one to convince the Primarch, but you were smart enough to go to him with all the evidence laid out. You persisted. You should trust yourself—I know I do."

"That means a lot coming from you…Hero of the Galaxy."

"Mmhmm, think you're so clever, do you?"

Garrus gave a small chuckle. "Thanks, Shepard. That really does help."

"Good." Shepard smiled softly as she came to the end of the alley.

A gentle zephyr rustled through the trees. She stared at the angry, tangled twigs poking up from their branches. Their disarray made her anxious, and the impulse to take a pair of loppers to them surged from her stomach. Such a drastic action would be foolish, however, and she put the thought to bed until spring.

Shepard looked past the short fencing and over the precipice, at the rippled water ahead. "God, I wish you could see it here right now. I've got this beautiful view of the lake, the mountains, a big grove of trees. And the sky is just so big. You'd love it here. It's hot like Palaven, but without the humidity." A pinch in her heart made made it difficult to breathe.

"You can see the sky where you are? Damn, guess I need to plan a vacation."

"I don't think anyone in the entire galaxy is planning a vacation right now, love."

"You're right. But a man can dream."

The faint rumble of a turian's voice emerged from the background. The voice was short and gruff.

"Just a second Shepard." Garrus silenced the line for a moment. "Listen, I've gotta go. We'll talk again soon? Video next time?"

Imagining him by her side, Shepard stroked her arm. "In person would be better."

"Oh don't do that to me, Circe. You know I can't leave. "

"I know you can't." His words had made her shrink, but she wasn't about to let it show. "You realize it's been six months now? A woman could grow a whole human baby in that time."

"A whole one? What, instead of half of one? What exactly are you trying to say, Shepard?"

Shepard laughed. "Nothing, just that I miss you. I could really use one of those turian headbutts right now."

"Heh, me too. Not a day goes by that I don't think of you. You know that, right?"

"Mmmm." The words I need you teetered at the end of her tongue, like a diver poised at the edge of a cliff. But what awaited her in those waters was dark and disorienting. If she said the words, who knew where it would end.

"I'll talk to you—" The line was silent again.

"Garrus?" A discordant volley of gunfire broke the silence, coming through her audio at full volume and echoing through the orchard. "Garrus!"

"Shit! Talk—I love—"

The channel went dead.

Chapter Text

PART II
Chapter 8: Rose of Jericho*

It's possible I am pushing through solid rock
in flintlike layers, as the ore lies, alone;
I am such a long way in I see no way through,
and no space: everything is close to my face,
and everything close to my face is stone.
I don't have much knowledge yet in grief
so this massive darkness makes me small.
You be the master: make yourself fierce, break in:
then your great transforming will happen to me,
and my great grief cry will happen to you.

-Ranier Maria Rilke

1 year, 8 mo. after the end of the Reaper War
Okanagan Valley, British Columbia, Earth

Garrus' voice draws out in a long vibrato. "Not a day goes by that I don't think of you. You know that, right?"

That rumbling whisper when he asks her. Her heart flutters. She's fifteen all over again and talking to the cutest boy in school.

"Mmmm."

"I'll talk to you—" The vibrato stops.

"Garrus?" Patience. "Garrus!" Confusion.

"Shit! Talk—I love—"

Dread. The line's dead.

A chittering rumble over her shoulder: the disturbing, familiar sound that foretells tragedy as reliably as any Greek chorus. She freezes. Disbelief washes over as she turns her head. A Reaper stalks through the lake like a hunting spider, the water half way up its legs.

"Perhaps Reapers on holiday."

"Think those things can swim, ma'am?"

"Do not be afraid, Siha."

The trio of departed friends stand in a line at her side.

What are you doing here? You're dead.

"Reapers also dead. You, Shepard?"

I'm still here.

"Are you? What did you choose, Commander?"

Choose?

"There is a song that calls you home. Like the song the Rachni sing across the expanse of stars—a song to reach you. Across the stars, from across the sea. "

I don't understand.

The scrambled static of a marauder's cry bursts from the direction of the house. Shepard twists her head to look, then back to the Reaper. It is motionless, a moored effigy writ large. It hasn't made a sound. She watches it for signs of activity, but it's as inert as the mountains that encircle it. The marauder's cry grows louder. It crescendos into a frantic, stuttering wail.

She swings her arm over her shoulder as she bolts through a tunnel of trees. There's no weapon there. Her armor is heavy, her steps even heavier. The cherries gush beneath her boots. Dark red stains give way to slicks of blue, a freshet of blood that washes down the incline leading to the house.

"COME ON!" James hollers at her. Standing at the end of the path, he cradles his shotgun in his hands. "THERE'S NO TIME!"

They dash for the courtyard. A single marauder groans with its back to them. It stands amongst the wildflowers—still in full bloom—its hands seizing the sides of its head as it writhes. Jerky movements that strain and contort.

Can they feel pain?

As if hearing her thoughts, the marauder staggers and turns. It still has a face—a turian's face, swallowed by dull plates of metal. Its brow lifted and eyes wide, it seems frightened. She knows this face: its blue markings above the nose, and along its scarred cheek and jaw. Fraught tears cloud her eyes as she extends her hand and takes a tentative step. His silvery talons reach out for her. Sheathed cables and sinew choke his arm.

The startling boom of a Reaper's cannon. "GO GO GO!" James pulls her back, then shoves her away, hard. Stumbling back, she falls to the ground.

It is too late for James . The cannon eviscerates his body and catches the tall, dry grass on fire. The flowers burn.

JAMES!

The flames rise. Garrus' pained face flickers behind the hot air as his transfiguration completes. Shepard watches helplessly from the ground, unable to move her legs.

Cipritine, Palaven

Garrus opened his eyes. He began to turn his head but stopped immediately. The skin on his neck throbbed, and moving felt like it might tear the delicate membranes underneath. But even without looking, he knew he was laying inside a room, and not a tent or a shelter. He knew by the nauseating smell of recycled air, the kind tinged with metal and saturated with the stale breaths of too many people. He surveyed his field of vision. A figure sat in a chair next to the bed, arms crossed and head titled back, his mouth hanging open as he snored.

White face with red markings. "Qui-Quidros…" Garrus said, his voice raspy and dry.

Quidros stirred, his snoring stuttering to a stop.

"Hey, pal, wake up!" he said louder.

"Wha?" Quidros lifted his head and cracked an eye open. "General Vakarian! You're awake, sir."

"Well one of us has to be."

"Feeling better enough to make jokes, I see," quipped the sergeant. "Hang on, I'm going to fetch the Primarch. He's in the next room."

"What?"

Before Garrus could get an answer out of him, Quidros had sprung for the door and was gone. A few moments later, Victus strode through, cane in hand, looking more suave than injured as he nodded to their security detail. Lowering himself into the chair next to Garrus' bed, he rested both hands atop his cane.

"Garrus… we thought we'd lost you. Welcome back."

Garrus hissed as he turned his head toward the Primarch, his skin tender and raw. "What the hell happened?"

"I owe you my life, Vakarian."

"Huh?"

"You don't remember?"

"Remember what?"

"The rebels attacked camp when most of the men were asleep. We tried to defend from the inside. But they set fire to everything in sight. You saved me from the flames."

That must be why his skin hurt so much. "You're alright, sir?" asked Garrus.

The Primarch didn't answer right away, only flicked his mandibles. "Who's the one in the hospital bed?"

"You have a point. Wait, did you say hospital?" Garrus scanned the room, realizing he was in an actual building and not a ship.

"We were evacuated to Cipritine. The only place where we could be looked after properly and guarded."

Had the situation deteriorated so much that they lacked the ability to hold down a single city? Garrus worried for the New Aerians who had shown support for the Hierarchy.

"My sister. She was still in New Aeris. Does she know I'm here? Is she ok?"

"Not to worry, I've seen her. She came to the hospital after we moved you. Fortunately, she and her colleagues left a day before the attack."

"Thank spirits for that."

"Should you wish to contact her, she told the administrator she would be with your mother, here in Cipritine."

"Thank you, sir." Garrus swallowed, trying to clear the wooly feeling from this throat.

"No, thank you Garrus." The Primarch lowered his head in a deferential tilt. "I should let the doctor attend to you, I'm sure she'll want to check you over. I'll return later—I just needed to see with my own eyes. We can chat about what happens now when you're feeling a bit more mobile."

"Yes, of course."

Primarch Victus rocked himself up and out of the chair. The pair of soldiers standing guard saluted him as he left, their rifles in hand as they presented arms. Leaning into his cane, he stopped and saluted back, then continued on his way.

Garrus turned his head carefully. Bandages clung tight to the left side of his neck where the worst of the burns met his face plates. Flames. That was the last thing he remembered clearly. He had braved the flames around the main command shelter to rescue Primarch Victus. The Primarch was passed out cold, hit in the chest by a concussive shot. The men that were with him were dead. Slinging Victus' limp body over his shoulder, Garrus wore him around his neck like an armored towel and hauled him out of the burning shelter, yowling in agony as the Primarch's chestplate rubbed his seared skin down to an oozing, blue lesion. They crossed the camp, the rip of gunfire and screaming sounding off in the distance. Dust trailed behind them. Laren had staggered over from somewhere to help. Garrus didn't remember getting to safety or being evacuated from New Aeris; he had collapsed somewhere along the way. Already bleeding before he found Victus, he'd been shot several times with his shields down, but he wasn't going to leave their leader behind. If the Primarch died, there was a chance the turian Hierarchy would fall all together.

Humans would have surely celebrated Garrus and his actions, someone who braved injury and flames to rescue a leader. But a turian would know better: it should never have happened in the first place. He'd wondered why the rebels had been quieter than normal. Their latest attempts to provoke the Hierarchy had been impotent in comparison to the show of force they had put on in the months before. They had been using that time to prepare a large scale attack on the Hierarchy's main camp; they'd gathered rebels and resources from other cities, even from as far away as the colonies. Quidros had been right. Garrus' hesitation had lost them any semblance of control in New Aeris and had nearly cost the Primarch his life.

A tall, narrow window near Garrus' bed gave him a glimpse of the world outside. A sliver of Palaven at sunset—half lit, half-built—was framed like a painting on the hospital wall. He turned his gaze to the lights on the ceiling. Cipritine might not be a tenth as regal or formidable as it had been before the war, but it still had power. It had the kind of power that lit hospital rooms and facilities. And it had the kind of power that influenced the lives of those who did not have the same.

Laying in the hospital bed, with what might be more scars lining his face, Garrus felt like a fool, but more poignantly, like an aberration.

Okanagan Valley, British Columbia, Earth

Tossing her head side to side, Shepard pulled her tacky cheek away from the pillow, the thin, cotton cover soaked in sweat. She rubbed her arm across her forehead—absolutely drenched. Had the air conditioning gone out? Her limbs tingled hot, but when she felt the skin of her arm, it was no warmer than usual. The most vivid sensation was in her regrown leg. It didn't prickle with heat, but it felt cold and numb. Letting out a long breath, she sat up, then rubbed the leg with her weak hands, which hadn't quite found their full strength yet.

What the hell was that dream?

Satisfied she'd gotten the blood going in her leg, she scooted to the edge of the bed and stood up. The leg buckled under her weight. She didn't catch herself in time and fell into a heap, banging her knee on the bedside table as she went down.

"FUCK!"

Pushing herself off the floor, she gingerly slid back to the edge of the bed and sat. It'd been a long time since her leg had given her trouble. Why it chose now to act up was a mystery; she hadn't been overly active or hard on the leg. She'd been keeping up with her physical therapy exercises and stretches just as she was told. If this kind of thing kept up she'd have to get in touch with Alliance medical.

Shepard straightened herself out and got ready for the day, opting to choose comfort over formality in this dreadful heatwave. A cadre of growers wasn't likely to look down their noses at shorts and a linen button-up; this wasn't that kind of place, and they weren't those kinds of people. She caught a ride with Dusty Irving, the co-op's oldest and most experienced member. He pointed out local features along the way—the popular beaches, wineries, and hiking areas—and told a few stories about the ups and downs of agriculture in the area, chiefly the impact devastating drought had had on livelihoods some decades back. His ancient truck bumped along the well-worn highway, snaking through the hills and past a small lake, into the city center.

It would be Circe's first official meeting as part of the grower's co-op. The other members still seemed to be in shock that Commander Shepard had joined their ranks (what celebrity would choose to spend their time here?), but they were polite and sensible enough to refrain from asking her questions about the war or her experiences fighting Reapers. In return, Shepard tried her best to focus on the meeting, to hide the worry that was bubbling inside her. It had been three days since her communication with Garrus was cut short and not a word since. It wasn't unusual for them to be out of touch for days or even weeks, but the circumstances had left her shaken. Something happened and she didn't know what.

By the end of the meeting, the group had drawn up some rough plans for dividing and sharing resources, as well as an agreement to commission a new water study. This had been an informative session for Shepard; she took as many notes as she could and memorized the names of every farmer and orchardist that came through the doors. All her years serving in the Alliance were already translating to the civilian sector.

On the way home, Dusty asked her about her future plans. Shepard was reticent, only volunteering that she was on forced sabbatical, and that she wasn't sure how long it would last.

"Mmm, I see." Lifting a brow, he shot her a sideways glance. "Have it your way then, Commander. Humanity's Hero is under no obligation to tell anything to little ol' me, that's for damn certain." He chuckled, laugh lines folding around his eyes like the dog-eared pages of a well-loved book.

Shepard squirmed in her seat. She leaned toward the window as they pulled up to the bottom of the gravel path, and the truck squealed to a sudden stop. Shutting the passenger door, she thanked Dusty and watched as he turned down the service road, waving until he disappeared around the corner.

That afternoon was spent performing a more detailed assessment of what work would need to be done with the trees and when. The remaining good apricots would need to be picked, and she would need to keep monitoring the apple trees for signs of pests and disease. There was mulching and fertilizing to be done. Pruning would need to be minimal but judicious until the deepest part of winter.

A puff of dust kicked up as Shepard lowered herself to the ground, pressing her back against the trunk of a mature ambrosia tree, a local apple cultivar that had come to be her favorite. Shepard gazed up into the wide, cloudless sky. There was something about the way the sun beat down here—the dry, penetrating heat that browned your skin like bacon but was still pleasant in the shade. Thane would have been comfortable here.

She turned her gaze to the water. No Reapers. The image of an oversized, synthetic water bug wading beachside made her chuckle a little, in a horrified sort of way. There was Ogopogo, a lake creature from local folklore, but that legend was as far as monsters in the Interior went. Maybe she would brave Reapers and lake monsters and get in the water today.

After going back to the house to change, she walked a path through the orchard and parallel to the precipice, which sloped towards a small, private beach. Large pebbles dug into the soles of her feet as she ventured in. Eventually, the rocks gave way to a sandy bottom that dropped off gently, allowing her to walk a ways before swimming sixty meters out. Shepard floated onto her back. She let all the muscles in her body relax as the water held her up toward the sky. Closing her eyes, she let the sensation of weightlessness overtake her; she could see the stars and planets, and the endless expanse of space. She missed that endlessness.

As she relished the quiet void in her head, a dog barked in the distance, its low bay encroaching on the silence. Vaguely aware of the noise, Shepard ignored it and kept her eyes shut. She drifted away with her thoughts; she didn't hear the splash of the water, or the sound of a woman's voice calling. When she finally opened her eyes, her vision was mottled from the sun. Still on her back, she could see a dark blob moving toward her from the corner of her eye. Shepard bolted upright. A black ball of fur was paddling toward her at an easy clip, its tongue protruding from its droopy mouth in a dopey expression.

A gray-haired woman came barreling down from the neighboring vineyard. "CHARLIE! Charlie! Charlie, come!"

Shepard laughed in surprise as the dog swam a circle around her.

The woman shouted again, "Charlie, no! Charlie, come, now!"

The dog took one more circle round, then paddled back toward shore, its eyes glued on the woman who was now calf-deep in the water. Shepard followed behind the dog, then walked toward the shore.

The woman—her frame slight but erect—stood with her hands over her hips. She chided the dog in a gruff tone, "Charlie! You see, she's perfectly fine!" She gestured to Shepard, then held her hand up in apology. "Sorry about that, miss. Mister here thought he was bein' a hero."

Shepard smiled as the dog ran up and sniffed at her legs, as if making sure she was okay. "Not a problem. Cute fella you have. Big fella!"

"He's a retired rescue dog. Probably saw you floatin' there and thought you needed help. You must be Commander Shepard, then?" Her eyes darted to Shepard's exposed shoulder cap where the worst of her raised scars protruded. "I'm Jillian Ly, I run the vineyard here."

"Oh, yes, I didn't get a chance to meet you at dinner last time. I heard you were feeling under the weather. Circe Shepard, pleased to meet you." She held out a wet hand, then glanced down at her swimsuit. "Sorry, I realize I'm not really dressed for the occasion."

Jillian laughed. "Less is more, as they say." She shook Shepard's hand, then dried hers off on the thigh of her loose pants. "I'm headed back up—I've ought to finish pruning the vines before the day's done. But it'd be good to have a proper chat once you're, uh, feeling more 'suited'."

"Understood, ma'am." Shepard saluted her.

Jillian eyed her suspiciously. "Good to meet you, Commander. Chat soon." Turning on her heel, she waved her dog over. "Come on, Charlie." Charlie bounded up, his gait stiff and heavy.

Shepard grinned as she watched them hike up the hill. Rear Admiral Jillian Ly, huh? What are the chances.

In the dappled light of the common room, Shepard dried her hair with a small towel and stood at the wide window between the shelves, overlooking the wildflowers in the courtyard. For a moment, she saw flames flicking up from their stalks, and Garrus' tortured face as they rose higher around him. Her heart raced. Resting a hand on the side table, she took a slow, deep breath, and reminded herself that it hadn't actually happened.

Her mother's books were still in a stack on the side table. Shepard threw her towel over a kitchen stool and picked one up. She browsed the books already on the shelf; their spines were dusty and cloth bound, looking like they hadn't been read in ages. She swept her hand over the second row, letting her fingers bump along until she came to the last volume. Something peaked out of the top—paper, she thought—sandwiched between the pages.

She put her book back down on the table and tilted the other title from the shelf. The book appeared out of place with the rest, its cover a layered amalgam of soft, textured hues—a colorful crayon fog. The Dark Interval. It was a collection of letters. Thumbing through the pages, she saw that every letter in the book was addressed to someone different: friends and acquaintances who the author had corresponded with. People who had lost someone close to them. When Shepard came to the split where the folded papers were tucked in, she removed them and held them above the book. A passage had been lightly underlined in pencil. She read it out loud:

"No constellation is as steadfast, no accomplishment as irrevocable as a connection between human beings which, at the very moment it becomes visible, works more forcefully in those invisible depths where our existence is as lasting as gold lodged in stone, more constant than a star.

This is why I agree with you, my dear friend, when you say that you mourn those "who go away." Alas, only those can go away from us whom we never possessed. And we cannot even grieve the fact of never really having possessed this one or that one: We would have neither time nor strength nor justification for doing so."

Shepard knit her brow. Whoever underlined this passage must have been grieving someone. Maybe Katie, when George died. That would make sense. But a forgotten document, used as a bookmark? She put the book down on the side table and unfolded the papers. The pristine, ivory pages stuck together, stubborn and crisp like autumn leaves still clinging to their tree. The script, handwritten in pencil, was made of neat, uniform letters and carefully spaced lines; whoever had written it must have considered its contents important enough to commit to paper in a such meticulous way. She read:

"You are dead.

I'm writing these words to remind myself that you're not here anymore.

It's been two months since the destruction of the Normandy. Since the day you were taken from us. For the past six weeks, I've been staying at my family's orchard in BC. I applied for personal leave after our short term ran out. I'm not ready to go back yet.

That day, I watched the Normandy go down in flames from the shuttle's viewscreen. It just snapped, like a cheap child's toy. There was an explosion and it was just…gone. But the worst part didn't come at that moment. That was later, when they told us Joker had stepped out of the escape shuttle, alone. I had watched you die and I didn't even know it.

I thought I knew how to deal with survivor's guilt after we lost Ash. Understanding that her sacrifice saved us all helped me to stop feeling guilty. The problem is, I don't understand what happened here. Even the Alliance doesn't know who attacked or why. It was like a phantom ship from an old sea tale. I've spent time searching for reports that match, but nothing's turned up. How does anyone think this is ok? The Alliance's most technologically advanced vessel gets blown to pieces, and one of their brightest officers, a Spectre no less, just…dies…and they don't want to know more? I wonder if the rest of the crew feels the same way?

I wanted to stay, but you ordered me to leave. I did as I was told. I wasn't going to disobey my commanding officer. And when I scrambled onto that escape shuttle, I thought you'd be following right behind. I can't stop thinking: what if I had just stayed? Had tried harder to pull you out of there? I should have insisted, been written up for insubordination. I'd have let them throw the whole damn book at me if it meant you would live. I shouldn't have left you there.

To be honest, the whole thing makes me furious. Joker chose to disregard the chain of command. He stayed with the ship, even after you called for evacuation. He put his commanding officer's life in jeopardy for a ship that he wasn't going to be able to save. There was no good reason for you to die.

I haven't confronted him, in case you were worried. I'll leave him to fight those demons on his own. But you made your own choices too. Choices worthy of Commander Shepard, I know, but they left Circe in the dust.

Maybe it's wrong for me to feel angry with a dead person. Maybe I'm angry for my own reasons.

My mom—bless her worried heart—keeps telling me I need to say goodbye. That it's part of the grieving process. How do you say 'goodbye' to someone who you've only just said 'hello' to? That night before Ilos…I've thought about it a lot. Anyone who knows me knows it would take a lot for me to renege on my duties, to breach protocol. So why did I do that? It wasn't really like me. Was it lust? Fear of death?

The more I've examined my feelings, the more I've come to believe I didn't just 'give in' to my attraction for you. I think I summoned the courage to say yes. To say yes to something good in my life, to the possibility that we could have a future together. That night was special to me, Shepard. I wouldn't give it up for the world.

I loved you, and I didn't even get a chance to say it. Would you have said it back if I did? I don't know. I'll never know. And knowing I'll never have an answer is more painful than hearing 'no'.

So I need to say goodbye to you, and to that little hope. There is no body to mourn, no grave site to visit, no place to go and talk to you. This letter is all I have.

You were whip smart, a talented biotic, and one hell of a soldier. You made me laugh, and you made me think. We had some good times together. You were my friend, my confidant, even my lover. You were my commanding officer. You were all these things to me.

And you are dead.

I love you, Circe. Rest in peace."

"Kaidan…"

Shepard's wet eyes lingered over the last two lines. I love you, Circe. Rest in peace. Folding the letter along its creases, she tucked it back into the book and placed the book back on the shelf, a pang of guilt broadening in her chest. It felt like an invasion of privacy, what she had just done; it was a glimpse into Kaidan's heart that she would never have been privy to otherwise.

She thought she'd understood what happened between them on Horizon—they'd talked about it, after all. Her last conversation with him on the matter had been final and decisive. Too much had changed between the time she died and the time she had been brought back to life, but there was a lot more going on under the surface than she had realized. And if working with Cerberus was the coffin, then Garrus had surely been the nail.

At least Kaidan had seemed to find some measure of love—or whatever he called it—with Miranda. To Shepard, they were two sides of the same coin. They complemented one another, and both deserved to have a little bit of happiness in their lives.

Shepard slotted her mother's books onto the shelf, at the end of middle row—her little addition to the Alenkos' stately library. Inhaling through her nose, she was determined to keep her tears at bay. The empty feeling of being abruptly cut off persisted like a stubborn stain. Her hangups about the letter swirled with her anxiety about Garrus, churning up a messy soup of dread and sadness. 

If her mother could see her now, she'd be shaking her head at all the tears she'd allowed to leave her eyes. She could hear her tapping her reedy fingers on the table, taking that preachy tone she always took when Shepard let defeat consume her. "Circe Isobel Shepard—never forget you're a Dallinger. Dallingers don't lie down and cry, we get up and keep going. Now get up." That message, inculcated in the Dallinger line for generations, was a way of life. There was no defying it.

The tapping continued. Confused, Shepard swung her head about, searching for the source. Was she still dreaming? Finally, she looked toward the left corner of the picture window. A striking, dark bird pecked at the top of a fence post in the courtyard. Jeweled with vibrant blue wings and matching long tail, its black head was topped with a slick, pointed crest that swept back long to short. Its sharp beak dug into the wood as it tried to get at whatever was hiding inside. The bird stopped, then titled its head toward Shepard. She looked back without moving. It stood up straight, standing perfectly still as it studied her face with its small, round eyes. They were sharp and clear. It was a handsome bird. An intelligent bird.

The bird hopped to the next fence post, glimpsed back, and then flew off, somewhere into the covert of pines that shaded the property. Shepard remained unmoving, still staring at the post where the bird had been. The tears she'd dammed off began to roll down her cheeks as she pressed her lips together, feeling feeble for worrying about Garrus' whereabouts.

Just as the tide of emotion had threatened to wash her out to sea, her omnitool pinged quickly three times, the setting that indicated an urgent message. It was Kaidan. Shepard wiped away her tears and sniffed, her military ability to regain composure still quick as ever.

"Hey, thanks for answering." His voice was strained.

"Hey. Why thank me?"

"Um, just…you know, after what happened in Vancouver. I thought you might still be reluctant to take my calls."

"Of course not. I was just thinking of you, actually."

There was a hesitant pause. "Oh? Why's that?"

"Uhhh, well, there are pictures of you all over the house—it's kind of hard to avoid. You know, your mom told me a story about you saving the class hamster."

"Heh, of course she did."

"Oh, hey! Why didn't you tell me your neighbor at the vineyard was Jillian fucking Ly?! "

"I didn't? Must have slipped my mind. My mom didn't tell you either?"

"She just called her 'our neighbor Jillian'. I'm not sure how you omit the fact that the first ever female rear admiral is living next door. She spoke at my Academy graduation! She's incredible."

"Yeah, she is…"

"So what's up?"

She could hear Kaidan's shaky breath through the line. "Um…there isn't really a good way to tell you this, Shepard."

Her heart caught in her chest. She'd already tried to deny the call was bad news, but the urgent notification and tenuousness in Kaidan's voice had already given it away. There isn't really a good way to tell you this: that was the herald for heartbreak. Was it about Garrus? As a general, Kaidan was still hooked into the proceedings of the Hierarchy, and if there was anyone they'd ask to break bad news to her, it would be him.

"Tell me what?" she asked, her eyes frantically scanning the tree line for the bird.

Kaidan cleared his throat. "James is dead."

Chapter Text

PART II
Chapter 9: Cempasúchil

1 year, 9 mo. after the end of the Reaper War
Vancouver, British Columbia, Earth

It was a balmy day in Vancouver. The sun's late summer fervor was cut by the mild air that blew in from the harbor, and an unusual quiet had settled over downtown. All construction within a five block radius had been halted for the afternoon, with blockades erected along most of the major avenues leading to Coal Harbor.

If anyone had been dropped onto the brand new concourse at Alliance headquarters on this day, they'd be forgiven for thinking they'd happened upon a swearing-in ceremony. The newly installed landscaping—a cornucopia of coastal natives—had been groomed to its finest, with banks of chairs arranged in wide semi-circles, following the shape of the ground beneath it. But everyone gathered here today was here to pay their respects. One of the Alliance's elite had fallen while in the line of duty. He had died saving dozens of children, destroying one of the Alliance's post-war enemies in the process. His was the archetypal hero's story.

Shepard crossed the intersection leading to HQ. Service members in pressed dress blues and civilians in monotone garments ambled past, with no one in a particular rush. A subtle change caught her attention: the benign peacefulness that had settled over the city in the last two years, the forward march of everyday life. It stood in stark relief to the day of her trial, when the Reapers had let loose a firestorm of ruination and demise.

Serving in the military meant that death lurked around every corner. Shepard had been to many services in the past; they were constant reminders of the nature of her commitment. But the atmosphere at this one was different. The concourse at HQ had been transformed into a microcosm of Alliance and galactic geopolitical affairs, and officials, diplomats, and dyed-in-the-wool politicians of all ranks were here to be seen. Shepard's stomach turned. Her friend's remembrance had degraded into a PR opportunity. James wouldn't have wanted this. He'd want to have been remembered by the friends and colleagues that stood by him, not used as a prop for a politician's gain. "You gotta keep it real, Shepard," he always reminded her.

Scanning the busy concourse, she spotted Admiral Hackett. He stood at the base of the stage and was speaking with a diplomat from Irune. The diplomat's short arms waved about—her grand gestures lifting her heels off the ground—but Shepard couldn't make out what she was saying. Hackett continued his exaggerated nod as he met Shepard's gaze. He made a desperate attempt to signal SOS with his eyes, but she approached with caution, unsure of what she might be disrupting.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Bori, if you'll excuse me, I need to speak with someone urgently regarding the ceremony. Thank you for sharing your story with me. I had no idea volus culinary history was so…fascinating." Hackett offered a flat, closed-lip smile and stalked toward Shepard, who was waiting between a pair of lavish flower arrangements sent by the Asari Republics and Salarian Union, respectively.

"Shepard, you made it." They exchanged salutes. "I'm sorry for your loss."

She canted her head."For our loss. He was a damn fine soldier, and a good friend."

"And a promising senior officer. Gone too soon." A prattle of overlapping voices rose behind the Admiral. He leaned in and spoke in a hush. "Get a load of these assholes. All here buttering their own bread. "

In front of center stage, a flock of politicians were hobnobbing and having their pictures taken with the memorial's display in the background. A crass spectacle if Shepard ever saw one.

Admiral Hackett shook his head. "Celebration of life my ass. I didn't want them here, but that's out of my hands."

"We still need to play nice with them, I'm afraid. They're footing our bill, after all." Shepard raised her eyebrows."Watch out, there's one now."

One of the flock, the European Prime Minister, had turned her head toward Admiral Hackett and waved, a garish smile festooning her face like a piece of cheap costume jewelry. The Admiral tipped his cap.

From the far end of the concourse, Shepard spied some familiar faces in dress blues, the gold piping on their jackets glinting in the afternoon light. Kaidan stared back and held his hand up to get her attention. He was standing with Steve, who appeared to be typing something into his omnitool.

"Sorry to bail on you, sir, but I'm going to speak with General Alenko. Good luck!"

Before Admiral Hackett could answer, Shepard had taken off and the European Prime Minister approached, her determined steps ticking across the concrete.

"Shepard!" Steve said as she loped closer.

"Steve," said Shepard."My god, I haven't seen you since—"

"The end of the war?" He held his arms out wide for a hug, and the two friends embraced each other with gusto.

Shepard brushed her long bangs behind her ear and avoided his gaze. "Yeah, guess I kinda fell off the map, huh?"

"I'm just happy you're here. I wish it were under better circumstances...but I think Vega would be happy to see us all together again."

"He would."

Shepard was about to greet Kaidan when a young corporal jogged toward them, stopping at Steve's side. "Sir, they're ready for you on stage. Five minutes." The erratic squeals of the brass section punctuated the air as the band warmed up.

"Thank you Corporal Timko. I'll be right there."

Timko saluted and jogged back to the stage.

"You're speaking today?" asked Shepard.

"I am. I requested to speak at the memorial as soon as the announcement went out."

"I'm glad it's you and not one of them." Shepard pointed her chin toward the base of the stage.

"Hmm, me too. I….James is—" Steve's voice wavered. He held his breath for a moment and his face went still, his eyes fixed somewhere beyond Shepard's shoulder. "James was one of my best friends in the Alliance. No—one of my best friends, all stop. Sharing my memories of him with others…it's a pleasure and a privilege." He peeked down at his omnitool, then flicked his eyes up to her again. "I've gotta go, but maybe we can catch up after this? Group dinner? What do you think?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course. I'd like that."

Steve nodded and gave a curt wave to Kaidan as he turned away.

Kaidan, whose head had been swiveling in all directions to examine the crowd, finally greeted Shepard. "Hey, Shepard."

"Hey, you." Bending her torso toward him, she gave him an awkward hug and a dutiful pat on the back. "How are you holding up?"

"Um, ok, I guess. It's been a bit of a shock. Never thought Vega of all people would go down like that. If I'm being honest, I feel a bit guilty about my part in all this."

"What? Why would you say that?"

"It was my suggestion in the first place—that we use covert ops instead of a more straightforward approach."

"You really think that would have changed anything? Besides, he knew what he was doing. It's our job, after all."

"I know. But it's different when you're the one who's calling the shots, you know?" Kaidan rubbed the back of his neck as he searched Shepard's eyes.

"Mmm, I understand. I do."

The restrained murmurs around them quieted. The crowd began to thin as ushers at the ends of the rows directed people to their seats.

"Looks like it's time." Kaidan gestured for Shepard to go ahead of him, then followed as she led the way to the officer's section.

They shuffled into their row. Shepard looked around, her brow furrowing as she squinted into the distance. When they sat, she leaned in and whispered, "I haven't seen Miranda yet. Is she here?"

"Uhh…I'm not sure. Probably running a bit late. There's lots of slow down with all the security today." Kaidan hesitated. "Actually, she and I had a bit of a….tiff a few of days ago. I'm surprised she's still talking to me."

"Really? What over?"

"I don't really want to get into specifics. Let's just say we had a 'disagreement' about the mission report."

"I see."

Kaidan let out a gruff breath and turned to Shepard. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

"Yeah, what's that?"

"How—how did you handle it when Miranda gave you the cold shoulder? Has she always been this….prickly?"

Shepard snorted softly. "Yeah, yeah she has. She may be 'perfect', but that is definitely one of her more challenging qualities." She stretched an arm across Kaidan's back and clapped his shoulder. "I don't have a lot of advice that would help—considering you're romantic with her and all—but hang in there, hmm?"

Kaidan looked down at Shepard's hand with a confused expression. "Shepard…"

Shepard drew her hand away and gave a wry smile, embarrassed that she had made light of his very real problem. Suddenly, it felt wrong to be acting this way with him. "Sorry. I know it's not easy. Miranda's always been a tough nut to crack. It took me a lot longer than it took you to appreciate her better side."

"You—you had pretty good reason for that."

"Yeah, you're not wrong. I guess what I'm trying to say is: don't give up. Just be upfront with her. Maybe give her some time to cool off."

"Any cooler and she's going to freeze the earth over…" he muttered.

Kaidan's attention turned to the empty stage as the brassy notes of the military band began to rise. An array of spears shot up from risers behind the podium; they were topped with flags of all nations and colonies, their color blocks and abstractions flapping in the breeze. Front and center, a large, formal portrait of James was displayed on an easel. His dog tags, along with a helmet, hung from one of the corners. Everyone settled into their seats and the music faded to a close.

There was a hush as Admiral Hackett approached the podium at the side of the stage. He looked out onto the sea of somber faces and waited a few moments to ensure he had the crowd's attention. He cleared his throat, adjusted his peaked cap, and began.

"Good morning, everyone—family, friends, soldiers, and honored guests. On behalf of of the Systems Alliance, I thank you for joining us here today. We are gathered on this beautiful, September day to remember and celebrate the life and service of Alliance Navy Commander James Roberto Vega. Commander Vega served in the Alliance for more than ten years, distinguishing himself as a capable soldier and leader. During the course of his service, he took part in the N7 program, the highest designation for special forces one can achieve within the Alliance, and the training for which is both grueling and extreme. To be accepted to the program is prestigious in and of itself, but to operate in the field as a special forces officer is a rarity. Commander Vega also served aboard the SSV Normandy—led by Commander Circe Shepard—of whose crew was instrumental in turning the tide of the Reaper War. His tactical contribution would be consequential in the final weeks and days of that terrible event, a fact that I'm sure we are all grateful for today.

"He will be remembered for his unwavering bravery, fortitude, and personable character.

"As Admiral, I am proud to announce that Commander Vega has earned the Alliance's highest honor: the Star of Terra, for his bravery and sacrifice in the face of great danger, and for going above and beyond his call of duty to rescue innocent civilians. His surviving family—his uncle Emilio Vega, and his cousin Teresa Vega—will receive the medal on his behalf during a separate ceremony to be held at a later date.

"Thank you all for taking the time to remember an honorable and dedicated solider—Commander James Roberto Vega. May he rest in peace."

The crowd rose as the band played the Alliance anthem, and the Systems Alliance flag—the only flag missing from the array—was paraded to the stage by two service members in full formal uniform. When the music stopped, Steve stood at the podium, his hands clasping the sides of its beveled edges.

"Please take your seats." He paused. He looked down and took a deep breath before continuing. "Hello. My name is Lieutenant Steve Cortez, and I have had the honor of knowing and serving with Commander James Vega for the last five years.

"James was a simple man. And I mean that in the best sense of the word. He said what he thought, did what he said he'd do, and made it clear to everyone how he felt. If he could hear me right now, he'd probably call me a name—one not fit for polite company. Then he'd take it back and laugh and admit I was right. At least, that's how it usually went. But for someone who lived so simply, and by a simple code, there was so much more to him than what people saw on the outside.

"Commander Vega and I first met while serving on Fehl Prime. I was assigned to the infrastructure team and he was a brash lieutenant. If I'm being honest, I thought he was kind of a meathead at first. You know the type, right? Those guys with muscles bigger than their brains? Anyway, everyday he'd pass through our station—tell some jokes, grease the wheels with anyone he thought would make a useful friend. James knew everyone's name. Well, the names he gave them, anyway. He was notorious for his nicknames. He said it was because their real names didn't fit. Though if you ask me, I think he just forgot them right away. He called me 'Esteban', and it just stuck.

"Later, Vega admitted that the real reason he stopped by our station so often was to flirt with the asari anthropologist who was assigned to our jurisdiction. She consulted on Prothean ruins we had uncovered during construction. He'd taken a real interest in her, but she didn't seem to return that interest. He tried anyway. Oh, I teased him about that for a long time. But he kept stopping by. When I asked him why, he just said he liked the company, and the rest was history.

"James' reputation as a flirt aside, he genuinely enjoyed getting to know everyone. The more time I spent with him, the more I came to appreciate his playful humor and straightforward demeanor. When my husband, Robert, died in the Collector attack on Ferris Fields, I was beside myself. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. I couldn't find the joy in anything. I buried my nose in work because I didn't know what else to do. Vega noticed right away. He saw how much I was struggling. He tried to keep things light and happy at work with snappy remarks, or one of his ridiculous tall tales. Always reminding me to relax and not work so hard. Not as a way of ignoring my pain, but to show me that life still had something to offer. I'll always be grateful to him for being a light in a dark place.

"Despite all outward appearances, James took his job seriously. He wanted nothing more than to serve his home planet and to do it well. Even with the setbacks he experienced throughout his career, he kept going forward, seeking to be better and do better at every turn.

"In the last days of the war, when we weren't sure whether we'd live or die, he admitted to me that he was scared. He hadn't heard from his uncle or his father, and he worried that he would never get to see Earth again. He was strong enough to admit his fear, but he didn't give into it. He did what a good soldier should do.

"Commander James Vega was like a brother to me, as he was to many others in the Alliance. He will be missed by many, but most of all, by his dear Uncle Emilio and cousin Teresa, who are with us here today. To you, I offer my deepest condolences. I hope you will find comfort in knowing that there are hundreds of others who will keep James alive in their hearts and in their memories.

"James, wherever you are, I wish you peace and love. You deserve it. Descanse en paz, mi amigo. Te amo, siempre."

More former crewmates and friends spoke after Steve, each of them sharing fond and sometimes funny memories of James. Among them was Lieutenant Paul de Luca, his sniper aboard the Normandy and the last Marine to see him alive before the explosion on Terra Nova. De Luca spoke of James' rapport with his crew, and of his fighting spirit, which he didn't give it up until the last.

He didn't need to say it, but Shepard could sense the guilt that weighed on the young man for simply following orders. She'd seen and felt this kind of guilt before. The thorny shape and sound of it—a thicket of brambles encumbering a path. His words brought sympathetic tears to her eyes, and from what she could see in her peripheral vision, Kaidan's too. His letter was still fresh in her mind. Is this what he sounded like at her memorial? The tears came faster as she struggled to keep herself from thinking about it.

When there were no more speakers, the final roll call was taken. Kaidan moved from his assigned seat and into the aisle, then took his place at the base of the stage. He called the names of the current soldiers aboard the Normandy, who declared their presence when their names were spoken. Then, Kaidan came to to the last name on the list.

His voice rang out, "Commander James Vega." There was no response.

"Commander James Vega."

The silence was broken by loud sobs from the front row where James' cousin and uncle were seated.

"Commander James Roberto Vega."

The entire city seemed to hush in the moments after his full name was called. Only the rustle of the flags could be heard. The crowd rose. Soldiers saluted, while civilians held their hands over the hearts. The ceremony's bugler took her place at the corner of the stage and licked her lips before slowly raising her instrument. The first two long, lonely notes of "Last Post" intoned from the bugle's bell, sailing across the concourse on the humid air. Those two notes held all the respect and sorrow in Shepard's heart. They were never unwelcome or worn out. Their effect remained just as strong each time she heard them: to remind her that the deceased's duty was done.

A mentor should not outlive their mentee, but that was the reality of being a soldier. Still, Shepard couldn't help but dwell on the fact that she'd dodged certain death twice, while James had died during a standard N7 mission. If there was a god, they were certainly nonsensical and uncharitable (to put it mildly); she was sure of it. Because a galaxy without James felt incomplete.

At the end of the ceremony, the military and civilian attendees milled about, their voices converging into an innocuous static as they spoke to each other and offered condolences to James' family. The politicians and officials, meanwhile, burbled amongst themselves, their words ones of surreptitious cajoling and maneuvering.

Steve made his way through the crowd to find Shepard.

"That was a lovely tribute, Steve. Thank you," she said, placing a soft hand on his upper arm.

Wiping the tears away from his eyes, he nodded. "Do—do you mind if I invite some of James' crew along to dinner? They were asking after you earlier."

"Oh no, of course not." Shepard smiled as she remembered what a lively bunch they were. "I've met them before, actually, when they were on shore leave in Tokyo. I'm sure we'll have lots of stories to share."

A velvety voice addressed her from behind. "Would you mind if I join as well?"

Shepard turned and peered over her shoulder. Hanging back in a rigid stance, Miranda waved, her other hand cradling her elbow.

"Miranda, you made it!"

Miranda smoothed the front of her dress. "I did. Arrived a little late thanks to all the traffic, but I found a seat at the back."

"Miranda, I'm glad you could make it," said Steve.

"Hello, Steve." She held out a gloved hand and gave him a polite handshake. "I'm still alive today because of Commander Vega. I owe him a debt of gratitude. The least I can do is to pay my respects."

Shepard stood on her tiptoes to lift her head above the crowd. "Um, Kaidan's here somewhere too."

"I think he went to speak with Admiral Mikailovich," said Steve.

"I have no doubt he did." Miranda's voice dripped with contempt. "Oh, I ran into someone you might know. I guess I wasn't the only one running late."

"Oh? Who's that?" asked Shepard.

The breeze blew her hair across her face as a tall figure approached and parted the crowd. "Excuse me," he said, slipping between a chair and a whispering couple.

That rumble. That voice. Instantly, Shepard pushed the hair from her eyes and looked beyond Miranda's shoulder. Her heart vaulted across the concourse as Garrus strode toward her, the long tails of his navy blue suit sweeping up behind him. His eyes were fixed on her dumbstruck face.

"Garrus…"

Miranda smirked as Shepard pushed past her.

"Shepard."

As he stepped closer, they reached out with outstretched arms and held each other's hands, each cognizant of the fact that they were at a public memorial service.

Shepard's eyes welled as she gazed up at him. "Wh—what are you doing here?"

"I'm here to pay my respects to Vega, of course."

"My god, what happened to you? Your neck!"

"This?" Garrus snatched at his heavily bandaged burn, a futile attempt to hide the injury from her. "Oh, it's nothing. Just a little burn. I'm alright."

Shepard frowned and ran the backs of her fingers across his mandible. "I didn't think you'd be here today. I didn't even know…the last time we spoke—" Her throat was closing up.

"I'm sorry. I know you must have been worried. They evacuated the whole unit to Cipritine…it's a long story."

"It doesn't matter, I'm just happy you're ok. But how are you here? What about—"

"The Primarch? He's the one who told me to go. Admiral Hackett contacted him the day before yesterday, thought I might want to be here for Vega's memorial. He was right, of course." He shook his head. "That tough bastard survived the war and now he's gone? It doesn't feel real."

"It doesn't…" Furrowing her brow, Shepard had almost forgotten they weren't alone when a voice rang out behind her.

"Garrus! My god, I didn't expect you to make it today!" Kaidan stepped forward, holding his hand out for a friendly handshake.

"Kaidan, Steve. It's good to see you both." He shook Steve's hand as well. "I'm sorry to hear about Vega. He was one hell of a soldier, one of the best I've ever worked with. Saved my ass more times than I can count. He'll be sorely missed."

"I think that goes for all of us. Glad you could make it," replied Steve. "Listen, a group of us are headed out after this—to catch up, to remember James. You're more than welcome to join us."

"Thanks, I'd like that."

Steve glanced at Shepard, then back at Garrus. "If you don't mind, I need to speak with Vega's uncle about the Star of Terra. I've been designated as the point of contact for the family. Catch you later?"

"Of course. We'll be there," said Shepard. As Steve left, she gazed up at Garrus again, her eyes still glimmering and unbelieving.

Miranda cleared her throat. "We're going to find Admiral Hackett. I believe he wanted to speak with us about something—right, Kaidan?"

"He did?"

"Yes." Lips tightened, she glared at Kaidan, furtively poking him in the back of the thigh.

"Ohhh, right, of course." He smiled sheepishly. "We'll see you guys later?"

"Yeah, we'll catch up, don't worry."

Garrus snickered as Kaidan and Miranda slunk away. "Kaidan's a smart guy, but he sure does miss cues sometimes."

"Consequence of being aloof, I suppose. It's a good thing he's got her. I'm sure she schools him good."

Eyeing Shepard up and down, Garrus clucked and flicked his mandibles. "I forgot how…prim you look in Alliance formal wear. I'm not used to it. Still, not a bad look, Shepard."

"This?" She scoffed. "Dress blues make me look like my gran'da on Veteran's Day, but you know, more female. Look at you though. I don't think I've ever seen this uniform." She tried not to gawk, but there was only so much she could do when he looked so dapper.

"This? It's just a civilian suit. Not a lot of call for dress uniform on Palaven these days. Not even sure where mine is. Or if I still have it." Garrus ran his fingers along the lock of hair hanging by her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. "How have you been feeling? This must all be a bit…strange."

"Yeah, it's really weird to have a romantic reunion at a memorial for your dead friend."

He drew a deep breath and paused. "No…I mean with Vega. You were like a mentor to him."

"Oh, yes, sorry." Shepard shrank, embarrassed at her curious thought process. "It is strange. No, you know what? It blows. Total horseshit. He was so proud of himself—how he'd finally found his stride as a leader. He felt good about his life, and now he's gone. And I miss him. I miss him, G." She shut her eyes tight. "He was like a brother to me. A big, muscly, dumb brother."

"A worthy companion."

"Now who's going to ask me awkward questions about my sex life, huh? Who?" She sniffed and swiped at her eyes.

"No one to trade terribly exaggerated stories with. No more oneupmanship."

"No one to crash my shuttles and smash up consoles."

"No one to kick my ass at poker."

The sun illuminated Shepard's drawn cheeks as she looked up with a rueful smile. Garrus enclosed her hands in his and pressed, bringing his forehead to hers.

"I missed you, Circe."

"I missed you too, Garrus."

"I'm sorry about James."

"Me too."

Wrapping her arms around his waist, she squeezed and rested her cheek on his chest. Tears dripped down the front of his suit, staining the faint sheen of its fine fabric. He squeezed back.

She let go. "Shall we?"

"Let's."

Chapter Text

PART II
Chapter 10: Ground Cover

1 year, 9 mo. after the end of the Reaper War
Vancouver, British Columbia, Earth

The strident clatter of plates and drinkware whitewashed the dead air. Miranda, pursing her lips, sat back in her chair, legs crossed, and arms folded tight against her chest. She gave a curt smile to the server who had just walked into the room.

The young man smiled back. "Hi there ma'am. My name is Issac and I'll be your server today. Anything I can start you off with?

Louring, Miranda leaned forward. "Ma'am?"

"Actually, can you give us a few minutes? We're just waiting for the rest of our party." Kaidan had managed to cut her off at the pass. She was angry enough; calling her 'ma'am' was only going to ruin the poor server's day.

"Sure, no problem! I'll come back a little later." The server smiled again before attending another table.

Kaidan reached out and placed his hand atop hers. "I know you're upset, but there's no need to take it out on the kid."

Miranda drew her hands away and set them in her lap. "I wasn't going to. I'm not that petty."

"Come on, you think I can't tell what you're thinking?"

"Then what am I thinking right now, hmm?"

He scoffed a laugh. "I'm biotic, not psychic. Besides, you know what I mean."

"Then what do you suppose the problem is?"

"You're still upset with me for tweaking the Terra Nova report."

"Tweaking? Bollocks! You downright lied. Yes, I'm angry. "

"I—I was trying to protect you. They would have fired you—blacklisted you, if I reported the truth. I tried to tell you before, but you just shut me down."

At the other side of the room, the server was chatting with a handsome couple who were holding hands across the table. Miranda watched them for a moment, then cast her gaze upon her empty glass.

"You think I don't know that?" Her set eyes flicked up. "I'm a grown woman, Kaidan, I can look after myself. I take full responsibility for my actions. I don't need you to cushion my fall or play white knight. Besides, this isn't like you."

Her words tamped down the fire rising in Kaidan's heart. For all his concerns, he hadn't considered that she might interpret his actions as patronizing. "You're absolutely right, and I respect that. But this is my career on the line too."

"Is…is that what this is about then?"

Crap. Tactical error.

"You put your career on the line the moment we slept together," she said flatly.

"That… that's different."

"If that's your motivation, I have some terrible news for you: your career will be dead in the water if the higher-ups catch wind of your tweaking."

"Miranda…"

"Or did you believe I was only upset for myself?" Her set eyes softened. "Please, I'm not that selfish."

Kaidan slumped in his chair, an old habit he'd divested himself of when he joined Jump Zero. He idly pressed the tines of his unused fork with a finger, letting it rock and then fall to the table with a tinny clunk. "This is all because Köhler requested we bring Montrose in alive."

"That's no bloody surprise. The Prime Minister's party is in danger ahead of the next election—she would love nothing more than an escaped scumbag to parade about Europe as a trophy." Elbow on the table and chin in hand, Miranda sneered as she twisted her empty glass. "And I'm sure Mikhailovich rolled right over like the obedient lapdog he is."

"Does it matter? He's my CO. I don't get a choice."

"I'm sure he would have found some way to wiggle out of it. He's rather the expert at that. Blaming others and what not."

Kaidan repositioned his fork, which had gone askew. "You're a smart woman, Miranda. You must understand why I feel the way I do."

"Yes. I do. But I don't regret what I did. I wasn't going to stand by and let that pig abuse a helpless girl like that. The way she looked at me when I came into the room…" Her voice had gained a sharp edge—delicate and cutting. She tilted her head down, and her hair fell around her face. "You didn't see the things I saw. You don't get to—"

She clamped her mouth shut. A band of scarlet had surfaced across her cheeks and she was clenching her teeth. Either something had gone very wrong or there was something she wasn't telling him; the only time he'd seen her lose composure like this was when she'd talked about her father.

"It isn't like you to jeopardize a mission—to endanger others—without good cause. Is this really about Montrose? Or is there something else?"

"What are you implying…" She ran her fingers through the swoop of hair above her forehead, setting it back into place. "You think it's my fault James is dead?"

"No, I'm sorry. Look, I don't meant to pry, I'm only concerned—"

Her eyes followed something behind him. Kaidan was puzzled for a moment, until he heard her cry out,"Steve, you're here! Please, have a seat."

Steve pulled out the chair next to Kaidan and sat.

"Hey. Hope you two weren't waiting long."

"Oh, no, we haven't been here long," said Kaidan, his mouth still agape. "What, fifteen minutes, tops?" He glanced at Miranda, who gave a slight shrug.

"Sorry if I interrupted anything," Steve said as his gaze shifted between them.

"Nothing terribly important," said Miranda.

Her wide, close lipped smile was genuine enough. Kaidan followed suit and held his hands up as if surrendering.

"I got caught up in speaking to Vega's uncle," said Steve. "He's really grateful for everything. Really touched. Nice man."

"It's a shame he was away for so long, he always spoke so highly of his uncle," said Kaidan. "When's the commendation ceremony?"

"A few weeks from now. They want to be sure the Prime Minister is there. It's going to be a pretty small affair, but I'm sure they'll be sending you an invitation too."

"I'll be there," said Kaidan.

The server, who had seen Steve sit down at the table, rushed over to greet him. "Hello again. Still waiting on more people here?"

"We are," replied Kaidan.

"Can I start you off with something, sir? A drink, maybe?" the server asked Steve.

"Umm, sure, why not." Steve drummed his fingers on the table as he browsed the menu display. "Let's have a pitcher of pale ale to start."

"Sure thing. Anything else?"

"I have a feeling Shepard and Garrus are gonna be a while. What do you say we grab some appetizers while we're waiting?" asked Kaidan.

Miranda let out a sigh of relief. "Oh thank god, I'm starving."

Garrus' mandibles hung alongside his gaping mouth as he peered up at the sprawling hospital complex, its silver capped, pointed towers staggered across the skyline like knives stood on end. The last time he was in Vancouver, the humans had just begun to accelerate their reconstruction plans. At least half of the city had been in need of total demolition, while new development had advanced in the flattened city center. Now, there was enough infrastructure to support critical services, and a plethora of shops and restaurants had cropped up in between; though, tragically, Garrus noted, still charging prices well above his paltry pay-grade.

Shepard pointed to one of the hospital towers. "They just opened that last wing a couple of weeks ago, the genetics department."

"I can't believe they've got genetics operational. We've barely completed our ICU in Cipritine. And that's the capital. Imagine the rest of the planet."

It was a leisurely walk from HQ to the brewpub. They'd taken the long way—a circuitous route that went from Coal Harbour, around the city center, down through Yaletown, past the new hospital, and up toward English Bay. Shepard hummed to herself as Garrus gawked breathlessly, marveling at all the progress the humans had made since he'd left. It was a far cry from what they had accomplished on Palaven.

"To think they've done this in just two years. If turians—" He looked down to speak with Shepard, but there was only air.

Garrus glanced over his shoulder. Shepard was stopped at the edge of the sidewalk, stooping down on one knee. She idly ran her fingers over a few sprigs of green that had shot up between a construction barrier and the concrete, in a thin strip of dirt no wider than his talon.

"Kinnikinnick," she said as he approached. "I've seen this near the Alenko property. It likes to grow between rocks, in sandy soil. Can't believe it's growing in the city. Amazing…" A soft smile warmed her face.

Garrus had never had the same appreciation for the natural world that Shepard did. He always preferred the brash song of the city—the lights and the people and the deluge of sounds, the beating heart of a society, every measure as fulsome as the last. But it was Mindoir that made Shepard who she was—observant, curious, and quick to learn. They were qualities he admired about her; they made her adaptable.

Shepard stood up and dusted her hands off. "Onward?"

"You humans, you're a resilient bunch." He smiled as he reached for her, then shortened his stride to let her catch up. "Don't get me wrong, turians are tough as teeth. We think like a collective. But we don't have the same knack for swift adaptation. That quality feels very…human."

"Some might call it non-committal. Or lacking boundaries."

"Maybe. But it's a good trait to have these days. If only I could package some of that and bring it home."

Shepard squeezed his hand and smirked. "Thinking of going home already, huh? How long do you have? A couple of days?"

"Mmmm, a little longer than that." Garrus strained to keep his tone unaffected.

"At least that's a personal win, right?"

"It is." She had no idea of the truth behind her words.. It wasn't the win he'd been desperate for, but it was the one he needed.

After a few more blocks, Shepard and Garrus came to the front of the brewpub.

"This is it," said Shepard, stopping at the heavy, metal door. She let out a long breath. "I hate that it took something like this…but I'm happy you're here. Even if it isn't for long."

Garrus rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. "Try not to think about it too much. Let's just make use of the time we have, hmm?" The door slid open and he stepped aside to let her through.

The atmosphere changed from day to night as they crossed into the foyer. Cool and dimly lit, the vibe of the place was decidedly moody, its dark, perforated panels and faux wood floors evocative of a private wine club. The cultural whiplash made Garrus' head swirl. He sniffed at the air. It smelled warmly familiar—earthy and nutty, like the thick slices of toast Shepard ate for breakfast aboard the Normandy. His mandibles fluttered at the memory, and he smiled at the back of her head as it swiveled to search the room.

While her head was craned toward the bar, he peered around the corner into one of the large side rooms. Kaidan, Miranda, and Steve were seated at a long table, speaking with a server. The amber tube lights above drew diffuse lines over half-eaten plates of food, along with two pitchers of beer, one full and one empty. Miranda, who was poking at a piece of shrimp with her fork, made a face and set her fork down. Garrus waved to get her attention. But before he could cross the threshold, Shepard snatched his arm and dragged him toward the bar.

"Come on, there they are!"

"Who?"

Uniform after uniform filled the seats of the U-shaped counter of the taproom. Judging by the soldiers' body language—and their noise levels—the group had started drinking well before they arrived. Drunk humans and drunk turians weren't so different, after all.

Shepard called out to them from the threshold. With its high, vaulted ceiling, the cavernous room radiated sound: ambient music throbbing, imbricated voices rising and falling, the bark of the bartender, the quick snap of taps opening and closing, dirty glasses clinking in the rush of the dishwasher. When none of the soldiers turned around, Shepard stepped up to a man seated near the apex of the bend and tapped him on the shoulder. The man spun around. His face lit up at the sight of her, and he set down his beer to give her a proper salute.

Garrus watched Shepard's wan face brighten as she saluted back.

"Commander Shepard, you received our invitation!" The man bellowed. "How have you been?"

"I've been better. You?" She was practically shouting.

"Same. The last week has been…a shock, to say the least."

"I'm sorry, I can only imagine. When I heard the news, I almost didn't believe it myself."

The man set his hands on his hips and raised his eyebrows. "You know, I was astonished you didn't speak today."

"They asked me to, but it didn't feel right to say yes. It would've been a distraction. And the last time I spoke on stage it didn't turn out too well." Shepard shrugged.

"Ah, yes. A wise choice then," the soldier said, stroking the side of his beard. "Well, you're looking rather well today regardless." He flashed a smile, and his jewel-gray eyes crinkled at the corners.

Garrus had worked alongside humans long enough to recognize this man would be considered attractive by their standards. Shepard was smiling back at the poised soldier, what with his head of dark, silken hair and pretentiously trimmed beard.

Though he'd grown to appreciate the appeal of head hair, Garrus didn't see what the fuss was about when it came to hair on the face. Joker had had lots of hair on his face, but at least he had the good sense to keep his head hair under control with a hat. But flaunting a full head of hair and hair on the face? That was lavish and off-putting.

They seem awfully friendly. Who is this guy? Garrus cleared his throat.

"Oh, where are my manners? Palmer, this is General Garrus Vakarian of the Turian Hierarchy. Garrus—Lieutenant Griffin Palmer, one of James' men."

Ah, of course. Garrus chided himself for having immature thoughts at such a serious time. This is why they were here, wasn't it?

"I'm sorry for your loss, Lieutenant." He shook Palmer's hand. His grip was stronger than he had expected. "I served with Vega aboard the Normandy during the Reaper War. The Alliance has lost one hell of a soldier."

"Thank you, sir." Lieutenant Palmer furrowed his brow. "Wait…General Vakarian? You must be Scars then, yeah?"

"Scars?" There was a name he hadn't heard in a long time. "Heh, I guess James must have mentioned me then."

"He only said you were the best bloody sniper he'd ever worked with." Palmer raised his arm in the air and waved at another soldier at the end of the bar. "Hey, de Luca, get over here!"

De Luca pushed back from his stool and sidled up to the trio at the corner, his sleepy eyes blinking slowly.

"This is General Garrus Vakarian." Palmer gestured to Garrus. "Lieutenant de Luca is our unit's designated marksman."

"Wow…General Vakarian—it's an honor to meet you sir." De Luca gripped Garrus' hand and shook it enthusiastically.

"I'd say you're making me blush, but even Shepard hasn't succeeded in that."

"Shepard? Commander Shepard!" A well-muscled woman with brilliant red hair yelled from the other side of the bar. Her stool squealed as she pushed back from the counter and flounced to their side, recklessly swinging an empty glass like a little girl with a basket. She saluted with her free hand.

"Chief Fitzpatrick, nice to see you again. I wish our reunion was under better circumstances." Shepard saluted back.

"You're here! Are you—are you—are…" Fitzpatrick was obviously fighting off a terrible case of the hiccups. "Are you staying for a while? Please say yes!"

"You'll have to excuse her, Commander. Despite her rugged appearance, she's a bit of a lightweight when it comes to alcohol." Palmer gave Fitzpatrick a light nudge with his elbow.

"I am—am not." Fitzpatrick's face, already ruddy, wrinkled in irritation.

"I seem to remember as much," Shepard said with a wry smile. "Where's Corporal Kamau? Not sitting in a corner somewhere I hope?"

Palmer shook his head. "I'm afraid she's still in hospital. Suffered from a pulmonary embolism while we were in the field, went into shock. Thankfully she's on the mend."

"Damn, I'm sorry to hear that. Please tell her she was missed today."

"I know she would be here if she could. I'll let her know you asked after her."

"Commander, come sit with us! You too, Scars!" Fitzpatrick signaled with her arms, nearly losing her grip on her glass.

Palmer stifled a laugh. "General Vakarian."

Fitzpatrick snorted and performed a sloppy bow in apology. "Right, yes, sorry. Not feeling myself today."

"None of us are," said de Luca, who was waiting at the bar for his next drink. "Haven't felt like myself in at least two weeks." He stared into the distance toward the gleaming, copper tanks that dominated the far wall.

"Hey all."

Shepard jumped as a head popped up between her and Garrus. "Crap, Steve! I nearly clocked you in the face."

"What do you say we all sit together? We've got that big table over there, plenty of room. We can push another table over if we have to." Steve pointed toward the side room. "There's more food on the way. And I hear they've got a decent dextro menu too, Garrus."

"Anything is going to be better than Hierarchy rations." Garrus might have been feeling out of place, but he wasn't going to turn down decent food at any turn, even if it cost him a month's pay.

The brewpub had grown quiet in the late hours of the night. All the half-eaten dishes, and the many added along the way, were now scraped clean, only daubs of sauces left on their surfaces. Streaks of foam lined the inside of empty pitchers, which had been quarantined to one side of the table like branded outcasts. Looking on from afar, the group's now long-suffering server, Issac, sighed. His haggard face had grown longer as the party continued to drink and bluster near closing time. He had given up on keeping up with their mess.

Garrus swallowed the last of his dextro-beer and wagged his glass at Shepard. "I'm only telling you this now because I was embarrassed back then...but Vega was the one who taught me how to tango."

Shepard sputtered and brought her hand under chin, barely catching the beer dribbling from her mouth.

"I knew there was something fishy going on!" she yelled as she smeared her hand across her napkin. "I went down to the armory and you guys were acting sooooo weird. Turian hand-to-hand combat my ass. There was music on. Like, sexy music. I remember thinking it looked kind of…intimate." Shepard thrust her lips out and made loud kissing noises at Garrus' face.

Steve slapped his hand on the table and chortled. "You—you should've seen it. A digitigrade, all legs and spurs. And…James. You know, built like—like a damn ship hull."

"You knew about this, Steve?"

"Oh, it was partly my suggestion. That's why I offered to go shopping with you. I had to keep you occupied while they practiced. We even enlisted EDI's help."

"No!"

Garrus picked up his glass, then put it down again as he realized it was empty. "I was skeptical at first, but I have to say, Vega was a pretty good teacher. And a hell of a dancer. You wouldn't know it though."

"That's very impressive, General. Can't say I've ever seen a turian do the tango," said Palmer.

Fitzpatrick leaned forward with excited eyes. "Will you show us?"

"No."

"Boo!" Fitzpatrick leaned back in her seat again and gulped her beer.

"James was full of surprises. Kicked everyone's ass at poker. Pretty decent cook too," said Steve.

"I don't know, we never ate much of his cooking. I don't think he had time," said de Luca. He was sitting upright in his chair with his eyes closed and his arms crossed. "Although, he did make some mean eggs on occasion."

Shepard laughed, then put on a faux low voice. "Eggs? Eggs? Anyone want eggs? I'm making some eggs."

"Oh, I swore off eggs for a good six months because of him. Couldn't take the smell anymore," added Kaidan.

Miranda lifted her head up from the table, where she had been resting it in her folded arms. "He made me the best Bloody Mary once—the morning after your party, Shepard. I still dream about that Bloody Mary," she said wistfully.

Kaidan raised an eyebrow at her. "I can't believe you drank more after that night we had."

"Benefits of powerful biotics, I suppose."

"Not so powerful now…" Kaidan said as Miranda draped herself back over the table.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing."

Fitzpatrick whipped her hair back and tied it into a loose bun. "Speaking of drinking—you and the Commander ditched us in Tokyo!"

"Ditched you? You all bailed on us!" Snatching the last piece of bread, Shepard dragged it across one of the sauce laden plates. "You know, I almost didn't come along that night. I was so exhausted from the tour, and I didn't want to be hung over the next morning." She bit into the bread and took a moment to chew. "But something inside me just screamed: 'Go. You might not get another chance to hang out with Vega for a while.' I had no idea that a 'while' meant forever…"

A powerful silence hung in the air as everyone pressed their lips together, or furrowed their brows, and not an eye was dry at that moment. Shepard took another bite and looked down at her hands.

Palmer's shaky voice broke the spell. "So, did you wake up hung over the next morning? Because as I recall, the rest of us went back to base while you and the Commander left to do more cavorting."

Shepard scoffed. "No comment."

Garrus snapped his head toward her and shook it."Shepard, Shepard, Shepard…tsk tsk."

"I have absolutely zero regrets. Best memories I could ask for."

"So what did you two talk about? The best way to take down a varren with your bare hands?" asked Steve facetiously.

"Actually, we talked about Anderson. How much he was like a father figure to us both. And being an N7. Some other stuff. I think he even mentioned you at one point," she said to Garrus, "though my memory is fuzzy there."

Garrus put his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. "Spirits, he saved my ass so many times. Remember when I was nearly devoured by that banshee in London? That thing was relentless. Vega threw himself in front of it and just gave it hell with a grenade." He chuckled. It was a bittersweet memory now. "Absolutely reckless. But he did it. Toughest son of a bitch. I always figured he'd have more battles ahead…" His subvocals hummed low. "But at least he died fighting. There are worse ways to die." The image of his mother, prone and seizing on his floor, flashed through his mind.

“Everything just happened so quickly. I never imagined the Commander wouldn’t make it out,” said Palmer.

Shepard’s lower lip quivered, and she bit down.

“I—I shouldn’t have left him…” croaked de Luca. His eyes were still closed as tears streaked down his cheeks, and he rubbed them away with the wrist of his sleeve.

Fitzpatrick put a warm hand on his back.  “Oh hon, don’t cry, this isn’t your fault.” 

“Having those kinds of thoughts…they’ll just wreck you, son." Kaidan’s eyes, darker than usual, fell on Shepard. "And they won’t bring him back.”

“He wouldn’t want you to feel that way, trust me. He was your commanding officer— he knew what he was doing when he gave the order.” Shepard looked back at Kaidan with a flattened frown.

Miranda, who had been observing their exchange from the comfort of the table top, sat up. "If you'll excuse me, I must avail myself of the ladies…"As she stood up, her legs gave out and she wobbled, and she clung to the back of her chair for support.

"Whoa there! Are you ok?" Kaidan reached out to offer a steady arm.

She swatted his arm away. "I'm fine." Straightening herself out, she stumbled toward the washroom.

"Just leave her be, Kaidan. She'll be fine later—she just needs a few glasses of water and some sleep," said Shepard.

The server poked his head into the room. "I'm sorry to say, but it's five past closing, folks. I'm gonna need you to wrap it up here. You can pay at the counter over there if you like." He pointed to the register at the bar.

Steve nodded. "Thank you, Issac. You've been very gracious today. We appreciate it."

"One last toast?" asked Shepard.

"But we're out of beer, Commander," said Fitzpatrick.

Garrus poured a dram of water into his empty glass, then passed the pitcher along for everyone else to do the same. "One thing I've learned while working with you humans is that a proper toast requires something in the glass. Water will do, right?"

"NO!" barked Shepard and Kaidan at the same time.

"What? Why not?"

"It's bad luck! It means someone will be doomed to drown."

Garrus flicked his mandibles. "That makes no sense, Shepard. Humans and their ridiculous superstitions…"

At that moment, Issac stepped back into the room with a pitcher of beer and full glass for Garrus, then set them down on the table. "On the house. My condolences."

Shepard gave a tired, grateful smile. "Thank you."

Steve pushed back from the table and stood. "Here's to James—our friend, our comrade, and our Commander." He held his glass aloft, and the rest of the group did the same.

"May he rest in peace surrounded by beautiful asari maidens and endless cervezas," added Shepard.

"Here here!"

"To James!"

"To James!"

Chapter Text

PART II
Chapter 11: Xylem

1 year, 9 mo. after the end of the Reaper War
Okanagan Valley, British Columbia, Earth

The shadows of the pines loomed long over the roof. Still breathless and jittery, Shepard rolled over, pin pricks of sun from the skylight above painting her naked body. She shoved the rumpled sheets down with her feet to get some cool air over her tingling, sweat-soaked skin. A long sigh blew through her lips, and her cheeks were flushed with satisfaction.

Garrus, too, was sobering up from the highs of arousal. Seven months had been too long to go without the comfort of Shepard’s tender warmth beneath him. The moment the door of the skycar had hissed shut, they’d stumbled to the front door of the house, hands roaming over each other’s bodies, their eager breaths pressing past each other before meeting in the middle. Her top was already off by the time they fell through the threshold, his trousers unfastened and hanging open at the waist. Without a word, he swept her up into his arms and carried her off. His eyes locked with hers as she panted his name exactly once. 

To say they had missed each other was a severe understatement.

Spent but happy, Garrus lay on his side. Through half-closed eyes, he took in Shepard’s profile, the habit a vestige of their time aboard the Normandy, when she, like most good soldiers, had been all too practiced in the art of impassiveness. During mission downtimes or aboard the shuttle, he would often study her face for signals—the atomic changes in the musculature of her face. An observant soldier should be able to read the expressions of those around him; a quick assessment could spare you an aggressive encounter, or worse, a shot through the head from an impulsive adversary.

Eventually, he came to decipher the meaning of her tics, sometimes even catching them through his scope from afar. The slight downturn of her mouth, the bulge at the top of her jaw, her slightly flattened brow: that meant she was pissed off but didn’t want to tell you. But something felt different about her face now, and he couldn’t put his finger on what.

Shepard turned her cheek against the pillow and a hazy smile appeared. Hers eyelids fluttered closed. He squeezed her hand, and the corners of her mouth remained upturned as she fell into a light sleep. Then, the answer came: she was relaxed. The muscles around her eyes weren’t tense with worry, and the skin across her forehead was smooth and glowing. Her cheeks were plump with rest.

Garrus didn’t believe in miracles, but this was a miracle if there ever was one.

Maybe the orchard really was good for her. The highs and lows of military life swung wildly at best; at worst, service was the equivalent of treading wind-swept waters. If Shepard was finding some measure of peace at the Alenkos’, then he was all for it, even if it meant he could not see her often.

He continued to watch as she slept. A small bead of drool was collecting at the side of her unfastened mouth, the same as the many times he’d found her asleep in the lounge, datapad slipping from hand, bled dry by whatever mission they’d just completed and stuck with the inevitable paperwork that followed.

Garrus reached out and ran his thumb below the corner of her mouth. She started with a muffled gasp, her eyes shooting open.

“Hey, gorgeous. Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you. You had some, uh, drool coming out of your mouth there.”

She yawned. “Ugh, I could sleep for the rest of the day. You took it right out of me.”

“I did, huh?” Garrus opened his mouth in some semblance of a smirk. “Same.”

A rumble erupted rudely from Shepard’s stomach, then fizzled into a tiny whine.  “Hey, are you hungry?”

“Mmm, I could eat.”

“Me too, I’m starving. I’ll fix something up?” She turned her face toward the skylight and watched the shadows sway across the glass.

Garrus fixated on Shepard’s face as flecks of light leapt across the bed, his memory misaligned with what he was observing now. There was something unusual about her appearance; he may have been too caught up in the moment to notice before, but with his attention redirected the subtle oddity was plain as day.

“Shepard…have you seen a doctor lately?” he asked with some hesitation.

“What? Why?”

“Your skin. You’ve got a lot more of those…freckles now. They’re all over. And they’re darker.” He ran his finger along her upper cheek, then along the delicate skin of her décolletage. “There’s a strange discoloration, too. It seems to follow the same shape as your under clothing. Are you feeling alright?”

“Huh? Of course I am.” Shepard stared back, confused. Then she said through a laugh, “That’s just a tan, G.”

“A tan?”

“Yeah. You know how humans have different skin tones, right? Because of pigmentation? Well, the sun can cause changes in that. Some more than others.” She extended her arm to show him before holding it up to her bikni area for contrast. “This is from me swimming in the lake.”

“Wait, how did I not know this before?”

“We were in space. Not a lot of exposure to natural sunlight there. Most turians wouldn’t understand it intuitively—your skin reflects the sun’s ray. Ours absorbs it. It’s not something you’d know unless you were close with a human.”

“Fascinating.” Garrus drew his talon along the bottom of Shepard’s hip and down toward her thigh. “Does it hurt?”

“Not at all.”

“A tan, hmm?” Ogling the lines drawn along her breasts, his mind began to wander. “I like it. It shows me where all your fun bits are.” Garrus’ voice rumbled, almost low enough to be a purr. This was, unequivocally, a bonus to Shepard living on Earth.

She beamed and rolled onto her side to face him. “Wanna have more fun with them later?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Shepard shuffled into the common room as she wrapped a thin robe around herself, tying it with a sloppy knot around her waist. She flopped into a worn, leather chair and grunted.

Garrus followed, wearing only a pair of loose lounge pants. “Sitting down already? Didn’t you just get up?” He raised his browplates. “I thought you were hungry.”

“You’re not wrong,” she said through a yawn.“It’s your fault I’m so tired.” Even at the height of her biotic power, she had never felt such a complete and utter feeling of pleasant depletion.

Garrus approached the window that divided the built-in shelves, stretching his neck, and admired the picturesque view of the courtyard and the hills and trees beyond. Shepard, in turn, took in the back of his tall figure—the pleasing shape of his lean outline, his broad shoulders, the curve of his protective carapace, and the plates of his tapered waist. He’d left the slits at the back of his pants open at the bottom, and the round zipper pulls dangled below his spurs like jewels. She liked this view.

The first time she had seen him bare was a shock. Long before they were involved, she’d stood next to him in the armory of the SR-1 as he removed a portion of his inner suit to inspect it for damage. She was surprised at how robust he appeared underneath; his thick skin and chitinous plates could withstand much more handling than the soft, vulnerable flesh of a human. It wasn’t long, however, before she discovered the places where he was sensitive. The small bumps behind his jaw and along the upper part of his neck were packed with sensory nerves. The skin beneath his frills, where they met his head, and the wider clefts between his plates offered other secret places for her fingers to wander.

Shepard gave her head a quick shake. Lost in her wanton daydream, she had managed to work herself into a knot. Tired, hungry, and aroused—it was an odd combination of states with competing ends. Untangling the strings would need to begin with food.

“Shit!” Shepard bolted up from the chair and scrambled to the door.

“What?” Garrus yelled after her.

“We forgot the food in the skycar!”

Hastily slipping her feet into a pair of runners, Shepard let her heels flatten the backs of her shoes, then dragged herself to the clearing where they had parked. She rolled her eyes, amused, as the door opened to reveal the bags slouched on the floor of the skycar. Clearly, they hadn’t thought about much upon their arrival aside from one thing. When she came back, she kicked her shoes off and flung the bags to the kitchen counter, letting the contents spill out from the tops as they tumbled sideways. Garrus, who was still admiring the view, looked over his shoulder and shook his head.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” she huffed out, joining him at the window.

The wind coursed through the landscape, matting down the tussocks of pinegrass and bluebunch into a knurled quilt. Inside, the house was completely silent.

“Tell Kaidan we’re buying this place,” Garrus said sharply.

Shepard snorted. “I don’t think Katie would be too happy about that.” Staring out past the short fence, she caught sight of something flying into the courtyard. She smiled and pressed her nose to the window. “Look, he's back!”

“Who is?"

She tapped her finger on the glass, pointing to a small, dark creature with jaunty feathers topping its head. It flew down from the branch it was perched on and hopped along the ground just beyond the penstemon shrub.

"That's a bird, right?" asked Garrus.

"Yep. A Steller's jay, more specifically. He's come to visit me before."

“How do you know that’s the same one?”

“I just do.” Shepard looked at Garrus, then back at the bird, and stifled a giggle.

“What’s so funny?”

“The first time I saw him, he reminded me of you.”

“That thing?” He craned his head forward.

“I mean, look at him. He’s got sharp claws, and long, dark fringe on top of his head, and those shiny blue feathers all along his body. They’re the same color as that armor you refused to get rid of. You know, the mangled one, from our Cerberus days.”

“Hey, that was my lucky suit. I nearly died wearing that suit. I kept it as a reminder of how lucky I am to be alive.”

“Not that you had the help of anyone special or anything…” she said, casting a sideways glance.

“Like I said, my lucky suit.” He drew close and put his hands around her waist, guiding her towards him with a gentle tug. “Though, I thought you liked me better out of it.”

Shepard pressed her hands to his chest and gazed up with raised eyebrows. “Oh darling, your corny lines…I never thought I’d miss them so much.”

Garrus chuckled. She kissed him deeply, and a sigh hummed through her throat. When she pulled away, the jay took off, shrinking past the pines and towards the road. “Bye…” she said quietly.

You made me smile, little bird, but you made me cry too, she nearly said aloud. She slapped her hands against Garrus’ chest. “Ok, I’m going to be hangry if I don’t eat something.”

She slunk away, and he playfully snatched at her robe’s belt, but she managed to evade him by scooting around the leather chair. “Nope. You stay on that side,” she said, and pointed to the other side of the island as she entered the kitchen. “You ok with some finger foods? I’ve got some dextro friendly dipping sauce or cheese to go with the other stuff we brought.”

“Yeah, anything’s fine. I’m easy. Sure you don’t want some help?”

“Nope. Oh, I almost forgot! Give me a sec.” Reaching high into a cupboard, Shepard pulled out a faceted glass and a slim, unlabeled bottle. The stopper made a round pop as she yanked it out. She filled the glass a quarter full and slid it across the kitchen island.

“Here.”

“What’s this?” Garrus picked up the glass and held it up to his eyes.

“Quarian whiskey, triple filtered. It’s a test batch, made aboard the Flotilla’s new liveship. Tali says they’re experimenting with new revenue streams—‘future proofing’.”

He wafted the glass under his nose, then took a careful sip.

“She brought it last time she was here, figured you’d enjoy some. It’s not available to the public—at least not until they can produce at a larger scale.” Shepard rifled through the bags and pulled out the perishables first. “Presumably, she means Rannoch.”

“Spirits! What’s in this stuff?” Garrus took another sip, this time more eagerly. “Oh…oh that’s good.” He swallowed, and said through a closed throat, “Speaking of Tali…how is she? We haven’t spoken in while.”

“She’s good,” said Shepard as she pulled out a cutting board. “Though, I think she’s feeling a bit bogged down by the her title. It was an emergency promotion, so it’s not like she’s commanding a fleet. They’ve got her in charge of special projects, at least. Says she has something new she’s working on. It’s pretty hush-hush.”

“Word from the Primarch is the quarians will be seeking a seat on the new Council.”

“That’s going to be a tough sell.” She gathered the fresh produce and set it by the sink for washing, making sure to keep the levo items separate from the dextro.

“The krogans might stand a chance—turian backing not withstanding. But I wager the Salarian Union will have a collective tantrum,” Garrus said into his glass.

He took a tour around the perimeter of the room, stopping at the brick wall where Kaidan’s family photos were hung, then at the west facing window at the front of the house. Taking another sip of whiskey, he surveyed the books lining the shelves along the south wall. “What are all these?”

“Oh, those? Those books are ancient. The ones on the end there were my mom’s. My grandad gave them to her before he passed away.” Shepard grabbed a cucumber from the counter and rinsed it, then set it down on the cutting board. “Gran’da hated reading on datapads, always said they hurt his eyes. He liked the feel of paper better, anyway. I managed to save a few when I left Mindoir.”  Her lips tightened. She pulled a knife from the drawer and gripped it as she stared down at the cutting board. “They were the only possessions in my foot locker, aside from a pair of shoes and a toothbrush. The rest belong to the Alenkos.”

“Mindoir. That’s the first time you’ve mentioned home since we were aboard the Normandy.”

She chose not to respond and proceeded to cut the cucumber into long sticks.

Garrus skulked along the length of the shelves as he ran a finger along the cloth spines. A black book with simple gold lettering stood out—its dented ends and peeled edges ragged in comparison to the pristine volumes at the other side. Tilting the book from the shelf, he read the title through his visor’s translator: “Classic Gods and Heroes”. He set his glass down on the side table and carefully thumbed through the pages. One of the chapter titles caught his attention.

“Circe?” his subvocals fluttered in curiosity. “That’s you.”

“Yeah….” she squeaked. Having such an unusual name had always embarrassed her a bit. Explaining it was even worse. “Circe was a goddess—well, minor goddess—from ancient Earth. It was said she had the power to turn men into beasts using potions and herbs.”

Garrus shot a look at her and raised his brow plate. “This isn’t going to turn me into that thing from earlier, is it?” He looked down at the amber liquid in his glass. “How do I know that bird wasn’t some other guy who pissed you off, hmm? What’s his name? Should I be jealous?”

Shepard snorted. “Ha-ha, funny.” She stopped chopping and let the knife hover above the board. “The name Circe means ‘bird’ or ‘hawk’, depending on how you translate it. So, we could be birds of a feather. Just say the word.” Pointing the knife in the air, she winked, and a mischievous twinkle flashed at the corner of her eye.

“Birds of a what?”

“Nevermind,” she said, putting the knife down. She chuckled and shook her head. “Another weird Earth saying.”

“Ahh...”

Garrus took a seat on the velvet settee and continued to read the old stories while Shepard finished preparing a plate for each of them. Occasionally, he would take a sip of whiskey or mutter something to himself as he happened upon an interesting passage.

At one point, he shouted across the room, “Circe—can you believe the balls on these guys? They pretend to abandon a war, then hide some men inside a giant wooden horse and wait. All so they can lay siege to a citadel. Can you imagine being the people who looked up at this thing and said, ‘Yeah, I don’t see a problem here, let’s just roll it past the gates’? Idiots!”

She smirked and pushed the finished plates across the kitchen island.  “Come sit with me.”

Garrus put the book away and sidled up to the kitchen island. They sat side by side, Garrus slightly hunched on his stool, and Shepard sitting up tall in hers, the difference in their heights still comically incongruous.

“I don’t see how that’s much different than sending in black ops,” she said, dunking a carrot into her tzatziki.

He scoffed. “There’s a big difference between hiding inside a giant horse and using your wits and intelligence to gain entrance to some place.”

“Look, if we could have stormed the Illusive Man’s base by hiding inside a massive shipment of power cells,” she said through her wet, sloppy chewing, “I might have preferred that to crashing our shuttle into the docking station. A lot less loud and splashy.”

“Shepard, that sounds ridiculous.”

“I’m just teasing,” she said, knocking her knees into his. “In all seriousness, I don’t know how Miranda does it. Planning and executing a regular mission is difficult enough. Gathering intelligence the way she does? Currying favor and pulling strings? Without anyone catching on? Those are skills I’ve got less points in.”

A stick of jerky dangled from Garrus’ mouth like a limp tongue. “I’m more of an aim and shoot kind of guy, myself.”

“Yep.”

“Do you think she’s sobered up yet?”

“Miranda? I’m sure she has,” said Shepard. “I have to say, though, I was little concerned. It’s not like her to drink so much.”

“I gather she’s got some feelings about Terra Nova. And James. From what I could see, anyway.”

“I’m not privy to the happenings at the Alliance, but I know she and Kaidan had a disagreement about it. Not to be a gossip or anything.”

Teeth bared, Garrus ripped the jerky away from his face. “Mmm, there’s bound to be some tension when two people like that get together.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean is, Kaidan’s a very principled man. He’s got his lines that he doesn’t cross. Miranda…let’s say her lines are more mobile.”

“Ah, but if you cross them, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Exactly.”

The couple remained silent as they continued to eat. Shepard shoved an apple slice into her mouth, the sweet fruit crunching as her gaze went blank for a moment. And then, auspiciously, the corners of her lips crept up into playful simper.

“Hey, I have an idea,” she said, turning to Garrus. “Are you up for some fun, later?”

“What kind of fun?”

She’d piqued his curiosity. Perfect.

“You’ll see.”

Garrus leaned in and spoke into her ear. “I don’t usually like surprises, but from you…I have a feeling this is going to be good.”

Garrus’ finger throbbed as Shepard held it tight. Buoyant and eager, she was leading him down an alley of apple trees, so hastened that she was practically galloping. It wasn’t long into the night, but the waning summer sun was making its idle drift toward autumn, and Shepard was concerned it would be another seven to eight months before they had this chance again.

“Come on,” she urged.

“Where are we going?”

“Just follow me.”

“It’s too dark. I can’t see where the hell I’m going.” Garrus tripped on something small and hard, maybe a rock, and nearly tumbled into her. “Slow down, Shepard!”

“The moon’s out, there’s plenty of light. Your eyes are just getting old.”

“Need I remind you, you’re older than me.”

“Older, schmolder!” she said dismissively. “This way. Watch your step.”

They trekked along the the precipice and emerged from a thin stand of firs to reach the secluded beach. Garrus stopped at the treeline to appreciate the tranquil view. From here, the mountains were dark, jagged shapes against a cobalt dropcloth, and the lake their ward. Shepard continued to the edge of the water. Her puckish smile touched her eyes as she tugged her shoes off, then cast them away toward the trees.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“It looks like you’re taking your clothes off. All your clothes…” Garrus stared with his mandibles flapping. “You’re not going in like that, are you?”

“Watch me!”

Before stepping into the water, Shepard rummaged through her pants pocket and produced an elastic band. She bent over, throwing her hair forward, then combed her fingers through it to gather it into a rough ponytail. In the weak light, Garrus could make out the outer ring of her amp port; the connection at the base of her skull was covered with a standard soft plug, which had been in place for some time. He’d seen it so little since the end of the war, he’d almost forgotten it existed. The sight made him sad, and his shoulders fell as she finished tying the elastic around her ponytail.

She stood up straight again. The moon cast a blue pall over her naked body; the raised scars on her shoulders seemed to throb at the edges, and the thinnest lines, where Cerberus had grafted new skin to her existing tissue, shone like the fine threads of a spider’s web. She stalked to the black lake and disappeared into it with ease.

“Come on G, water’s fine!” Shepard’s smile was bold and bright as she looked over her shoulder, her body halfway into the water.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“What, not even a toe?”

“You know turians and water don’t mix.”

“Come on, Garrus, don’t be such a chicken!”

The water had now come up to the undersides of her breasts. She cupped both hands and submerged them beneath the surface. She slowly brought them over her chest, letting the water fall and follow the curves of each mound, then did it again as if to make a point.

“You’re a tease, Shepard!” he yelled after her.

She grinned and dipped further down into the water. She was a ruthless crocodile, and through the darkness, Garrus could only see the whites of her teeth and the reflection of the moon across her forehead. She waved. Then she swam farther out, past the shallows and the buoys that demarcated the swimming area, and out of her lover’s sight. He listened for any indication she had turned around.

“Shepard?” Garrus approached the lake’s edge and raised his chin as he strained to see what was happening.

There was a faint splash. She was gone, and the water was still; only strokes of moonlight graced the glassy surface. Any evidence of Circe Shepard had plunged into the obscured depths with her. He listened again, and he began to grow nervous as the silence stretched on. A full minute passed, then another, and another.

“Shepard?” he asked plaintively. “Shepard!”

His stomach churned—a rare feeling usually brought on by stones that had grown too smooth and useless in his gut. Garrus tore his boots off. He looked down at his feet as his talons gripped tight to the pebble-strewn beach. His breaths were short and nervous. As the water lapped over his toes, any hesitation he had washed away, and he trudged into the lake with clumsy steps, his thick soles pounding the rocky bottom. He continued until the water hit his spurs and wicked up the fabric of his pants.

“CIRCE!” he cried, the flange of his voice drawn high.

The last vowel had hardly left his throat when a sudden splash rose and fell further from shore. Shepard had finally emerged, gasping as she broke the surface near the closest buoy.

"Shepard!"

She wrapped an arm around the buoy and wiped her eyes free of water. She waved at Garrus, then swam back at a sluggish pace—not an easy glide like before, but a stilted, bobbing kind of swim, like a child might do. When she reached standing height, she stopped swimming.

Garrus waited patiently. He didn’t speak or walk toward her. He didn’t want to show her how afraid he had been, or how worried he’d felt when she didn’t come up for air right away. As she lurched back to shore, and he looked on with lingering trepidation, the sound of gravel scraping across the ground caught his ear.

A voice called out from above, “Hey, who’s down there? I’ll have you know this is private property!”

Surprised, he spun around to see a woman perched on the ridge—her small figure silhouetted against the sky, the darkness rendering her features unreadable. She wore a long coat that hung open, and she appeared to have a weapon hanging at her side. And steadfast by her heels, an imposing, four-legged animal cloaked in fur stood, silent. A wolf? At least that was Garrus’ guess based on his basic knowledge of Earth life.

“Sorry Ms. Ly! It’s just me, Circe.” Shepard croaked from the water. Her words were deep and clipped, like she was stifling a cough.

“And a companion, I see,” said Ms. Ly.

Unsure of what to do, Garrus stammered, “Just, uh, going for a night swim.”

“You?” Ms. Ly said, leaning in his direction.

“Well, Shepard is.”

“I can see that. Well, I was just locking up the gates and heard a lot of noise coming from the lake.”

“Apologies ma’am, we’ll try to keep it down,” said Garrus.

“Appreciate it. Sorry to bother you both.” She waved her weapon in the air. “Carry on. Come on, Charlie.”

After Ms. Ly had disappeared over the ridge, Shepard continued to make her way to dry land.

“Who was that?” asked Garrus.

“Rear Admiral Jillian Ly, retired,” she said as she trod over the rocks with caution. “The first female rear admiral in Alliance history,”

“She lives here?”

“Kind of. She owns the vineyard next door.”

Shepard, pale and bedraggled, shook as a long shiver ran through her. Her body was covered in tiny bumps, reminding Garrus of newborn turian skin: exposed and pliable, before their plates grew together. The sight must have triggered some latent instinct, as he could think of nothing else but getting her back inside.

“Spirits, Shepard, you’re freezing! Here.”

He got out of the water and fetched her shirt from the beach, shaking the dust off as he picked it up. He helped her put it on. She was still wet, but it had to be better than nothing.

“I should have thought to bring a towel. Maybe a bit too impulsive of me,” she said through chattering teeth.

“What were you doing under there?”

“Just swimming.” She grabbed her underwear and pants and shimmied into them.

“You’re telling me you were underwater all that time, just swimming?”

“Yeah,” she said matter-of-factly. “It got you into the water, didn’t it?”

Garrus looked down at his wet feet, which were now covered in a layer of coarse sand. He wiggled his toes and frowned. “I guess I just have to go back like this.” Picking up his boots, he gawked at Shepard as she pushed her heels down into her shoes.

“You ok?” He put his other arm around her shoulder and rubbed to generate some heat.

“Yeah, of course. I’m fine… see?” Strings of wet hair hanging in her face, Shepard turned to him and offered a bent smile.

It may have been a trick of the darkness or the moon’s light, but he could have sworn her lips were tinged blue.

The tap let out an arresting squeal as Shepard shut the water off. Lingering in the stall, she tilted her head back and sighed, letting the excess steam bathe her in its warmth. She felt much better now, grateful for a hot shower and a chance to collect herself. The impromptu skinny dip hadn’t played out as she imagined—much worse, in fact—but she doubted Garrus had known any better. She yanked a towel from the rack and stepped out of the stall.

Standing at the half fogged mirror, she leaned in to inspect her face, turning it from side to side. It was still colorless. She massaged her lips in circles to encourage the blood to flow through them; some of their healthy pink had returned, but they were still a touch blue.

“Shit.”

She slapped at her cheeks with both hands. There wasn’t any hiding it.

Towel wrapped tight around her body, she shut off the light and drifted down the dark hallway toward the bedroom. The bedroom was dark too, except for the small bedside sconce Garrus had kept on while reading documents. He might have been away from Palaven and away from work, but the needs of the Hierarchy didn’t stop just because he was away.

“Hey, you. Feeling better?” he asked. He was sat up in bed, back against the wood headboard and datapad in hand.

“Yeah, nice and warm.”

“It might be a good idea to wear some clothes to bed tonight.”

“I was thinking the same thing.” She had already opened the dresser drawer to find her most comfortable set of cotton pajamas. “I can always take them off again…if needed.”

She waggled her eyebrows, but Garrus, who had opened his omnitool, was staring at its display with a grave expression.

“Did something happen?”

“Mmm, just checking my calendar. I forgot I’m supposed to chat with my mom in the morning. Would you mind?”

“No, of course not. Take all the time you need.” She had already pulled her underwear on and was now slipping into her pajama top. “How is she, anyway? You haven’t mentioned her in a while.”

Garrus shut off his omnitool. “It’s more of the same, maybe a little worse. Solana’s terrified she’s going to take a turn for the worse while she’s gone. She’s been reluctant to leave Cipritine since the siege in New Aeris—she doesn’t want to be caught up in work if she has to rush home for an emergency.” He sighed, and set his datapad down on the bedside table. “I keep telling Sol that she needs to live her own life, but she won’t listen. We…kind of had it out when she came to visit the camp before. I think she’s still secretly upset that I’m away so much. She won’t say it—she knows my work is important—but I think that’s how she really feels.”

Shepard sat at the edge of the bed and touched her hand to his leg. “It can be hard to really know someone’s mind. I’d take her words at face value for now, at least until you find out more. She might not be ready to tell you yet.” Gazing at Garrus with soft eyes, she frowned. “You might be right, though. Speaking as a younger sibling, sometimes we don’t want to admit to our weaknesses. It’s hard growing up in someone else’s shadow. It’s even harder if that person is someone you look up to. They can feel larger than life, so you want to be like that too. Not small or weak.” She paused. “I know I felt that way about my brother.”

Garrus’ mandibles wavered slightly. “Your brother,” he said quietly. “You mentioned him before I left.”

“I did.” Shepard swallowed and lowered her gaze. Dr. Tokarczuk had tasked her to open up about her past to others. She said it was a way she could reconnect with herself. If she was going to do it, she would do it with the person she trusted most.

“Damian. That was my brother’s name.”

She did it, she had said it. She said his name.

“He was headstrong, just like my mom.”

“You mean like you?” Garrus sat more upright.

“No. I was a bit more reserved then.” Shepard came closer, folding one leg up on the bed. “Anyway, like I said, he was headstrong. He was always getting into trouble of some kind—at school, at home, in town. But he was likable—had plenty of friends. He was funny, and he was fun, and he was charming. Clever too. Smarter than me by miles.

With a half-smile, she snorted. “When he was in his third year of high school, there were these bullies who wouldn’t stop picking on this one kid in their class. The kid was small and quiet—an easy target. And Damian, he couldn’t abide by it anymore. It bothered him that the school did nothing to stop it. He wasn’t the violent type, so he avenged this kid with the tools at his disposal.”

“Tools? Are we talking weapons?” Garrus blurted out.

“What? God, no, Garrus. I just finished saying he wasn’t the violent type.”

“Sorry. Bad translation. My imagination went a little wild there.”

“Like I was saying, he used the tools at his disposal. Damian was part of the yearbook club, and he had access to all the images that had been taken that year. So the night before the yearbook gets distributed to the external network, he accesses the files and alters them. The yearbook goes out the next morning, no one having checked it since the afternoon before—because why would they? When the bullies, and everyone else, receives their copy, they’re horrified—or delighted—to find that all images of the bullies have been replaced with half-bully, half-ganton stand-ins. Without a stitch of clothing on.” Shepard popped her lips for emphasis.

"What the hell’s a ganton?”

“Mmm, they’re hard to describe….I think it’s enough to say they look like a cross between a vorcha and an Earth pig.”

“Oh no…” Garrus lowered his voice. “Then did he make their….you know…small?”

She flattened her lips and nodded emphatically. “When I say all the images, I mean all of them. Pictures of biotiball games, school dances, class photos….you name it.” Through a soft chuckle she said, “I still remember him coming home and showing me. He was making loud honking noises and just laughing his ass off. I didn’t quite understand it all at the time, but I thought it was hilarious.”

Garrus shook his head, his mouth open and close to laughter.

“Best part is no one ever found out it was him. Or if they did, they didn’t bother doing anything about it.”

“Now that’s playing the long game. Could there be anything worse to a teenager than immortalized embarrassment? Good man, not getting caught.”

“Oh, he didn’t get caught that time, but he was caught more often than not, and for far worse things.”

“It sounds like Damian was a bit wild, then.”

“Oh, he couldn’t be tamed. Gran’da tried to convince my parents that a good military academy would whip him into shape. They fought about it lots, but they never ended up sending him—we didn’t really have a lot of money at the time. But it didn’t matter anyway. He left home as soon as he turned eighteen. He couldn’t wait to leave Mindoir. He hated living on the farm, hated working on the farm, he just hated everything that life stood for. The Alliance was his way out.”

“He was a ‘seeker’, then.”

“A seeker?”

“In turian culture, we call people who have that kind of drive ‘seekers’. Those who go to any length to seek the new or the novel, or to go against ‘accepted’ practices. Do humans have a name for that kind of thing?”

“Mmm….I can’t think of what the human equivalent would be. Maybe ‘wanderlust’? Or ‘bohemian’?”

“That’s hard to say. Translators don’t always get the subtext right.” Garrus touched a hand to her leg. “So what happened after he joined the Alliance?”

“It seemed like he might go far in the military, given the chance. He had already made it to private first class by the time he was stationed on Elysium. That day….the day…” Her voice devolved into a whisper as she choked on the words. The words had been too long dormant.

“It’s ok, you don’t have to say it of you don’t want to,” he said, squeezing her knee.

She had to remind herself to breathe. Inhale... “Batar…batarian pirates had taken hostages at a large hospital. They were threatening to destroy the entire facility if they didn’t have their demands met. The story goes that Damian and a few others from his unit were caught sneaking in through a back entrance. The pirates kept them alive as collateral. Beat them. Tortured them. But in the end the pirates killed them all.

“My—my dad was the first one to find out. He’d been reading the news from some local rag on the extranet. The reporter had been careless and left identifiers, and it didn't take much to put two and two together. No one had caught the slip-up it until it was too late. My dad waited until my mom returned from the co-op to tell her."

Hand still on her knee, Garrus waited patiently as she collected her thoughts again. She took another deliberate breath, and the story began to pour from her mouth like blood from a wound.

“For the longest time, I thought Damian left because of me. My family had discovered I was biotic when I was about six. He would have been around sixteen. He’d been going through a lot at the time, and my parents we so focused on what the hell was wrong with me that they kind of left him to his own devices. They only really paid attention to him when he got into trouble. I imagine he must have felt neglected or unwanted, maybe even unloved.  I don’t know if that’s true, but that was the story I had in my little brain.

“As for my parents...my parents weren’t the same after my brother died. My dad was a pretty quiet man, but he was nearly mute after that. And my mom…after Damian’s memorial, she tried to act like nothing happened. But she was colder and stricter than before. I knew she still loved me, but it didn’t feel like it sometimes.

“There were days I’d hear her crying behind the grain silo, when she thought no one was around.”  Shepard hung her head and bit her lip. “If there was one thing my mother despised the most, it was having others see her cry. And she definitely didn’t want to see me cry either.”

Garrus took her hand. “Wow, Circe. That’s a lot for a little kid.”

“Yeah, it is,” she said, her voice quavering. “Gosh, I haven’t told anyone that since…since my training days on Arcturus.”

“Anderson?”

“Mmm.”

“You know it’s ok to cry, right? You’re safe to cry with me.”

“I know. I just don’t want to.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m afraid if I start, I won’t stop.”

Cradling the back of her head, Garrus wove his fingers between the strands of her dark hair and leaned forward, his forehead pressing hers. “Then it’s a good thing I’ll be here all night. And all morning. And hey, I’ll even be here in the afternoon. Funny, that.”

“Smart ass,” she whispered, their noses nearly touching. “You’re one to talk.”

“Yeah, well turians can’t cry. It doesn’t count.”

“So you get off on a technicality?” she asked facetiously.

“Mmm, for now. We can save that conversation for another day.”

Shepard caressed Garrus’ wrist, then pulled back. “Thanks. For listening, I mean.”

“Any time, love.”

“I’m a little tired. Do you mind if we just go to sleep? We can always have more fun in the morning.”

“I don’t mind.”

As she stood up from the bed, they exchanged an understanding smile, their gaze unbroken until she crawled under the sheets on the other side. Garrus turned out the light. She rolled over, and he held her close, neither saying a word.

Under the protection of darkness, she allowed a few tears to fall down her cheeks, and she wiped them away as swiftly as they fell. That was it. She wasn’t going to cry anymore tonight. Crying would be akin to drowning. She took a deep breath, savoring the gracious air and the warmth of Garrus’ arms, determined not to let herself be dragged down into the depths.

Furtively bringing a heel to the calf of her other leg, she ran her heel along it, pressing the whole way down. The pain hadn’t stopped at all since their walk to the lake.

Chapter Text

PART II
Chapter 12: Diffusion

1 year, 9 mo. after the end of the Reaper War
Okanagan Valley, British Columbia, Earth

An uncomfortable feeling had settled at the back of Garrus’s throat, tense and full, as if choked with dust and earth. He cleared his throat several times and sat up straight at the small desk. He drew a deep breath. His finger hovered over the key. There’s only so much time left to be a good son. He jabbed at the terminal, depending on his empty thoughts to counteract the lead weight in his heart.

“Hi, Mom. How are you holding up there?” he asked with unusual zeal.

There was no image at first. Only the audio had come through: the sound of something scraping, the thudding of feet on the floor, and a muffled voice sussurating from behind the camera’s plane. Then she appeared. Mandibles draped alongside her open mouth, she sat stooped, upper body angled to the armrest, and her depthless, rutted face locked into a downward tilt.

“It’s me, Mom.”

She peered up with hazy eyes and studied the image that was in front of her. Her shoulder jerked. After a few moments, her mouth snapped shut; there was a glimmer of recognition, and she opened her mouth again to speak.

“Garrus?”

“It’s me.”

“W-where are you? Where have you been?” She spoke in a slow, curdled rasp—thick, like the vitul stew she used to make for Castis on his trips home to Palaven.

“I’m on Earth right now, for a memorial. A comrade—a friend—he was killed in action.”

“What—what about your sister?”

Garrus leaned close to the terminal and spoke in a clear, practiced voice. “She’s still in Tergeste, but she should be home in two days. Just like she promised.” He’d answered the same questions enough times to know exactly what his mother needed to hear.

“And just what is she doing there? She should be in school right now, not cavorting around and playing hooky.”

“She’s not playing hooky, Mom, I promise—the university hasn’t reopened. There’s a shortage of doctors, so they’re taking anyone with experience. Solana is working with the medical corps, helping people who need urgent care.”

His mother began to chew absentmindedly.

“Don’t worry, she won’t be gone much longer,” he said, attempting to ease her anxiety.

“Your dad—your father’s not here either. I’m beginning to worry. Is he with you?”

The flinty points of Garrus’ teeth strained against one another. “No, Dad’s not here.”

“Oh, I see.” She scratched hard at the side of her neck. “He said he’d be home in time for our anniversary. It’s not like your father to break his promises.”

“You’re right, Dad has always been true to his word.” He almost added ‘I’m sure you’ll see him again soon’, but he swallowed the words before he could spew them out. Words that should have been reassuring suddenly sounded sick and ominous.

“Did you know, for our first anniversary, he took me to the top of the tallest building in Ciprtine? What was it called…” His mom narrowed her eyes, and her head waggled in a sing-song rhythm. “Ah, yes, The Elegan, that’s it. Of course, we didn’t have a lot of money back then. We were young and scraping by on government salaries. But the lights…oh, the lights of the city were just so beautiful! Like stars in the sky.” A labored sigh rushed out of her, and the yellow in her eyes rekindled like a warm ember. She tilted her head up to her caregiver, Tulia. “I want to go back there, when Castis comes home.”

Garrus didn’t have the heart to tell her that the building didn’t exist anymore. None of those buildings did. And as for his dad—that was a hope he would never take away from her. “Sounds like a wonderful date, Mom. That must have been a sight to see.”

His fingers curled around his knees. The churning in his stomach had returned, same as the one he had by the lake last night, and he wondered if he shouldn’t find some new, sharp stones soon.

With the flick of a mandible, his mother’s expression turned grave. The tendons in her hand bulged as she strangled the armrest. “Who—who…who was that human? In your home?” she asked, her subvocals vibrating with ire.

Garrus looked over his shoulder to see Shepard near the door and waving a book in the air, miming that she had come in to grab it from the nightstand. She mouthed an apology and left, and the door shut quickly behind her.

“That’s Shepard—we’ve been dating for a while now.” This wasn’t the first time he’d had to explain her to his mother.  “But I’m not at home, I’m on Earth, for the memorial.”

“Well, I hope you’re not planning on something long term. It’s out of the question. Unnatural.” The harsh click of her tongue brought Garrus back to childhood. “How do you even mate with a human? Can you imagine? The babies would be freaks!”

“Mom…”

His mother froze as if a spirit had passed through her. Her grip on the armrest relaxed and her hands began to tremble uncontrollably. Garrus could only look on as the yellow brands of her eyes, which had glowed with such joy earlier, were snuffed out again, their cast returning to their usual gray dullness. When the seizure subsided, her face relaxed into a vacant, doll-like mask.

“I…I’m sorry. I seem to have forgotten your name, young man,” she said in a small child’s voice. “What was it again?”

“That’s alright. You can just call me General.”

“Forgive me, General,” she said with a meek smile.

Garrus tried to his best to smile back, but clods of nausea had wormed their way up from his gut and into his head, pinching and pressing his insides until they were soiled with the sickly feeling.

“How, how do I turn this off? The light is hurting my eyes.” Agitated, his mother probed the camera over and over so he could only see the blurry pad of his mother’s finger filling the display.

“Here, Mrs. Vakarian, let me do that for you. Why don’t you have a seat on the bed, it’s nice and comfortable there,” said Tulia. She helped his mother to stand, then led her off-camera before returning to speak with Garrus. “I’m sorry, Mr. Vakarian, your mother isn’t feeling well right now. Maybe we can try again when she’s a little better?”

“I’m not working for the next few days. You can contact me anytime.”

“Of course.” She glanced in his mother’s direction, then back at Garrus. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Thank you for trying, Tulia.”

She bowed her head. “I’ll contact you if anything changes. Goodbye, Mr. Vakarian.”

“Goodbye.”

The feed blinked away. The default screen hummed blue, the cold, lifeless color making Garrus feel sicker than before. He logged out of the terminal and stumbled into the hallway. Shepard was standing at the window with a mug of something hot, looking out at something he couldn’t see. Letting out a pointed huff, he leaned a shoulder against the wall and closed his eyes for a moment.

“Garrus!” Shepard was startled to see him at the end of the hallway. “Are you feeling ok? You look a little…” She set her mug down and rushed to his side.

“Yeah, yeah…it’s just that time. I’m going outside, I’ll be right back.”

“Time?” She put her hand on his arm. “Ah…”

He was grateful that she understood he ins and outs of turian biology; it meant he didn’t need to take the time to explain.

“Then I’ll be right here if you need anything. Do you need help to the door?”

“No, I’m good. I only needed a moment.”

Garrus shuffled to the foyer. Not bothering to put his boots on, he went outside in his bare feet.

Garrus walked a good fifty meters from the house and into the stand of pines at the rear of the property, out of view from any windows or doors; the last thing he wanted was for the love of his life to see him puking rocks into the idyllic flower bed of the garden.

He shoved a hand against a sturdy trunk as his stomach rolled in violent waves. Even under the shade of the canopy, the brilliance of the world around him hurt his eyes, making the waves rise and fall faster than before. Then the musky smell of the damp earth hit his nose. He began to heave as his hands came to his thighs, and the first couple of rocks made their way up, falling to the ground and sinking into the carpet of pine straw. He wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. The process was never a pretty one—and this was the worst he’d ever had it—but at least it was almost over.

After a few deep breaths to recover, he glanced up from his hunched stance. Framed by two trees, a lone mule deer was feeding on the leaves of a low shrub; its large oval ears were pointed back as its stubby tail whisked across its backside. Garrus heaved again, this time louder, and brought up the remaining stones. The deer’s head shot up. Its ears pricked upright, then swiveled toward him. High alert. He didn’t need knowledge of Earth animals to understand; turians were carnivores after all, and primary signs of vigilance transcended boundaries between species. He stared back at the deer, and the two remained locked in a silent stand-off.

“Boo!” he said playfully as his head lurched forward.

The deer flinched. Eyes wide and star-filled, it turned tail, bounding away into the cluster of pines further up the hill. Garrus, amused, snapped his mandibles as he watched it disappear. He was feeling much better now that the stones had finally come up, and soon he would regain some of the appetite he’d lost. He’d need to remember to replace the stones before supper.

As he turned back to the house, a stiff breeze sent an eddy of brittle leaves shivering across his path. Their papery crackle nearly drowned out the chime of his omnitool. He stopped in his tracks, just beyond the trees. It was a message from Primarch Victus:

Garrus -

I've just heard from Emissary Cyprian. Talks with the Galactic Relief Fund haven’t been in our favor. We must secure additional loans to move forward with rebuilding plans. Any further delay will hamper peacekeeping efforts, or worse, risk the goodwill of our citizens.

The asari representatives are currently at the Citadel. I request you join Emissary Cyprian for their last meeting tomorrow. The presence of someone high up in the Hierarchy might give them some reassurance. At the very least, you can wield your influence.

Urdnot Wrex will be arriving in Cipritine shortly. He says he has a proposal he would like to speak about in person. I think you know what this might be regarding.

Please apologize on my behalf. And if the asari representatives ask about me, feel free to share the information above without hesitation if it will help you.

I’m entrusting you with this crucial matter.

 

Primarch Victus

Garrus read the message again to make sure he hadn’t missed something. What could he accomplish that the emissary hadn’t already? What was Victus playing at? And what did Wrex want? He certainly hadn’t said anything to him.

He headed back to the house, and made sure to wipe his feet well before going inside.

“Hey, you feeling any better?” Shepard asked as he stepped through the door. She was sitting at the table with her portable terminal open to the mail application.

“Much. Thanks,” he said from the foyer. “Apologies, I’ve got dirty feet. Felt so bad I didn’t even put my boots on.”

“I noticed.”

“I’ll be right back, just going to wash off.”

When Garrus returned, Shepard was busy replying to something, her fingers flying over the keys like busy insects.

“Heated argument over the extranet?”

“What?” she asked, distracted.

“Just teasing.” He threw open one of the kitchen cupboards and scanned the shelves for the ration bars he’d brought along for the trip.

“Sorry, I’m replying to Dusty. The co-op is asking for my help with something. I’m almost done.” Shepard finished writing her last sentence, then shut her terminal down. “You know, some people might think of rural folks as being quiet, but in my experience, they can be pretty chatty once you get them going.”

“Does that include you, then?” He found the last bar and snatched it from the cupboard.

Shepard rolled her eyes. “I haven’t been ‘rural’ since 2170.”

“By the way, I wanted to apologize.” Garrus lowered himself onto the adjacent seat. “I’m sorry if you overheard what my mom said earlier. She doesn’t actually hate humans. She was a lot more open minded before all of this. But with her illness progressing this far, she’s said some pretty awful things. The doctors warned us this would happen, but I wasn’t prepared for what that really meant. I’m embarrassed you had to hear that.”

“Don’t be. I’m not upset. Besides, I’ve heard much worse.”

“I know. But it’s different coming from her.”

“It doesn’t change anything for me.”

“That’s a relief to hear.” He put his hand on hers and squeezed before letting go. “Oh, the other thing…the Primarch just asked me to go to the Citadel tomorrow. The Hierarchy is negotiating for more loans, but the asari reps for the GRF are holding up the whole damn thing. He wants me to ‘wield my influence’, whatever the hell that means.”

Shepard cracked a smile. “I think that’s Victus code for ‘be a tough guy’.”

“Heh. You’re making me look bad here, Shepard.” Leaning back, he draped his arm around the back of her chair.“You know, sometimes I think you’d make a much better right hand than me.” He flicked his mandibles. “Scratch that—I know you would. Looking for a job?”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I cede the position to you, General. I’m done with politics.”

“Damn, thought I could get away with that.”

He wasn’t kidding. If there had been a way to bring her into the fold, he was convinced she would’ve done of a hell of a job on Palaven. But he was thankful she wasn’t there. Impossible decisions, and the specter of death haunting every corner—no, not for Shepard. Earth was good for her. She’d finally snagged her scrap of peace, and she deserved to treasure it for as long as she could, even if it was without him. He, on the other hand, still had a long way to travel before settling down.

“Look, I know we don’t have a lot of time, and I hate to leave even for a day, but my people need this win, and I need to be the one to deliver it. Without the money, trying to win back New Aeris and the rogue colonies will be pointless. Deadly, even.”

“Not an opportunity you want slipping from your hands.”

“No.” Garrus unwrapped his ration bar. “It’s really too bad the apartment’s gone. We could have stopped by. You know, for old time’s sake.”

“That’s alright, I’ve got plenty of work to do around here.” She held her arms up high and gave her back a good stretch. “I’ve gotta get the harvester fixed or I’m gonna be SOL after you leave.”

“S-O-L? Sol?”

“Shit out of luck.”

“Ahhh. Now that’s one I’ve heard before.” Garrus took a bite from the bar, grateful to feel normal once more.

It had taken five or six tries before Shepard was able to get the ancient harvester down to the service road. The machine had been sitting dusty and disused for years; it was unserviced and had at least three malfunctioning arms, at least from what she could see. If Tali were around, she’d have been able to fix it in her sleep. It was a miracle Shepard had even gotten it out of the building.

“What the hell…” Frustrated, Shepard poked at the faulty cooling fan. The bolts holding down the cover had rusted in place, making it impossible check the motor. “Now what?”

She buttoned up her overshirt, then rolled the cuffs down to her wrists, tugging at the ends to seal herself from the wind that had kicked up a gusty tantrum. The briskness was putting her in the mood for coffee number three. She had just decided to abandon her trouble for the morning when a voice croaked behind her, “Katie’s got you operating that old thing?”

Startled, she spun around to see Rear Admiral Ly standing with her arms crossed, the brim of a large hat encircling her head like the rings of Saturn. The hat shaded her finely wrinkled face but could not obscure her keen and discerning eyes. Charlie, who panted softly at her side, scampered to Shepard as soon as she looked his way. Shepard smiled and gave him a pat. He brushed against her side and left a generous mat of long, black fur clinging to her leg.

“Charlie, don’t be rude.” Rear Admiral Ly motioned to call him back. He shook himself, letting a tornado of fur fly in all directions. “Sorry, it’s shedding season. We were just out for a walk, thought I’d swing by to say hello. We never did get to have our visit.”

“You’re welcome to stay. I’m just trying to get this thing down to the trees.” Shepard slapped one of the harvester’s wheel wells. “Got it off the property, but that’s about it. Can’t seem to find the problem—this tech is before my time.”

“Say, Commander, need a hand?”

It would have been strange to ask for the Rear Admiral’s help, but she offered first, which made Shepard feel less awkward. She scratched at the back of her head. “If you aren’t busy? I’ve never worked with this model before.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised. You’re right, this thing is definitely before your time,” she said matter-of-factly. “I can spare an hour.”

“I already tried the manual, but the only version I could find was missing the error codes.”

Stepping slowly around the perimeter of the machine, Rear Admiral Ly gave each part a cursory inspection. Charlie followed at her heels. “Hmm…looks like you need to replace to the servos on the back arms, at the very least. And you’ll need new suction cups. They’re going to drop the fruit if you leave them like that.”

“There isn’t much to harvest, but still…this would be a lot easier with drones.”

“Hard to come by those, especially around here. Everything was re-purposed for the war. I’d lend you mine if I had some.”

Shepard shielded her eyes from the long rays of the sun. “I noticed you still do a lot of your work manually. Doesn’t that take too long?”

“I do. And it does. But it depends. Some varieties are more delicate than others. Don’t wanna break the skins when you’re making good wine. Hands are best for gentle harvesting.” Rear Admiral Ly shook her hand in the air for emphasis. “I’ve got some spare servos, if you like. They should fit your machine. And we’ll need to open up the onboard computer while we’re at it. Would you mind waiting? I just need to pop into the maintenance building. Charlie can keep you company.”

“Really? That would be fantastic.”

The Rear Admiral tugged at the brim of her hat, holding it fast against the wind. “No problem, Commander. I’ll be right back. You stay here Charlie.” She gave him the signal to ‘stay’ as she turned back in the direction of the vineyard.

Vigilant, Charlie didn’t move a muscle as he watched her disappear around the bend. The moment she was out of sight, his body eased, and he sat at Shepard’s side. She felt like a child standing next to the big, black dog. His broad, ball-shaped head came up past her waist, and his legs were thicker than her arms. Looking down, she gasped, and squatted to place an outstretched hand above the ground.

“Your paws—they’re as big as my hand…”

His gaze followed her hand, and the drool from his loose jowls dangled toward the ground in ropy strings but never fell.

Shepard grimaced. “I was thinking of inviting you inside, but maybe it’s better for us to wait here, hmm?” She stood up again and gazed out past the orchard and across the undisturbed water. Traffic on the lake had grown a lot quieter now that the weather had cooled. The boats had been docked, the tourists had gone home, and the locals had put their swimsuits and beach towels away until next summer. The sudden emptiness of the lake made the orchard feel lonesome and remote.

Several minutes passed as she paced up and down the side of the road. When she tired of pacing, she parked herself on a large boulder that marked the end of the path to the house. Charlie followed, then circled several times before collapsing at her feet. She swore she’d heard him say ‘harumph’ as he did it.

“Maybe I should have taken Garrus up on his offer to go to the Citadel, huh?” She looked down. “Then again…not sure I want the attention.” The last time she was there, she had nearly ended her own career. And an innocent person’s life.

She stroked the dog along his back. “Nah, I’m better off here with you, Charlie. Can’t get into trouble hanging out with you, can I?” As she pulled her hand away, downy wisps of his coat caught between her fingers. She shook the fur from her hand. “And no awkward run-ins with old colleagues either. ‘Oh, Shepard, what are you doing these days? I haven’t seen you in forever! Did you retire? I thought you’d be a rear admiral by now! You’re taking a sabbatical? How nice! You deserve it!’” She blew her bangs away with a sharp puff of air. “Forget it.”

Charlie sniffed at her hand, then peered up with his dark eyes as more slobber fled his mouth.

Shepard smiled. “It’s so nice talking to you, you’re such a good listener.”

Sitting up with a start, he perked his ears forward. The familiar sound of crushed gravel under foot had caught his attention.

“Be careful, Commander, that becomes a bad habit after a while.” Jillian had returned, hobbling, with a full toolkit in hand and a box of servomotors under her arm.

“Oh, here, let me take that,” Shepard said, rushing over to take the box from her.

“Please, if I were that frail I wouldn’t be running a vineyard.” She set the toolbox next to the harvester and pulled down her sun hat, letting it drape over her upper back. “Now let’s see if we can’t figure out what’s going on with this thing.”

The Rear Admiral removed the housing for the onboard computer and switched it on. “Just running diagnostics. It’ll take a minute.”

Shepard watched as she bent down and rummaged through the disordered tool box, combing through the dregs at the bottom with her bony fingers. The backs of her hands were covered in deep scarring—a lace-like lattice of thickened tissue, almost like terrible burns—and Shepard couldn’t help but stare. It wasn’t often you saw people with such obvious scars. Long buried memories worked their way back to the surface. One in particular broke free first: Shepard’s face, or what she thought was her face, staring back at her in the mirror of the captain’s quarters, and the fresh cybernetic scars blazing red across her forehead and cheeks like crags of molten earth—land burned and reshaped into something still frangible and unfamiliar.

Without looking up, Rear Admiral Ly had already anticipated the question Shepard didn’t ask. “You’re wondering about my hands, aren’t you?”

“I’m sorry, Rear Admiral, I didn’t meant to be rude.”

“Please, just call me Jillian,” she said over her shoulder,“It’s been a long time since I was in the military,” and fished out a small module from her kit.

“You know, you spoke at my graduation on Arcturus. I was so moved by your story of persevering through the ranks—you never took crap from anyone. You were an inspiration to young women like me.”

Jillian gave an amused scoff. “I hear that a lot. I’m not sure why, if I’m being honest. But to each their own.” Bringing the module to eye level, she squinted and pressed her lips into a line. “I actually did a lot of awful things, but no one ever hears about that part.”

“I understand that well.”

“Thought you might.” Jillian stood up to check the readout on the harvester’s display, then shut the system down. “So who’s the turian? The one I saw you with the other night?”

Shepard crossed her arms and leaned a shoulder against the harvester.“Garrus Vakarian—he’s a general in the Hierarchy. We served together during the war. And before that too.”

“Your boy toy?”

“Yeah, something like that.” Nearly pinching a thumb and finger together, she added, “Maybe a smidge more serious.”

“So it’s love, then?” Jillian asked, not missing a beat. “We’ve come a long way from ‘skull face’, haven’t we? When I was younger, there was no way a soldier would be caught dead dating a non-human.” She pulled a wrench from the box and pointed it at Shepard. “Unless, maybe, they were asari. Somehow that was okay.”

“It’s—”

“It’s the tits, yes.”

Shepard chortled. Rear Admiral Ly always had a reputation for shooting straight from the the hip.

“And of course our start with the Hierarchy wasn’t the most peaceful.” Holding the wrench to an access panel, she cranked it hard to remove one of the nubby, worn-out fasteners.“I was actually part of the force that destroyed the ships policing Relay 314.”

“I remember you speaking about that.”

“You don’t think your General will be too upset if he hears about that, do you?”

“He hasn’t made a peep about Hackett, and Hackett served in the First Contact War.” She tilted her head against the harvester. “Kind of water under the bridge at this point.”

“It’s amazing, when you think about it. It’s only been, what, thirty odd years? But of course, that feels like a lifetime ago after all that’s happened.” The last fastener popped off and Jillian removed the panel to inspect the circuitry inside.

Was it only that long? Jillian was right; time had stretched and limped along in all the wrong places. Within her own lifetime, Shepard had seen first contact, the opening of the relays, humans on the Citadel, and human settlements on other planets. And that was to say nothing of cross-species relationships or galactic war.

Across the road, the crisp rustle of vegetation broke the moment’s silence. Charlie, who had been enjoying a pleasant sit in the sun, wrested his enormous body from the ground. As he veered into the bushes, he barked several times, and his robust, guttural warning seemed to boom through the entire valley. Two small deer emerged, then fled up the road toward the vineyard. Looking proud he had flushed them out, Charlie wagged his bushy tail in wide, happy arcs. Jillian glanced over and shook her head as he trotted back over.

“So what made you leave the Alliance?” asked Shepard. “With a record like yours, you could have made it all the way to Admiral.”

“The nice reason?” Jillian carefully placed the wrench back into the box. “I needed to care for my son, Gregory.”

“And the not nice reason?”

“I didn’t want to be an admiral.” Grunting, Jillian yanked the old, burnt out module out from the harvester and dropped it to the ground. “I didn’t really see the point in staying. By the time I made rear admiral, it was getting harder to justify some of the decisions I was making. And the pressure from the politicians and the higher ups…I didn’t want to raise my son with all of that on my conscience.” She reached for the spare module and popped it into place.

“Seems like an odd choice, then, to speak at an Alliance graduation.” Maybe it sounded rude to say, but Jillian didn’t seem like the type to care.

“It was my son’s idea. They invited me, and I was going to turn them down, but he insisted I go. He said if I didn’t, they’d choose some old blowhard instead.” She rolled her eyes as she scoured the box for some new fasteners. “Heh, Gregory sure knew how to push my buttons.”

The sharp cry of a raven, sitting low in the tree above, rudely interrupted their conversation. The bird glared down, cocking its head at an angle to get a good look at the two women.

“What’s your son doing now?”

Jillian’s brow wrinkled, and she let out a faint sigh. “Gregory died defending the hospital he worked in—New York City. The Reapers had descended and the attack was so sudden…” The deep lines around her mouth grew deeper as she struggled to control her strangled voice. “The staff held out for a whole day before the hospital fell.”

A simple “I’m sorry,” was all Shepard could muster in reply. The raven cried out again—this time a piercing shriek—and she glared back at it.

Stories of death—brave, defiant, or otherwise—were still not easy to hear. But Shepard never closed her heart to them. It had become a compulsion to plant their memory in hers: a forest of lives, each specimen marked with its name; a place where she walked at night before she slept; where the boundary between dead and alive wasn’t a line or a gate or a river, but a network of roots that sometimes touched or intertwined, communicating across distance and time; a place where she could live with the mistakes she had made along the way.

Jillian looked up and offered a sympathetic smile. “Everyone lost someone. I know you’re no stranger to loss, Commander.”

“Be that as it may, it’s cold comfort to a grieving mother.”

“It’s what we have. And we live on. They live on.” She tapped at the side of her head before plucking out the remaining fasteners.

As Jillian worked to put the access panel back in place, Shepard turned her attention to Charlie, who was keeping watch along the road. The raven had also turned its attention the dog, mocking him with its shrill shrieking as it hopped from branch to branch, far out of reach of the confused Newfie.

Jillian dusted her hands off and stood up. “Now, enough wallowing. What do you say we get this thing started?” Craning her neck to see the display, she switched the onboard computer back on and froze as she waited for it to cycle through. “That sensory module of yours was burnt to a crisp, by the way. It’s a miracle you got it down here without further damage. Are you okay to do the servos yourself?”

“I can handle that much,” said Shepard. “Those haven’t changed much in the last thirty years.”

After a whir and a pop, the harvester hummed back to life. “Look at that—I’ve still got what it takes!” Jillian playfully dusted off her shoulder.“I plan on living a long time yet. Need to make myself useful, don’t I?”

“You don’t need to be useful, Jillian.”

She shut the harvester down again. “Speaking of living, Commander—how long are you planning on doing this…thing?” Her arms opened wide to toward the orchard below.

“I don’t know, I guess I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Just trying to get back on my feet, you know?"

“And what about the General? Any plans with your boy toy?”

Shepard poised herself on the flat face of the boulder. “He’s a busy man."

“Getting an entire civilization back on its feet, no doubt. I don't envy him."

“Me either.”

“Can’t be easy.”

“It isn’t,” she sighed. “He holds a high position—they depend on him for a lot.”

“No, that’s not what I mean.”

“What do you mean, then?”

“Mmm…you being here, him being there…doing his turian thing.”

“Ah.” Shepard dug a heel into the ground and stared at the toe of her shoe. “I try not to think about it too much. Or at least, I treat it like being deployed. There are plenty of couples who spend months at a time apart and—”

“Oh, certainly. My ex-husband and I often would go weeks without seeing one another.”

A concerned expression fell over Shepard’s face.

“Oh no, that isn’t why we divorced. We divorced because he was a serial cheater. A liar, if you will. A woman in every port like a cliche Blasto vid.”

Shepard snorted despite herself.

“Anyway, you were saying…”

“Just that I have to think of it that way. Like we’re both on assignment. Because if I don’t—it doesn’t work. I get stuck.” She was desperate to confess that it made her feel alone, but that sounded too self-pitying. She chose to be here, to live this temporary life outside of the Alliance, in hopes she could return. Would she be able to return?

Jillian didn’t say a word as she slowly closed the toolbox, her mouth zipped tight. “I wish you both the best, truly. A relationship like yours isn’t for the weak. But I think if anyone can handle it, it’s you.”

Shepard folded her hands together in her lap. “Fighting a war and navigating love aren’t really the same though.”

“Aren’t they?”

“‘All’s fair in love and war?’” Her thumbs twiddled around each other as she mulled over the tired words. “I always thought that was a weird saying. There’s nothing fair about either.”

“I know which one I prefer.” Sidling up to Shepard, Jillian leaned against the boulder .

“As twisted as it sounds, I owe my love to war. But loving in a time of peace…I’m not sure what that’s like yet.”

“It’s not all that different, Commander. Less adrenaline. More mundane worries. More time for excellent sex.”

Shepard chuckled. “I can only hope for as much.”

Chapter Text

PART II
Chapter 13: The Apomict's Daughters*

2 years after the end of the Reaper War
The Citadel, Sol

Garrus massaged the knot behind his mandible as he gazed up at the holo-screen. The beige wall of the galaxy’s blandest conference room displayed the day’s agenda in a hazy blue light, alongside the list of representatives and the current time on the Citadel. Three more minutes until the morning planning session was over.

Thin lips crooked into a dour curl, Dalatrass Emora cleared her throat. “We have reviewed the seating chart for the luncheon portion of the summit. The Salarian Union requests that each race be seated in their own separate sections.” Her voice had all the majesty and authority of a wet noodle.

“Where would be the good in that?” The disembodied visage of Urdnot Bakara hovered in the space next to the Dalatrass. Her hologram flickered, perhaps a reflection of her annoyance—at least that’s what Garrus imagined. “Wouldn’t we do better to have mixed seating? A free exchange of ideas cannot happen if we are siloed in our own enclaves. Are we not building relationships for the betterment of the galaxy?”

The Dalatrass did not relent. “If we are to negotiate on behalf of our respective governments, it is best for us to sit as a single block.”

“But what of those who do not have a large representation?” asked Admiral Raan, who also appeared as a hologram.

Behind the placard reading ‘Systems Alliance’, Kaidan rubbed his chin. “Each race is limited to six delegates each. That shouldn’t be a problem”.

“We should be free to speak amongst our respective groups without fear of interference,” said Matriarch Deneya.

Garrus wanted to roll his eyes but stopped himself. “It’s a luncheon,” he reminded them. “We won’t exactly be dealing with hard-hitting issues during lunch. We’ll be too busy stuffing our faces with whatever pretentious nosh they serve important people.”

Scoffing, Dalatrass Emora turned her head and addressed the air in front of her. “If the turian representative cannot afford this issue the serious attention it deserves, we reserve the right to request a substitute take his place.”

Ah, the royal ‘we’. And speaking around him, on top of everything. The Dalatrass’ reputation as pugnacious and territorial preceded her. Garrus supposed being head of one of the most powerless families in the Salarian Union could do that to a person.

All the fuss over trivial details was beginning to rankle him. They’d already wasted the morning arguing over the opening ceremony, with the Dalatrass and Matriarch Deneya at each other’s throats like stray varren. They were nearly halfway through day one and the agenda hadn’t been finalized. At this rate, the summit wouldn’t be held until 2764.

“Exasperation: The end of our time block draws upon us.” Ambassador Calyn’s long drawl cut through the tension, and everyone watched as each word left his mouth with the same soporific drone. Looking back, it seemed a mistake to designate the representative from Dakkuna as facilitator for the meeting, but changing moderators halfway through would be a violation of decorum. “We may continue this discussion after a well deserved meal break. To ‘stuff our faces’ as the turian representative so colorfully puts it.”

“Oh thank the spirits,” Garrus said under his breath.

As she pushed back from the conference table, the Dalatrass lanced Garrus with her sharp gaze, then lifted the hem of her robes before walking away. Sighs rolled through the group. They bunched up at the wide doors, everyone ready to leave the stuffiness of the room behind for an hour.

Stepping out into the courtyard, Garrus took a deep breath and stretched his neck. It had been a long morning. Considering how the meeting had gone so far, he wondered if the Primarch hadn’t sent him as secret punishment for something he’d done wrong. He gripped the railing of the balcony and looked out onto the Presidium’s pristine lake. A memory of flying above the water worked its way to the front of his mind: Shepard’s surprised face when she missed the last bottle in their impromptu shoot-off. Couldn’t match the master. He’d begun to chuckle when he felt a light tap on his shoulder.

“Garrus, hey—”

He spun around to see Kaidan right behind him, holding his hand out. “Kaidan…” He shook his hand. “Sorry I missed the morning greetings.”

“I wasn’t expecting to see your name on the list today.”

“I suppose I did too good a job haggling with the Galactic Relief Fund. The Primarch rearranged a few things and sent me last minute.”

“I’m grateful. The mood in there was getting a little sour. You certainly lightened it a little.”

Garrus shook his head. “Heh. And this isn’t even the actual summit.”

“There’s a lot on the discussion table. Whatever we can do to make sure things run smoothly…well, we’d better do it. The less friction the better.” He glanced down at this omnitool which was already powered on.

“Absolutely,” Garrus replied. “I’ll be honest, this isn’t really how I pictured spending my time today.”

Kaidan chuckled. “Me either, friend, me either.” Glancing down at his omnitool again, he pressed his lips together.

“Got somewhere to be?”

“Ahh, I’ve got a…uh, an appointment."

Appointment, huh? Shepard was right, Kaidan wasn’t very good at hiding things. It was a wonder he and Miranda hadn’t be caught by the Alliance yet. “Meeting someone for lunch?”

“Something like that,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “And you? Is Shepard here?”

“No, not today. She’s got some work back at the orchard. She’s been taking that promise to your mom pretty seriously.” It wasn’t a lie. And he knew she wouldn’t appreciate him explaining her reluctance to return to the Citadel anyway.

Kaidan’s mouth crooked into a faint smile. “Yeah, that sounds like her.”

“Don’t let me keep you if you have to go…”

“Oh no, you’re not. But yeah, I should probably go,” he said as he glanced down at his omnitool again. “Um, alright then. See you after lunch?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Garrus said drolly, and raised a hand as Kaidan walked away.

With nowhere in particular to be, he was in no rush to leave. He gazed up toward the Presidum’s countless floors, their windows like a waterfall of reflections cascading into the lake. To his right, Huerta Memorial stretched long across the water, from one side of the ring to the other, its entire span lined floor-to-ceiling with airy windows; staff and patients alike could be seen shuffling through the main corridor like insects in a long, glass tube. Amongst the bustle, something caught Garrus' attention: a stiff, motionless figure standing in plain relief. A human woman, roughly the same height as Shepard. She had the same color and length of hair, and her clothing was the kind of practical, nondescript style Shepard was fond of wearing. Garrus squinted. The woman’s face was turned away from him; he could only make out the edge of her jaw and cheek.

He looked away. He had said goodbye for the day and left Shepard at the orchard. It was probably someone with the same haircut and similar clothes; Shepard was never on the cutting edge of fashion, her style was common enough. Besides, her medical care was overseen by the Alliance, not Huerta Memorial. Was he so lovesick that he couldn’t go a day without thinking of her, or worse, seeing her in places she wasn’t?

He looked up again, but the woman had gone.  

Kaidan paused before descending the stairs at the Presidium Commons. A swell of galactic citizens swept past him in thick waves, the froth of their conversations bubbling around him. But Kaidan’s ears were deaf to the noise, as if he were just below the surface of the water, the ocean’s foam hissing above. Life on the Citadel had returned to normal, and with the upcoming summit, the wards and embassies were crowded with diplomats and visitors from across the open galaxy.

He peered down toward Apollo’s Cafe and scoured the tables for his date. On the lowest terrace, past the crowded plaza and open storefront, Miranda studied the menu, seated at the last table on the far end—the quietest part of the cafe. Whisps of steam curled up from the cup in her hand. Keeping his eyes glued to her unbowed frame, he started down the stairs.

It was midday on the hulking station, and the artificial breeze blew through the Commons in its predictable way. It was strong enough to sway the saplings that lined the terrace, and to free hair from the sides of Miranda’s slack ponytail. She tucked the stray strands behind her ear. Kaidan’s breath hitched at the simple gesture; she still stole his breath at every turn, polished or unpolished. Sometimes, he wanted nothing more than to scoop her up and take her home. But life wasn’t so simple, and neither were they, and that fantasy would remain just that—a fantasy.

She smiled as he approached the table. “Hello there, handsome. Fancy meeting you here.”

“Ms. Lawson,” he said, struggling to keep a straight face. “I’m just here performing Alliance duties. I saw you sitting here all by yourself, thought I’d offer my company. Do you mind?” He gestured to the empty chair next to her.

“Be my guest.”

Kaidan pulled the chair out and winked. They always did have fun playing coy. As painful as it could be, not going public with their relationship had its benefits.

Miranda crossed her legs and leaned forward to rest her elbow on the table. “I hope you don’t mind, but I invited Ori to join us today.”

“Or-Oriana?” He shifted in his seat. “I didn’t know she was on the Citadel.”

“She’s been dying to meet you. She won’t be back in Sol for a few months, I thought this was the perfect opportunity for the two of you to get to know each other. She is my only family, after all.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course…no problem. I’d love to meet her.” His lips curled back into a stiff smile—the kind of vacuous facade you might find on a department store mannequin.

What was supposed to be a casual lunch date had now turned into a  plot of meet-the-family. And not just any family, but Miranda’s genetic twin, someone who could run circles around almost anyone in almost any category. One Lawson woman was intimidating enough, but two? There weren’t enough gods to pray to for strength.

Still, the hope that Miranda felt the same way he did put a brisk wind into his sails. The introduction of family was serious business by his estimation, especially for Miranda, who had no other relatives to speak of. But soon Kaidan found his thoughts blown sideways and set adrift. Miranda loved Oriana the most out of anyone in the universe, and she trusted her just the same; if he failed to make a good impression, he could find himself dashed upon the rocks.

At the table, Kaidan caught himself bouncing his knee, his nervous energy vibrating through his foot and down to the floor. He stopped, hoping Miranda hadn’t noticed.

She took a sip of her coffee. “How’s the meeting so far? Has anyone been strangled yet?”

“No, no…but there were a couple of times I thought the Dalatrass might throw a shoe.”

“Do dalatrasses even wear shoes?”

He couldn’t say that he’d ever noticed. He shrugged. “You said you had business on the Citadel today. Not Alliance business, I take it?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss it at the moment.” She set her cup down gently. “No offense.”

“None taken,” he replied as he picked up the menu. Despite his curiosity, he knew better than to press her for details. Miranda etched her boundaries deep and true, and he did his best to respect them. He trusted her: there would be a good reason for her secrecy.

She pursed her lips. “Mmm…I’m not too impressed with this menu today.”

“The steak here is always good. Or at least it used to be.” Kaidan drummed his fingers on the table as he scanned the offerings, skipping over the other dishes until he came to the meat entrées. He squinted at the fine print below the heading. “We reserve the right to make substitutes,” he muttered. “What do you think they mean by ‘substitutes’?”

“I’d wager something lab grown, or perhaps modified.”

Kaidan scrolled to the end of the menu. The impossibly tiny letters—tinier than the previous caveat—were scarcely more than a few points tall. “S-s-sub…Sub? Sub…” he said slowly, holding the menu close to his face and squinting.

“Substitutions may include: Meef (fine mealworm ‘beef’), culture grown tissue, or genetically modified urban game”. Miranda crinkled her nose at the phrase ‘urban game’. “I think I’ll stick with the Cobb salad.”

“Gosh, how can you even read that?”

“Superior vision includes the ability to read small type.”

“Of course. Not sure how I forgot that.” Amused, Kaidan tutted to himself and perused the menu for something else to order. Just as he had settled on a selection, the melodic arc of a woman’s voice rose up behind him.

“Miriiiiii!”

He looked over his shoulder to see a young woman in faded coveralls loping toward them. A large duffel bag was slung across her chest, weighing her slight shoulders down on one side. She had Miranda’s dark hair and striking blue eyes, but her face was warmer, the expression lines around her mouth stitched with the mirth of a happy childhood.

Her bag fell to the ground with a dull whump, sending a cloud of fine particles into the air.

“You made it! I’m so happy you’re here,” said Miranda as she rushed to greet her.

The sisters embraced, their eyes closed as relieved contentment softened their cheeks and foreheads. It was a reunion that had become commonplace in the upturned aftermath of war: loved ones, set far apart by bad luck or circumstance, or likely necessity, holding each other tight after months or years away.

Kaidan stood up and waited for them to untangle. As the moment stretched on, his arms dangled by his sides like the two ropes of an unmoored ship. When she opened her eyes, Oriana beamed: her gaze had fallen squarely upon him.

“You must be the one I’ve heard so much about!” she said as she let go of Miranda.

“A pleasure to meet you, Oriana.” He offered his hand. “I’m Kaidan—”

Ignoring his polite offering, Oriana lunged forward and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Kaidan froze. A squeal rushed out of her as she squeezed him so tight he was sure his ribcage would collapse. The girl was stronger than she looked.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you!”

His eyes pleaded for Miranda to intervene.

“Ori!” she scolded in her most matronly tone.

Oriana smirked. As she loosened her hold, she whispered to him in a hasty blur of words, “Miri loves you so much. But don’t tell her I told you that!”

Kaidan’s jaw locked. It took a moment for the revelation to sink in. And when it did, a swift tidal wave washed over, razing all rational thought to the ground—nothing but a sea of shapeless rubble left in its wake. The word love had never come into the picture until now. He could only hope Miranda was too distracted by her sister’s exuberance to notice the change in his expression.

“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I just got a little excited,” Oriana said earnestly.

Miranda shook her head and picked Oriana’s bag off the ground. “Ugh, Ori, this bag is in tatters! And it’s filthy…” She grimaced as she held the bag out at arm’s length. “You really ought to buy a new one.”

“Ehh, you know how pay is at these megacorps. Besides, why bother? This one still works.”

Rolling her eyes, Miranda placed the bag next to one of the empty chairs. Kaidan pulled the chair out and motioned for Oriana to take a seat before taking his own seat again.

“Well that’s different…” Oriana said with a pleased inflection, an awestruck smile still on her face.

Kaidan tucked himself into the table. “So, I hear you’re back from Sirona? How is it out there?”

“Yes! My ship literally docked twenty minutes ago. I’m dead. Dead tired. Sirona was a slog.”

“I had a comrade—a friend—who was born on Sirona. She seemed to think it was a great place to grow up.”

“It was. Until the Reapers flattened the hell out of everything.” She rapped her knuckles on the table. “So like anywhere else, really. Reconstruction top to bottom—starting with agricultural land and mining sites.”

Before Kaidan could ask another question, Miranda hijacked the conversation. “Tell me, Ori, how is it working with McAvoy? He was quite impressed by the proposal you submitted. He told me so himself.” She pushed a menu toward her sister.

She raised her eyebrows. “You really wanna know?”

“Is it that bad?”

“Define ‘bad’.”

“Well?” she asked, glaring.

“He said not to tell you, buuuuut…”—Oriana held the menu up to the lower half of her face, her eyes peeking over with nervous mischief—“he thinks I might be even more capable than you are.”

Miranda gave her a scathing, sideways glance. “Bastard.”

Unsure of what to make of the situation, Kaidan flicked his gaze from one sister to the other. The last thing he wanted to do was come between two pissed off Lawsons.

“He’s right, you know. You are more capable than I am. ”

Oriana shoved at her sister’s shoulder. “Oh my god, don’t do that! I thought you were actually mad!”

Tittering, Miranda threw her head back, and a ribbon of wickedness fluttered through her voice, growing until her laughter wobbled like fine sheet metal.

At first, Kaidan furrowed his brow in confusion; her playful side still surprised him. Glimmers shone here and there, in the moments where she was most relaxed—teasing him in the warmed, fatigued afterglow of making love—or in moments of earned smugness, like when someone insisted she was wrong when she wasn’t. She’d make a brassy remark, toss her hair. Sometimes sing cheesy pop songs to herself when she thought Kaidan was far from earshot. But now her playfulness was on full display, and the rosy light reflecting from her smooth face made him smile from ear-to-ear.

He relaxed into his chair, the sisters’ easiness bringing down his guard more than he was aware of. They placed their orders, and the table filled with lively chit-chat as they waited, most of it about the greater world outside: the far-flung relays that still remained closed, the states of various planets and colonies, and of course, Oriana’s work and where she saw herself going forward. Inevitably, the focus circled around back to Kaidan, who by then had gained more confidence in managing Oriana’s keen energy. Was it true he had dated the most famous woman in the galaxy? Was being an L2 as painful as everyone said? What was his favorite vid? What did he love about her sister, or rather, what didn’t he love? (It was a good thing he’d had his wits about him or he might have answered something other than “no comment."). As lunch pressed on, Kaidan found himself wondering what he’d been so afraid of. Oriana easy going and kind, and it wasn’t long before he’d been charmed by her too.

Lingering on the peaceful terrace, they made slow work of their meals, in no real hurry to move along. Oriana had pulled up her omnitool at Miranda’s request. They leaned their heads together and scrolled through pictures of her latest project, with Miranda’s laughter pealing through the terrace as Oriana shared stories from the field.

From a distance, the blissful, domestic tableau could have been any place, any time. No one could have guessed that these sisters had begun life in the manner they had, nor experienced the troubles they did. That was doubly so for Miranda. She’d been forged by the will of a cold, egotistical man, bent and wrought into the form he’d envisioned, only to be tossed back into the fire again and again when she didn’t meet his liking. It was a wonder she could laugh at all, let alone heartily.

She was almost like another person with her sister—carefree and animated, as if a magic spell had been cast by an unknown hand. That restrained, self-possessed woman he'd first met at the Silversun Strip was nowhere to be found. He sat back, afloat in the Lawsons’ windless lagoon, content to let the scene play on as long as it needed to.

Two tables over, a little girl, no more than two or three years old, wriggled in her seat and stared at him with wide eyes. Fork held upright in her pudgy fist, she held the points of the tines to her open lips. Kaidan noticed her staring and smiled. She waved both arms at him. He waved back. She stuck her tongue out. He twisted his face. She grinned and laughed and bobbed her head back and forth.

Miranda looked up. “What in the world…” Her grown boyfriend was pulling a face like a grade school clown.

With a determined grunt, the girl climbed down from her tall chair, nearly tipping over as she slithered down the seat. She staggered at a clip until her clunky footsteps stopped right next to Kaidan.

“Julia!” cried a man from the other table.

Kaidan glanced over, then looked back at the girl. He thought it best to keep her occupied. “Well hi there!Are you here having lunch too?”

“Yah! Wif—wif my dahdy. I’m eat upsketti.”

“Julia…” said the man as he approached their table. “Let’s let the gentleman enjoy his meal.” He took her by the hand and turned to Kaidan with an apologetic frown. “I’m sorry, she just wants to talk to everyone these days.”

“Oh, we were just having a friendly chat, weren’t we?” Kaidan smiled brightly at the little girl. “But you shouldn’t leave your dad like that. He might get a little lonely, don’t you think?”

She gave a shy nod as she tugged on her father’s wrist.

“Ok, come along now,” her dad said as he looked down at her. “Sorry about that.”

“Heh, not a problem.” Kaidan waved as they walked away.

Snapping her head toward Miranda, Oriana’s eyebrows shot up and her eyes widened. Miranda shot a look back and gave her little sister a swift kick under the table.

“Wow, she was quite taken with you,” said Oriana with a stunned smile. She propped her elbows up on the table and clasped her hands together. “Do you have any nieces or nephews? You seem like a natural with kids.”

“No, I’m an only child. No children in my life to speak of.” Kaidan rubbed a finger along the rim of his glass. “Though, I’d love to have some of my own someday.”

“Oh yeah? Any idea how many?”

“Mmm, maybe three or four?” he said, looking up again. “If she’s up for it.”

“Three or four? Wow…” Oriana’s eyes darted toward her sister, who’s face had gone pale and hard.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to imply—I didn’t mean you,” he said to Miranda. “I just meant whoever it is I…whoever I end up with. Er, have kids with…” His thoughts were an eddy of heat swirling in the wrong direction. He scratched at the nape of his neck. “Crap, sorry, that came out the wrong way—”

“It’s alright, Kaidan, I’m not upset. I’m not really thinking that far ahead anyway,” Miranda said with a tight laugh.

“You’re not?”

“Hell, in my line of work, I could be dead tomorrow.  Not exactly a lifestyle conducive to having children. As much as I’ve had the occasional longing for a normal life, I don’t think it’s in the cards for me. I'll be a free agent for a long time yet.”

Kaidan was silent. It wasn't her comment about children that bothered him most—that was another matter to unpack—but had she really not thought about their future at all?  Not even as an idle daydream? Would her definition of  'normal' include marriage? A home? His heart sank. He began to wonder if he was wrong for thinking they were something more than ports in a storm.

“Yeah, you’ve got a point,” he finally said. “Children are a big commitment. Not one you take lightly.”

Oriana lolled her head toward her sister. “We, of all people, would know that. Wouldn’t we, Miri?”

Suddenly, Miranda had shown newfound interest in her menu. Without looking up, she said, “Say, do either of you fancy a glass of wine? A digestif to cap things off?”

“Oh, none for me, thanks,” said Kaidan. "It’s not a good look to stroll into a meeting smelling of alcohol.”

“Mmm, suit yourself.”

Miranda’s mouth welded shut. The remaining few minutes before he left were spent picking at what remained on their plates, and conversation had dwindled to idle small talk between he and Oriana. Finally, Kaidan told them it was time for him to return to his meeting. Oriana offered a long hug and wished him well, and Miranda thanked him for joining her and said she’d give him a call the next day.

As he waited at the counter to pay—something he’d insisted on doing—he looked back at the faraway table.  Oriana was preoccupied with something on her omnitool, and Miranda’s head was turned toward the lake, her hair dipping between her stolid shoulders like slow-cooling filaments. The spell had broken, and Kaidan found himself adrift at sea once again.

When Kaidan had gone, the mood had gone with him. Miranda didn’t feel like talking anymore. Amazing the damage one small child could do in less than a thirty seconds. In the following minutes, she’d recast herself as the aloof stoic—a hard, unbending person who wouldn’t let anything rattle her. The shape she’d settled into since she was a child herself.

Oriana broke the strained silence. “Soooo…Mr. Alenko, hmm?” she said as she slid her hands across the table. “He’s pretty hot, sis.”

“I like to think so.”

“Handsome, kind, has his act together. Respectable career to boot,” she said wistfully. “How serious are you? Because I haven’t heard you so much as mention another man.”

“Serious enough.”

“What about what he said, about wanting a family?”

“What about it?”

Frowning, Oriana inhaled loudly through her nose, loud enough that Miranda knew she had done it on purpose. She was not going to be bullied into an answer, even by her own little sister.

“He knows how I feel. We’ll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it.” If we ever come to it.

“Seems like you two hadn’t talked about it until now. Does he even know—”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“Listen, can we discuss this some other time?” Miranda's hand came down from her forehead to slap the table. Her words were thin and taut like piano wire. “I don’t want to spend my precious few hours with you squabbling over my ovaries.”

“Gosh, you don’t need to bite my head off. I was just asking.”

A reserved sigh slipped from her mouth. “I’m sorry, Ori.”

Her sister had been right to call her out for that remark. Staring out beyond the terrace, she studied the people criss-crossing through the Commons, and she wondered if their  problems were anything like hers.

“You know, I envy you,” she said, turning back to Oriana.

“Envy? Why’s that?”

“That you can decide whether to have children. Choice? I didn't get one. Our father took that away the moment I was made.” Gnashing her teeth behind her squared lips, she held back the molten bile threatening to retch out of her.  “I know you understand how that feels.”

“I do.”

“It’s funny. I thought I was done being angry. I’m not. Seeing Jacob on Luna…it bothered me. I held that little baby of his in my arms and—and I felt sad for myself. I don’t know if it’s because I actually want children. But I mourned something that day. I mourned a future I could never choose.” She looked pointedly at her sister, her icy eyes now turned to steel. “But there’s nothing to be done about it now.”

“You’re allowed to be angry, Miri,” said Oriana, placing a hand on her forearm.

“Thanks.”

“Just promise me”—she leaned in close and spoke slowly—“you won’t dump a perfectly good boyfriend before talking to him first? If you love him, he deserves to know the truth.”

Miranda gave a weak smile. “I know I can be shrewd, but I’m not cruel.”

Gazing down at the cluttered table—with its scraped plates, glasses, and utensils—she considered just leaving the items for the busser to sort out. That was their job, after all. But an unexpected feeling of guilt gnawed at her, and she felt sorry for the person who would have to clean up her mess. She stacked the plates and glasses, and placed the utensils inside. Oriana only looked on, her expression perplexed.

“Now, what do you say we get out of here and do some shopping?” Miranda stood up and heaved her sister’s threadbare duffel over her shoulder. “I think it’s time I bought you a new bag.”

Chapter Text

PART II
Chapter 14: Snowdrop or Sundew*

2 years after the end of the Reaper War
London, Earth

“Overbooked? But my seat has already been paid for—for this flight! How is that possible?”

“I’m sorry, sir. Because you were the last passenger to arrive, your seat was given to a standby customer. Unfortunately, we’re not able to make any changes at this point.” The service agent flashed Garrus the kind of plastic human smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “But I can book you on our next available flight. How does that sound?”

“Which is when, exactly?”

“Mmm, let’s see…” His twiggy fingers pecked at the interface. “First flight is tomorrow morning, 0700 .”

“Are you kidding me? I need to be in Vancouver tonight. I can’t afford to wait until the morning.” Garrus gripped the edge of the check-in counter. His talons would have gouged marks into the metal had he not been wearing gloves. It was enough that he’d missed his direct flight from the Citadel, but now he was getting the run around in London. There would be no point in going at all if he couldn’t get back to the Interior by nightfall: he needed to leave for Palaven the day after tomorrow.

The agent’s plasticky smile returned. “There’s always private transport, sir. We can provide a discount code for use with several—“

“Fine. Give me the code. And I want my refund processed right away,” he said brusquely. It had crossed his mind to use the ‘do you know who I am?’ card, but the agent didn’t have any more influence over company policy than one of his grunts did over Hierarchy politics.

Garrus hung his head back and closed his eyes as the agent processed his refund. He could have slept where he stood. Weariness had eaten through his staunch, metallic carapace like rust, working its way through strata of toughened hide and sinew, and seeping deep into his hollow bones. The promise of seeing Shepard one last time before going home was the only thing that had kept him going through the day.

Contentious and plodding, the committee’s last planning session had gone long. There wasn’t much to report to the Primarch either. Though, in a major win, Garrus and Matriarch Deneya had successfully advanced the inclusion of a proposal to modify the Council Demilitarization Enforcement Mission, a baby step that Victus saw as crucial to addressing the lack of forces in Council Space. Shocked by the speed of Garrus’ victory, he’d expressed his approval with one simple word: “Impressive.” Garrus considered it a job well done; any more than a few words from the Primarch’s mouth usually meant you’d fucked up.

Before leaving the departures area, Garrus checked his omnitool to make sure the discount code had gone through, then began his search for private transport. His eyes buzzed as he scanned the pricing list. Post-war travel was expensive enough, but independent operators were the worst. They charged whatever the hell they damned well pleased, because what option did you have when the big guys were regularly short on staff and flight craft? This trip would have to come out of his own personal expenses. There was no administrative approval process for visiting your long distance girlfriend, no matter who she was.

After finally finding someone to take him, Garrus shelled out most of his remaining credits. He’d have enough left for the trip back to Palaven and that was it. With more than an hour before the pilot arrived, he splayed out across the hard, ordered airport seats and did his best to catch a nap, draping his arm across his eyes like a weighted mask.

BC Interior, Earth

Shepard ate slowly. She rolled the small tomato around in her mouth—over her tongue, into her cheek, then over her tongue again and to the other side—before snapping her jaw shut, bursting it between her teeth, the bright zing of juice filling her mouth as she stared through the window. In the dark, a veil of powdery snow drifted through the air. It reminded her of sand tumbling through water. Like at Tumnis Creek, the creek at the far edge of her family’s farm, where her bare feet dug up its shallow bed, and she watched the roiled sediment get carried downstream. It unsettled her stomach, this long-forgotten feeling, brought on by the slow alighting of snow on grass.

Before she could put a name to it, the muffled sound of a skycar approached the house. Shepard set her fork down and crossed to the window, where she could see the car’s milky lights catching the glint of snowflakes in its beams. At this time of night, it had to be Garrus. She stalked to the entryway. Smoothing the back of her head, she snatched her parka from the rack, then draped the ratty coat over her bare shoulders—flimsy protection from the night’s biting wind.

She stood in the threshold and gazed out into the dark. The lights of the porch only reached so far, but the soft crunch of snow carried through the air as someone came up the sloped, gravel driveway in long strides. Almost stepping out in only her socks, Shepard paused as a tall shadow appeared at the edge of the porch light. Garrus’ face emerged, worn but smiling.

“Hey, you’re back,” she said cheerfully. When he came to the door, she threw her arms around him, and he nuzzled his nose into her the top of her snow-laden head without a word. A comforting warmth flushed through her; it was enough to hold back the chill coming in uninvited through the door. “Here, let me take that.” She took the small travel bag from his hands and ushered him inside.

“Thanks,” he replied. Garrus stomped his feet before entering the foyer, then removed his coat and boots and put them neatly in their places.

Shepard could hear the day’s drawn-out pull in his voice, the slight tremor somewhere deep in his subvocals. He never had to say it. She heard it, she felt it, she saw it in his movements. It was an ability developed from intimate familiarity. Days of tugging off sweaty boots and greaves, of refilling omni-gel packs in suits, of double checking and triple checking heat sink counts, of studying floor plans and blueprints together, of running for their lives at the edges of the galaxy. Working together, side-by-side. Side-by-side: there was none of that anymore.

“Delays, I take it?” She set his bag down on the kitchen bar and grabbed at his wrist, leading him to the Alenkos’ familiar leather chair.

“Spirits, that’s not even half of it,” he said, sinking deep into the seat. “But I’m not here to to grumble. I’m just happy to see you.” He tilted his head back to look up at her as she stood behind the chair rubbing behind his mandibles. Reaching a hand up to her face, he closed his eyes, a rumble resounding through his throat, and he relaxed into her touch. “Ohh, that feels so good right now.”

She smiled. It felt good to be caring for someone else for once. Not focusing on whatever thing her therapist said she needed to be mindful of that week. Not being the center of attention, or having someone wring their hands over what she’d said or done, or everyone worrying about her health. To give her attention to someone with no conditions or expectations.

“How have you been holding up here? Not going too stir crazy? Snow looks like it’s really been coming down.”

“Nah. I tried to squeeze in as many jobs as I could before the clouds rolled in. Mostly removing dead wood, spraying some of the trees. Oh, and I had lunch at Jillian’s—she says hi, by the way. I even had a long nap in the afternoon.” Shepard scoffed. “Can you imagine? The last time I had a real nap I was probably four.”

“You? A nap? Spirits, I couldn’t convince you to sleep even when you had to.”

She stopped rubbing and stared out at the falling snow. “We were always chasing something, weren’t we…” The unsettled feeling in her stomach rose up again, this time simmering up to her chest and biting at her lungs. She felt hungry for air.

“Even during lights out you kept a datapad. At one point, I thought about hiding them from you.” Chuckling, he hoisted himself from the chair and stepped around to face her. “We all felt the pressure to push ourselves, just not the same as you. But I get it now, Shepard, I really do. I want you to know that.” His eyes met hers, and he gripped her shoulders, tilting his head down as if to emphasize the importance of what he’d just said.

Still needing more air, Shepard drew a deep breath, but it didn’t make much of a difference. She gazed back with a soft, close-lipped smile.

She didn’t want this for Garrus. She always thought she’d be happy for him when he came into his own—and she was—but the price he paid was too steep: the pain, the weariness, the uncertainty. At least she never had to worry about a family who needed her. She’d been beholden to no one but the Alliance; Garrus still had a home and people waiting for him there.

While saving the galaxy had been complex and daunting and monumental—words that conjure images of heroes and survival—in many ways, rebuilding it was harder. Now, and for years to come, it would be a thankless, unenviable task, after which no one would remember a singular name in the same way they remembered ‘Commander Shepard’. But what choice did he have, really? Who else would take up the mantle? Shepard knew she would do the same if she were in his place. As it stood, it was an experience she could not share with him, even if she wanted to.

Placing her hands on his waist, she asked, “Should we just head to bed? It’s pretty late.”

“I hate to say it, but I think I have to.” He squeezed her shoulders and let his arms fall away. “Let me just put a few things away. It’s not much, but I figured you were running out of dextro at home.”

“Oh, I went shopping for you this morning,” she replied.

“You did? You didn’t have to do that, love.” He’d already pulled one of the boxes from his bag, but he tucked it back in and zipped the bag shut again. “Ah well, something for the flight home, hmm?”

Home. Shepard grew sad at the word.

Outside, the snowfall had shifted from a steady shroud of white—light and gauzy like fine chiffon—to a curtain of plunging streaks, the flakes heavy with moisture. She watched for a moment as the snow hit the window and stuck to the glass. Reaching for the room controls, her other hand held Garrus’ tightly, and she dimmed every light but the one at the door.

Shepard woke to find the skylight above her blotted out. She rubbed her eyes and rolled her head toward Garrus, but the space next to her in the bed was empty.

“Garrus?” Shepard croaked, the covers half hiding her face. There was no answer.

Turning her head the other way, she glimpsed the side yard through the picture window, but the sun was bleaching the snow to a blinding white, and it hurt her eyes to keep staring. Overnight, the floor had grown deep with drifts, and by early morning the storm petered out to a dusting, though they’d both been too fast asleep to notice.

Still groggy, she dragged herself out of bed and plodded down the hallway. The cold floor on her bare feet made her toes shrivel like they’d been frostbitten by the frozen ground.

“Hey, gorgeous. You slept well last night,” he said from behind the cooktop, subvocals flitting high as he flipped a perfectly round pancake.

Shepard’s eyes went wide. Since when did Garrus cook? And human dishes at that? “What’s all this, then?”

“Breakfast.” He tightened his awkward grip on the handle of the spatula. “Spirits only know how long it’s going to be until we see each other again. It’s going to be a busy six months. Thought I’d give us a nice send off before tomorrow.”

The idea of another six months put a knot in her stomach. His six months and her six months had the potential to be wildly different in a bad way. Still, she wouldn’t let that stop her from cherishing his thoughtful gesture. “I’m impressed. Even humans have a hard time cooking those evenly.” She cocked an eyebrow. “When did you have time to learn how to cook?”

“Dancing wasn’t the only thing I asked Vega to teach me. And there’s this thing called the extranet too, don’t know if you’ve heard of it.”

The cheeky wave of his mandibles made her smile. “Smart-ass.”

Garrus slid the spatula under the finished pancake and moved it onto a second plate. “Just give me a few minutes, I’ve got two more to finish. There’s coffee ready, if you want.”

Shepard poured herself a cup. Sipping her coffee and shuffling toward the bookshelves, she gazed out onto the scramble of white-topped branches in the orchard and the lake with its deep blues and grays and enameled reflections of the surrounding peaks. A memory stirred. Maybe it was her therapist’s doing—the woman had made a nest in her head—or maybe it was nostalgia, but something long buried under the weight of the dead had resurrected itself.

“When was the first time you ever saw snow?”

“The first time I saw snow?” he called out over his shoulder as he ladled out more batter.

“I imagine you must have been an adult, or close to one, considering the climate in Cipritine.”

“Mmm, I was probably sixteen, assigned to Datriux in the Trebia System. All rocks and ice.” Garrus turned around. “Disembarking was a shock. I thought: surely this has to be some kind of test. Why else would they bring a band of gangly, naive recruits here? That or to teach us extreme cold survival.” He snorted. “We didn’t find out until we got to base that it was a last minute request from high up. A routine escort for some mining big-wigs. They just needed bodies, really.”

“Aww, that’s no fun.” Shepard took a slow sip and let it bathe her tongue. Coffee always tasted better when someone else made it.

A crisp sizzle carried across the room. “What about you?”

“The first time I saw snow I was six, seven? Not very long after my biotics developed. It never snowed at our elevation, but farther out, in the mountains. It was about a four hour trip out from our farm. My dad, he grew up on Earth in a place that got plenty of snow. Buffalo—ever heard of it?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“Heh, it was just a name to me too.” Shepard crossed back to the kitchen and took a seat at the kitchen island. “Winter was his favorite season. He was so excited to take us, me and Damian. Made me a homemade sled and everything. He was usually pretty reserved, so seeing him like that really sticks out in my memory. I think he was trying to cheer me up, you know? I’d been really scared and upset on account of the biotics.”

“And your mom?”

“My mom didn’t go. She was like you, she hated the cold. With a passion, almost.”

“Smart lady,” Garrus said, punctuating his comment with a flick of the spatula.

“I remember pressing my face to the window of the car as I watched the flakes come down. I was glued there. I thought it was the most magical thing I’d ever seen. And when I stepped foot into it, it was like cold, fluffy sugar. I might have tried to eat it. I don’t recall. Maybe I just dreamt that part.”

The spatula scraped across the griddle as Garrus flipped the last pancake onto the plate. “They might not be made of sugar, but I’ve got some nice fluffy pancakes for eating,” he said, drizzling on the syrup.

“And look at that, another first right here. A meal made by a turian general, just for me. I feel so important!” She grinned as he set the plate in front of her. “They look great.”

“Let’s hope they taste as good as they look,” he said, sliding a fork and a knife next to her plate. “I can’t exactly taste test.”

Shepard didn’t have to take a single bite to know they were delicious. If there was anyone she trusted to be meticulous and follow the recipe to a tee, it was Garrus.

“I’m sure they’re fantastic,” she replied. She a cut neat square from the stack and stabbed her fork through all three layers at once. “Cheers!”

“Hurry up, will you! It isn’t going to be light out very long,” Shepard belted over her shoulder.

A deep burning had set into her thighs, and she stopped to give them a quick rub just before the cresting the hill. After breakfast, they’d spent the rest of morning in bed, eager to make the most of what little time they had left. Maybe it was too much to be outside after all that, but it was a shame to let such a beautiful snowfall go to waste.

Garrus caught up a little as she scrambled up the steep hill with a sled creeping at her heels. “How do you live with such short daylight hours?” he huffed, finally reaching the top. “Seems depressing.” His breath turned the air white, and he hung his hand on her shoulder. “Shepard, this is killing me. It’s too damn cold to be out here. Do you want your boyfriend to die?”

She straightened the sled to face directly downhill. “After everything we’ve been through, you’re going to let yourself get taken out by a snow hill and a kiddie sled?”

“Of course not. But if we crash into a tree, I’m holding you responsible.”

“Relax!” she said, tugging the cuff of her glove over her sleeve. “You know I can steer.”

Garrus eyed her with suspicion. “Can you…?”

“You’ll be ok, I promise! And you’ve got me to keep you warm, haven’t you?” Trying her best to turn on the sex appeal, she peered over her shoulder and pursed her lips.

“Wait a minute—this…this is like the time you tried to get me into the lake,” he said. “Coaxing me with your feminine charm. I see what you’re doing. You are trying to get me killed.”

She dropped the act; she knew he was being facetious, of course, but had hoped he’d forgotten about the lake by now. She pretended not to hear him. “Now, you sit here,” she commanded and patted the back of the sled.

“How am I supposed to sit?” Hesitant to climb in, Garrus placed his feet on either side and slowly lowered himself into the shallow bed. Halfway through the awkward squat, however, his center of gravity gave way, and his backside hit the hard bottom with a painful-looking whump. He winced. “I’ve got no cushion there, you know.”

Shepard gestured to the end of the sled with her chin. Garrus had sat smack dab in the middle. Following her direction, he inched his bottom toward the back, his legs an awkward heap of sticks that went past the front of the sled.

“My legs won’t fit—my spurs are in the way.”

“Bend your legs, you silly goose.”

As he worked to reposition himself, a sharp crack echoed somewhere past the clearing in the sparse stand of firs that flanked Jillian’s storehouse. Shepard whipped her head toward the sound, but she didn’t see anything worth noting—probably just a tree limb breaking from heavy snow.

“Ok G, I’m going to—” A low scrape pricked her ear. She turned back to see Garrus careening down the long hill, legs stiff and bouncing above the sled, screeching like an angry hawk.

“SHEPAAAAAARD!” he yelled with desperation, his voice shrinking away as he raced closer to the bottom.

Without warning, the sled veered to the right and struck an invisible mound. A spray of snow flew out; Garrus and the sled went airborne, both hanging in the air for what seemed like eons. He came back to Earth with a heavy thud, and by some miracle—or by sheer will—he’d managed to land upright, but was now turned around and going backwards, still hanging on for dear life. He eventually coasted to a stop at a line of snow-encrusted shrubs.

Shepard’s mouth hung open. Did…did that actually just happen?

“Oh my god…ARE YOU OK?” she called out. She’d wanted to laugh but was too shocked for any sound to appear.

From the top of the hill, he appeared to be nothing more than a dark lump atop a sliver of red, sprinkled with a good helping of snow. He sat silent, frozen in the sled, and didn’t move for the next ten seconds.

“GARRUS!”

Four big toes jerked out from a heap of snow. With his back to the slope, he stood up and gingerly tipped his head forward to clear it of powder. He growled something as he brushed himself off, but Shepard couldn’t make it out from where she was.

“GARRUS! ARE YOU OK?”

He waved both arms in the air to show he was alright.

“CAN YOU BRING THE SLED BACK?” she shouted, cupping her hands to her mouth.

He turned around and waved again. “WHAT?”

“BRING THE SLED BACK!” she shouted louder. For a moment, Shepard wondered if that was asking too much, but if Garrus could survive a rocket to the face, he could certainly drag a sled up a hill after hurtling himself down it.

“YOU’RE KIDDING, RIGHT?”

“HOW ELSE AM I SUPPOSED TO GET DOWN?”

He planted his hands on hips as if mocking her. “HOW ABOUT WALKING?”

Crinkling her nose, she snorted and stifled a laugh. He was feeling alright, that was for sure. Garrus waved her off, then bent down to pick up the sled.  The bright chirp of her omnitool had almost escaped her notice as watched him trudge to the base of the hill with the sled dragging behind him like dead weight. She glanced down to see who was calling.

“Miranda—what’s going on?” She’d answered straight away.

“I have some news for you.” Miranda’s voice was clipped and hesitant.

The last time someone had news for Shepard, someone close to her had died. She tried not imagine the worst but quickly came to her senses when she remembered why Miranda must be calling. “The results?”

“Yes.” There was a long pause.

Shepard flexed her fingers. They felt a bit numb, even inside the gloves, but she chalked it up to the cold. “Well don’t leave me hanging. Is it good news or bad news?”

“A bit of a mixed bag, I’m afraid.”

“Shit.”

Miranda inhaled over the line. “Don’t get your hopes up too high, but there’s a chance—a minimal chance—that we may see some positive progress. It won’t come without pain, however.”

Garrus was nearly to the top. He was bounding up, his lanky legs sinking into the hillside as he held the sled above his head with both arms. Shepard would have to ask more questions later. She lowered her voice. “Listen, I can’t talk right now. Can you send me a copy?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks.”

“Call me if you have any questions.”

“I will—bye.”

Just as she’d hung up, Garrus crested the hill with the sled tucked under his arm. “That was as awful as I imagined it.” He shook his head, but his smile betrayed him. “You know I love you, right?”

Shepard smiled back, her heart bubbling at his grudging affection. “I do.”

“Good,” he said, flinging the sled to the ground. He stomped on the reins to make sure it didn’t slide back down. “Who was that just now?”

“Ah…that would be Miranda. Told her I couldn’t talk right now. I’ll call her back tomorrow.” Hopeful that was the end of the question, she squinted, shielding her eyes from the sun as she looked up at him. “Are you alright? That was some pretty impressive hang time you had back there…”

“Like I said, not a lot of cushion back there,” he said, patting at his backside.

“Wanna try again? We’ll go down together. I’ll steer.”

“Captain goes down with the ship?”

“Something like that.” Doing her best to raise herself on her toes—not an easy task in snow boots—she gently pulled at his shoulders to give him a peck on the chin. “For good luck. And thanks…for coming,” she said, gazing directly into his eyes. “I know it wasn’t easy to get here.”

He ran the backs of his fingers along her cheek. “I’m glad I made it.”

“Me too.” Shepard took his hand before it dropped and gave it a long squeeze. She wasn’t about to take his presence for granted.

“So, any particular instructions, captain?” he asked, straightening his back.

“Whatever you do, don’t put your feet up. You can do that once I’m aboard and I give you the signal. Got it?”

“Yes sir,” he said, mimicking a human salute.

Garrus nestled himself at the very back, and Shepard followed, wedging herself in the front between his legs. It was a tight fit. Despite being the longest model in the store, there was barely enough space for Garrus, let alone the two of them together. There would be little room for error with such a loaded bed; Shepard made sure to center herself for even steering. Scanning the incline, she made note of obstacles to avoid and raised her hand high.

“On my signal…”—her hand chopped through the air—“Engage!”

Per her instructions, Garrus brought his feet up and let gravity take over. The sled juddered at first, but soon they were accelerating, their combined weight launching them down the hill faster than Garrus’ untimely solo run. Snow fanned into Shepard’s face, making her sputter, but her sputters soon turned to squeals as Garrus laughed in her ear, and his knees bounced against her sides.

They were nearly at the bottom when an anomaly caught her attention—a boulder or large rock in disguise. She pushed her foot out to steer them out of harms way, but her boot went in deeper than expected, dragging through the snow and slowing them down at an angle. Thrusting her other foot out to right it, they came to a controlled stop several meters before the silver junipers.

“See! Told you I can steer!” she said proudly, and wiped the snow from her grinning face. “We we were close to hitting a bump back there but I dodged just in time.”

“Never doubted you for a second,” replied Garrus.

She leaned back into his keel, and he wrapped his arms around her from behind.

“My feelings on snow may have thawed a little. That was…fun.”

Shepard snorted. “Good. It’s meant to be.” As much as Garrus complained about the cold, she thought some fun might take his mind off everything, if only for a day. She was glad to know his accident hadn’t soured him to the experience. At the very least, it was a memorable afternoon.

“One more time?” he asked.

“Are you serious?” She chortled, leaning forward to look back at him. “Alright, but I’m still driving.”

“Fair. I trust you more than I trust myself right now anyway.”

When Shepard stood up to step out of the sled, a blistering jolt zapped up her right leg. “Fffffffff….” She grimaced and lifted her foot, nearly toppling over as she tried to balance on the other leg. Garrus was quick to catch her.

“Circe, what’s wrong?”

“Fuck! I think I hurt my ankle.” She gripped Garrus’ forearm and kept her foot hovering above the ground, the toe of her boot just grazing the snow. Now the pain was throbbing deep within her leg. “When I put my foot down to steer, it went in really deep. I must have rolled it. I can’t stand.”

“And you didn’t feel that when it happened?” Garrus crouched down, placing one arm around her back and the other behind her knees.

“Ahhh, don’t carry me like that!” she shouted before he’d had a chance to lift her up.

“No?”

“On your back.”

“What, why?” he asked, still crouched awkwardly.

“I’m not a princess or a bride, I don’t need to be carried over a threshold.”

“Shepard, now’s not the time. It’ll be better for your ankle this way, less jostling.”

“Fine…” she muttered.

She wrapped one arm around his neck—but only one—as he scooped her off the ground with care and stood up straight. She felt ridiculous having to be carried away like this; it was almost an indignity.

“What about the sled?” she asked, pointing.

“I’ll come back for it later. Let’s get you inside first.”

As Garrus hiked back to the house through the thick snow, Shepard looked up to see his mandibles tucked tight to his jaw, his expression cold but determined. She wrapped her other arm around his neck and pressed her head down into the soft padding of his coat’s shoulder. He’d been right. Her ankle was throbbing now, and any jerky movements would have made it feel worse. She’d meant it when she said she didn’t want to be treated like a princess or a bride—she’d never wanted to be—but right now, in this moment, she felt like one, and it made her heart sing just a little.

Trekking through the snowy woods with his injured girlfriend in his arms was not how Garrus had pictured his afternoon going. He was glad, though, that he’d been there. Shepard being alone at the orchard worried him sometimes, and not just for the obvious reasons (was is it wise for someone struggling with her mental health to live this way?) but for practical purposes too. What if she got trapped by a piece of machinery? Who would be there to help? If she were dragged away by a hungry wild animal? A fire? A flood? An attack on the house?

Garrus looked down at her quiet, freckled face.  She was not the least bit bothered that he was taking such big, ungainly steps as they traveled down the final slope towards the house. That was when he remembered: she was still Commander Shepard, the beleagured woman who’d survived—against all odds and common sense—everything the universe had thrown at her. And despite appearances, one of the most deadly soldiers he’d ever known. He was sure she could tackle any Earth animal barehanded and win. Why was he still so worried, then? Garrus scolded himself twice. First for being worried, then for forgetting who he was in his arms.

Much to Shepard’s chagrin, he carried her over the threshold of the house and set her down on the settee without removing his boots. Snow from their coats and gloves tumbled onto the velvet seat and onto the floor.

“Crap, we’re getting snow everywhere,” she said, looking down at the Alenkos’ pristine, vintage furniture.

“It’s only water, Shepard. It’s not going to stain anything.” Garrus removed his gloves, then removed Shepard’s first boot.

“Be careful.”

“I know. Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.”  He undid the buckles, being mindful not to move her foot too much, then held her calf as he pulled the tongue of the boot loose and eased the whole thing off in one slow motion.

“Smooth moves, handsome.”

“I try,” Garrus purred. He removed her sock and examined her foot and ankle. “How does that feel?”

“Not the best, but definitely not the worst pain I’ve been in.”

He dreaded to think of the worst pain she’d been in. “Well, I don’t think it’s broken, at least.”

“Me either. It’s still pretty swollen though,” said Shepard.

“Let’s get some medigel on it. It’ll take the edge off at least. Where do you keep it?”

“Umm, in the master bedroom, dresser, first drawer on the right.”

“Be right back.”

He strode to the bedroom and opened the drawer. The wide drawer was a mess of things—a cracked datapad, two old books, a host of mismatched socks, a knit scarf, a scattering of hair pins, an empty jar, and more odds and ends that didn't have a home. Seeing the state of it, one might be hard pressed to believe this drawer belonged to the same person who had organized countless missions with precision and care, who had been in command of an elite military vessel. Then again, Garrus had never rifled through her drawers before; amazing how different someone could be in private.

Pulling the drawer open a little more, he found a cluster of vials crowded in the dark reaches. He lifted them out one at a time to read the labels. Lamotrigine, gabapentin, duloxetine—all words that sounded like an odd bug in his translator. His stomach dropped as he held the third vial in his palm. He wasn’t familiar enough with human biology to know exactly what these were for, but he’d known a fellow C-Sec officer who had taken duloxetine for a long time after a violent arrest gone wrong. It seemed to treat PTSD as far as he could tell.

He stared at the label on the vial, his gaze fixated on her name: Shepard, Circe. It looped through his mind like a distress signal. He closed his hand tight around the vial when he heard Shepard’s voice calling out from from the other end of the house.

“Ah! I just remembered, it’s in the bathroom cabinet!”

“Got it!” he shouted back. He tucked the vial back into place, then retrieved the medigel from the bathroom.

As Garrus swayed through the hallway, he tried his best to forget what he’d seen. If she hadn’t mentioned her medication before, she probably didn’t want to talk about it; whatever the problem was was between her and her doctor. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling there was more to it than PTSD.

After he applied the cool gel to her leg and ankle, Shepard tested the sprain by standing.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, painting over his anxiety with a bright tone. He was thankful she couldn’t hear the stilted vibrato in his voice.

With one hand atop the setee, she bent her knees. “Peachy! Never better.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, of course.” Shepard looked down as she shifted from foot to foot. When she looked up at Garrus, his mandibles were wavering. “Why, what’s up?”

“Nothing.” That was an outright lie. “Just wondering if I should stay on another day, just in case.”

“Don’t. I’m fine! Besides, Victus is expecting you. And Wrex too. Your mom, Solana…”

“But it might be hard for you, being alone here. If the bone is fractured—“

“Will you quit worrying? It’s only a sprain. And besides, I can always call Jillian or Dusty if I need a ride to the medical clinic. No big deal.”

“Alright. I’m sorry.”

“I can take care of myself, always have.” Her smile grew as wide and bright as the snow drifts outside. “You know that.”

Yes, he knew that logically speaking, but the logic centers of his brain had been short-circuted the moment he found the vials in that drawer.

“If you’ll pardon me, nature calls,” Shepard said as she stepped in his direction.

“Need some help?”

“I’ve got it. You stay right there.”

Garrus watched as she hobbled down the hallway. No doubt she’d noticed he was acting out of character, and he wondered if she’d realized what drawer she’d directed to him to. Though judging by the rest of its contents, she might have forgotten what was in there. 

The funny names on the labels stuck in his mind. Would it be wrong to know what they were for?

He brought up his omnitool and navigated to the search function, his finger freezing over the haptic interface as the word lamotrigine remained static in the text box. He stared at the word, and it stared back like a daunting monolith. But hitting ‘enter’ wouldn’t answer his real question: why hadn’t she told him?

He was never meant to see those vials, that much he knew. She must have a reason. Whatever was happening, he had to trust she would share when she was ready. Trust. They would always have trust in each other. He let out a sharp huff as he closed the text box and shut off his omnitool.

Beyond the strange names, there was one detail on the labels that stood out to him--a detail all the vials had in common, and the thing that bothered him the most: the name Shalta Ward Pharmacy emblazoned across each one.

Chapter Text

PART II
Chapter 15: An Emergent Layer*

2 years, 3 months after the end of the Reaper War
The Citadel, Sol System

The Velorum Grand Ballroom hadn’t functioned as a ballroom for nearly three years. For a time, it had housed refugees, its starkly elegant space transformed into a bank of single cots filed like so many shoes in a closet. In place of clinking glasses and the lilt of chamber music, the ballroom had filled with the silent prayers and ragged sobs of those wanting to return home but who had found there was no home to return to.

On the morning of the summit, a dedicated team worked to restore a measure of the ballroom’s former splendor. They prepared each place at the table with care. They tested microphones and updated agendas. They hung tasteful art on the walls. They placed signage and prepared check-in points. And while the pomp and circumstance of old had died, everyone involved understood the importance of appearances; there would be order, and there would be thoughtfulness, and there would be intention behind every perfectly squared nameplate.

C-Sec had also been hard at work. Many of the officers had worked through the night cycle and were now completing one last sweep of the area. With the galaxy’s most prominent leaders and experts gathering in one place, the summit would be a convenient opportunity for attack. The culprit could be anyone: mercs who had amassed resources in the lawless months before and after the war; malfeasant corporate blowhards with too much time, money, and hubris; warlords who had taken advantage of thin forces to seize power; separatist groups who wanted nothing to do with a renewed galactic alliance; even the name ‘Cerberus’ had been whispered as a possible threat, and despite the wide belief that their network had been eliminated or diminished to the point of impotence, memories of their zealotry and limitless cruelty—of all they had wrought during the war and their experimental antecedents—stung like a fresh welt, chastening the public and making them wary of anyone or anything that so much as cast a shadow in the shape of humanity’s cur.

Scattered alongside C-Sec’s patrols, security teams and members of several militaries were also on duty. They’d been sent ahead by heads of state to secure private areas and transportation corridors, and to provide extra protection for docking bays.

Garrus was amongst them, along with a small platoon of turian soldiers, all of whom had volunteered on behalf of the Hierarchy delegation. It wasn't a job normally done by a general, but his familiarity with the Citadel and C-Sec made him feel strangely comforted. If asked why he’d volunteered, he might have said he was worried about retribution from rebels, but less selflessly, somewhere in the shadows of his mind, he feared losing the Primarch would push him further up the chain of command. He was already dangerously close—much further and he would never be able to refuse the responsibility.

So this is how the day began. With security details finishing their inspections, and the rest of the Citadel standing by, waiting to see how the galaxy would move forward through a fractured and tenuous reality.

Kaidan stepped out of the shower and checked the time. He didn’t have long. He poked his head through the doorway. Miranda was still asleep in the bed, the sun shining through the window and crowning her head with a soft ring of amber light. For a moment, he thought of planting a kiss on her cheek, but considering her erratic schedule for the last three weeks, he thought it best not to wake her.

Making the most of the quiet, he finished his morning routine. Shaving with a safety razor had taken some practice, but Miranda was right: those clean cut lines really did flatter his jawline. Not bad. He admired his shave job as he patted his face with the cedar balm she had gifted him. It was an important day, after all, and he needed to look sharp. Appearances still mattered in this world, for right or for wrong, and if you looked like you had your shit together, then the assumption was you did. Face-to-face or in the public eye, someone was always watching and judging.

Kaidan had never thought of himself as someone suited to politics or diplomacy—those were the domains of the cunning, the resilient—but enough of his colleagues had praised him for his level head and clear-sighted thinking that he was beginning to get ideas. The summit would be a first-hand glimpse at what it took to negotiate on a galactic scale. An unprecedented scale. And he would be present to witness the entire process.

There was new motivation to pay attention too. Admiral Bhatt’s name had been thrown into the ring for new human councilor, and if she accepted the job, it would trigger the swiftest rise in rank since the Alliance’s inception; two years on and the ripples of attrition were still being felt. Being promoted wasn’t out of the cards, but if it was, he wanted to be knowledgeable and prepared.

As he finished pulling his slacks on, a soft moan and the rustle of bedding caught his ear.

“Hey, sleepy head,” he said, leaning in the doorway with an elbow propped against the frame. He smiled at Miranda. With her hair spilled on the pillow in ratty whorls, she looked positively ordinary.

“Hey, handsome.” She held her hand above her eyes and squinted at him. “Big day today. How do you feel?”

“I don’t know…nervous? Nauseous?” Kaidan glanced down at his belt, the ends still unbuckled and hanging down.“Bloated?”

Miranda threw the covers off and snorted. “Hardly bloated,” she croaked as she crept over. Her warm hands slid down his undershirt and over the muscles of his stomach. “You’ll be taking part in a major moment in history, you know.”

“Observing from the sidelines is more like.”

“Don’t be so humble! You helped organize this summit.” Grasping the ends of his belt in her laggard hands, she set the prong into its hole and buckled it snugly. “But why observe from the sidelines? With the appointment of a permanent Council, they’ll be eager to reinstate the Spectre program. You could have a direct hand in making things happen.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

It was an understatement to say it had only ‘crossed his mind’. He’d thought about it a lot. As it was, his first stint as a Spectre ended before it had really begun, and it had begun inauspiciously. Councilor Udina, defacto political leader of the Alliance, had betrayed his people. Perhaps it was fitting he had died by the hand of his own man.

But with the loss of Arcturus still a freshly gaping wound, the catastrophic hemorrhage of political leadership had thrown the Alliance into shock. Nations and colonies, lacking a figurehead or governing body, were forced to rely on the military for guidance or risk toughing it out without a united front.

Not once did Kaidan regret his actions. It was the right thing to do. In another ending, he might have stuck it out with the Spectres, but that moment had slipped into the stream of time—a brief reflection in the slackwater, sundered by a tide of events that swept everything up in its roar.

In this moment, however, Miranda’s curious eyes swept over his face.

“Would you go if they asked you back?”

“I’m not sure…maybe?” His gaze flicked to the freshly pressed jacket hanging on the wall behind her. The gold bars of its epaulets seemed to gleam, lambent even in the shadows. “I’d have some things to consider. My mother being the first. I’m all she has left, apart from Cousin Daniel, but he’s out in the Terminus Systems, on Anhur. No way to know if he’s even alive.” He reached around Miranda to slip the jacket off its hanger. “Being a Spectre is a lot of responsibility, and a hell of a lot riskier.”

To his surprise, she was frowning—not at him, but at her reflection in the full length mirror beside the bed.

“I don’t know, Kaidan. Your mum’s a pretty busy woman. Independent. She seems to get along just fine if you ask me.” She dragged her fingers through her bed-knotted hair. “It’s not like she’s decrepit…far from it. The woman doesn't look a day over forty. ”

“She’d be thrilled to hear you say that,” he said as he put his jacket on.

“Oh, I told her as much.” Leaning in closer, she inspected the skin around her eyes. “Granted, I don’t know how well she took it considering I didn’t have any trousers on when she walked in.”

Kaidan laughed. Being caught by your mom at age 37 wasn’t the same as being caught when you were 17.

He stopped laughing. Miranda had a point. Maybe his hesitation went beyond filial duty.

“It could do you wonders to be striking it out on your own,” she said shrewdly. She turned back to him and folded his jacket shut, then began doing up the buttons. “No more whinging about Mikhailovich or obsolete policies.”

“Whinge? Since when do I whinge?” he asked with a slight whine.

“Mmm…perhaps ‘whinge’ is an exaggeration.”

Judging by her flattened smile, she didn’t find his faux incredulity as amusing as he did.

“But we’re not here to fuck spiders. There’s a job to do. And all that red tape is only going to worsen as negotiations drag on.” Smoothing the fabric along the length of his placket, she nodded slightly as if to say “yes, this meets approval”.

Kaidan pivoted toward the mirror to see for himself. Everything was in its right place, aside from the short, gold chain on his epaulet dangling down his chest. He pinched the loose end between his fingers and attached it to the top button of his jacket. What was the chain for anyhow? It seemed a banal detail, the kind whose meaning had been taken for granted or lost in time—a vestige of some other era.

He narrowed his eyes at himself and tugged at the hem of his jacket with both hands, then the bottoms of his sleeves. The jacket hugged a little snugger than usual. He caught Miranda studying his reflection, and he straightened his shoulders in a self-conscious reflex.

She held his gaze obliquely through the mirror. “Ask yourself: who will be doing the real work? The kind you can’t push off to someone else. Greasing palms and cheap talk? Anyone can do that.” Miranda’s piercing expression deepened. “Stopping undesirables from exploiting the situation…that takes another breed entirely.”

“Are you saying the Alliance doesn’t do real work?”

“No. I’m saying they’ll be hamstrung by their own policies, by lack of agreements with the right people. A Spectre might answer to the Council, but at least they’ve got free reign.”

There was that bluntness again. A diplomat she was not. A wry smile crept at his lips.

“Are we still talking about me? Because it sounds like we’re talking about you.”

“Me, a Spectre? Never.” She let out a half-hearted laugh as she turned away from the mirror and plunked down onto the piled up comforter of the bed.

“Come on, Miranda,” he said, spinning around. “We both know you’d make a perfect Spectre.”

“Yes, you’re not wrong. But they’d never consider me. My past is too problematic. Sill too much oversight for my taste, anyhow.”

“But its alright for me, huh?” he asked playfully. Being in a relationship with such an indomitable woman was daunting, but at least it was never dull.

She leaned back onto her hands and crossed her bare legs. The corner of her mouth curled as she kicked a foot toward him. “I’m not you, darling.”

“Oh, that much is clear…” His voice was low as his gaze traced a line from her foot, up to her pearly calf, danced along her thigh, and beyond.

It was too easy to let himself get distracted, and Miranda was making it easy to be distracted.

On second thought, where was the harm in a little distraction? Better to relax the nervous system a little on a day like this, right? Just like he’d been taught in biotics training.

Miranda’s eyes tracked his as Kaidan lowered himself onto the bed. He leaned in to kiss her and crept the tips of his fingers up the bottom of her shirt, his hands sliding beneath its fabric to cradle her bare waist. Before he could pull her in further, she pressed her hands to his chest and began to kiss back eagerly. Her breath grew loud and greedy. Emboldened, he surrendered his weight and sank into her, and they fell to the bed like the fated lovers of a black-and-white movie.

Suddenly, her hands pushed at his shoulders to break their kiss. She held a finger to his mouth, letting it barely graze his lips. “You’ll wrinkle your uniform, General.”

Kaidan sighed. “Ahh, you just had to remind me, didn’t you?”

Miranda grinned.

Clearing his throat, he sat up and checked the time. “Damn! I’d better hurry. I’ll miss the next shuttle I wanted to get there early. Will you lock up for me?” He pushed off the bed and hurried to check himself in the mirror one last time.

“Can’t wait for me?” she asked, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.

He’d almost responded, “I love you, Miranda, but you take too long doing your hair.” Instead, he said, “You take too long doing your hair.”

A year had passed without either of them saying the words out loud. They were mature adults. They’d had relationships before. And they had feelings for each other that went beyond companionship. Surely the word ‘love’ wouldn’t ruin anything.

Yet, he hesitated to say it. “Not now” he’d tell himself again and again. It isn’t the right time.

Miranda pulled the sheets into place with a crisp tug. “Not even going to stay for coffee?”

“I’ll grab something at the corner, on the way.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Good luck this week. Rear Admiral Chavez tells me the protectionists are pretty well dug in.”

“I don’t need luck, dear,” she said, abandoning the bedding. “I just need my wits, my gun, and a little trick or two.” Miranda snapped her fingers. A halo of biotics enveloped them as she placed her hands in his and smiled.

“I’ll be rooting for you, Ms. Lawson.”

“Same to you, Alenko.”

The silence in the ballroom pulsated. Attendees sat slack-jawed at the Dalatrass’ last statement, everyone too aghast to do anything beyond suck air.

Garrus happened to be looking straight ahead when the Dalatrass ceded the floor. On the opposite side of the table, Admiral Hackett whispered something into Prime Minister Osoba’s ear, and Kaidan, who was seated behind them, was making a face like he’d caught the whiff of something rotten.

Finally, the Prime Minister’s raspy voice cut through the shock. “The Treaty of Farixen strictly prohibits the building of new dreadnoughts beyond the stated limits.”

Dalatrass Linron did not recant. “Considering the state of affairs, the Salarian Union sees the treaty as null and void. The decimation of the turian and asari militaries has left Council space weak and vulnerable. As such, the Union seeks to build more dreadnoughts.” She lifted her chin, seeming to address the wall rather than anyone in the room. “We are, after all, the only Council race with adequate resources to do so, and we will not have our territories go undefended.”

Garrus could almost see Wrex’s shrill, hot breath ripping through the slits of his nose.

“Bah! That’s a load of pyjack crap and you know it. You don’t get to just call off a treaty!” A contemptuous chortle erupted from the battlemaster’s throat.

“The krogan leader will remember to watch his language please,” the moderator reminded him.

“You have resources because you left everyone else to do the dirty work!” His hands clenched into fists, and for a moment, he appeared poised to slam them through the freshly waxed tabletop. “And what did you offer? A single fleet? The STG? Some science and tech, I’ll give you that much. But tell me, Dalatrass, how many liters of salarian blood were spilled? How many made the last stand alongside us on the battlefields of Earth? Cause I sure as shit didn’t see any of you come the end.”

Wrex’s breath was scorching now, so white Garrus was sure he could feel it on his neck.

“There’s only one salarian I know who had any real guts, and he’s dead,” Wrex spat.

The Dalatrass scoffed. “So the quarians receive a slap on the wrist for adding canons to their liveships, do they? Without an embassy or position? Yet, we cannot consider the Treaty void? Do you not see the hypocrisy here?” Having worked herself into a fluster, she paused to take a long breath. “Need I remind you of the Union’s efforts to re-enable the malfunctioning relays? Our monumental task to rebuild infrastructure throughout Council space? If we possessed ulterior motives, why not build the ships in secret? We’ve chosen to disclose our intentions as a show of cooperation. And at great expense to our people, if I might add.”

The back of Wrex’s hand swatted through the air. “Oh boo-fucking-hoo! Think we’re all a bunch of suckers, don’t you?” he belted. “Well, this isn’t the Rachni Wars, sweetheart. What’s that human saying? ‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice—go screw yourselves’?”

There was a click as the moderator cut Wrex’s audio. “Mr. Urdnot! You are out of line!”

Vulgar whispers twirled about the ballroom, the coffered ceiling doing little to absorb the tittle-tattle.

Calmly, the moderator waited for the noise to subside. When it didn’t stop, she tapped her finger on her audio pick-up, and everyone in the room recoiled. “We recognize that these meetings have the potential to become very…intense,” the matriarch articulated with care. “There is much at stake. But it would behoove all attendants to remember the level of decorum expected at a formal gathering such as this. Do not forget: the entire galaxy is watching.”

The crowd hushed. As an elder statesman, Matriarch Coralis possessed a powerful presence, one marked by restraint and quiet attentiveness. “Thank you,” she said. Her keen eyes recognized Primarch Victus reaching for his indicator. “I now give the floor to Primarch Adrien Victus of Palaven.”

“Thank you, Matriarch. If I may, I’d like to suggest we vote that this…digression be pushed to the supplementary list.”

“Very well. Voting is now open for the additional item: Salarian Union regarding Treaty of Farixen.”

Disdainful as her grimace had been, the smug satisfaction now varnishing Linron’s face made Garrus want to wipe it off. He looked at Primarch Victus to gauge his reaction, but as usual, the drawn plates of his face gave nothing away.

The Primarch canted his head toward Wrex again, who had taken to pounding his thigh with his fist. “I know it’s difficult, but you won’t get anywhere with them like that,” he whispered.

“I’ve played nice long enough,” Wrex replied, not trying very hard to keep his voice down. “These fly-eaters think they can keep pushing us around.”

“Be patient. We need to stick with our plan.”

“Fine. But only because our boy here promised me a front seat at the reckoning.” Wrex glanced over his shoulder and snickered at Garrus.

“A deal’s a deal.”

Salarian payback would be sweet indeed, but truthfully, Garrus was more concerned about the inevitable request—scratch that, demand—for more krogan colonies. Wrex was a friend, but there were limits to what friendship could and could not curtail.

“Thank you for your patience. The voting period has now ended,” said Matriarch Coralis. “The majority has voted for an amendment to the agenda.”

Mandibles relaxing, the Primarch let out a faint sigh. “Thank spirits for that. At least we’ll have some time to prepare arguments. Garrus, can you let Professor Mithrenus know we’ll need the entire historical division on stand by?”

“Yes, sir.”

The first time Garrus spoke with the Professor, he had the feeling that he’d met him somewhere before, but couldn’t quite place him. But the Professor recognized his name right away, and his silty voice lifted in excitement as he asked after his mother, their family, and her career all in the same breath.

It had been awkward explaining his mom's condition. He was of molting age the last time he’d seen Mithrenus, and his memory of the Professor was fuzzy at best. The Professor and his mother had been close colleagues at one time; they’d served together in the 38th Ferox Legion, before she’d moved onto her position at the university. His dad never really liked the Professor—said he was a gutless man who indulged in “unbecoming” flights of fancy. His reasons for his opinions weren’t clear, though from what Garrus could gather, there was more to it than simple derision. Something from his parents early days? A romantic rivalry? It was hard to imagine his dad being the jealous type—not a very Castis-like trait in his eyes.

Regardless, the Professor’s position could easily have been his mother’s had her life been untouched by illness. So many things stolen away by a villain no bigger than the end of a pin.

No sooner had his thoughts begun to drift home when he realized he’d missed the motion for recess. The moderator’s voice cut in again. “Motion to recess has passed. The assembly shall reconvene in exactly two hours.”

A parade of long, zipped-up faces scraped past as the turians took their time in leaving. Several meters ahead, the asari delegation spread across the egress like a wave of blue dots. Garrus narrowed his eyes.

“Is it just me, or were the asari awfully quiet about that dreadnought stuff?”

“I see we had the same thought,”said the Primarch Victus as he tucked his chair into the table. “Normally, they’re the first to speak out against violations.”

“It runs counter to my knowledge of the treaty’s history and interpretations, but a vote on compassionate grounds seems within reason, sir,” said Primarch Vaelen. Before he’d become leader of the Lapus Cluster, the Primarch had been a revered legal scholar.

“Still, I think their actions warrant closer examination,” replied Victus.

And that was when Garrus saw it: Matriarch T’naris shooting a furtive look over her shoulder, and Dalatrass Linron lifting her head with a snap in the Matriarch’s direction.

That was intentional. It had to be.

But something didn’t add up. A few months ago, two other representatives, Dalatrass Emora and Matriarch Deneya, had rendered the planning sessions into miserable spectacles. Both had refused to back down from even the most trivial details. Why, then, did the furtive look between T’naris and Linron feel anything but coincidental?

“Hmmm,” uttered Garrus, still standing in place at his seat. “The asari lectured the quarians about their Thanix cannons but didn’t vote for outright removal. What do you suppose they’re aiming for?”

Primarch Victus signaled to the group that he was ready to leave. “I don’t know, but we need to find out before the end of the week. That’s when we’ll be tackling all the additional points of order.”

Garrus kept his eyes trained on Matriarch T’naris as she disappeared behind a glass-tiled partition, her opaque figure shaded by the wispy vines dripping from above. When he reached the doors, she was gone. Whether what he’d seen was real or not, maintaining situational awareness had always served him well; he just happened to be in a ballroom instead of the battlefield.

In the atrium fronting the Velorum, under the towering leaves of a Palavenian palm, the Alliance contingent spoke amongst themselves, cloistered and half-shaded from prying eyes.

Kaidan hung back as Admiral Hackett reiterated the talking points he would present to the Hierarchy. They had all agreed that the Admiral should be the one to present them. He’d cultivated a rapport with the Primarch in the aftermath of the war, and their partnership continued to prove both fruitful and hardy.

Under normal circumstances, it would have been the Prime Minister’s job to elicit propositions. But Prime Minister Osoba had only held office for three months. The interim government that had formed from the ashes of Arcturus had finally exhausted its utility, and the electorate clamored for a return to more familiar things.

The summit would be Osoba’s chance to establish relationships with other leaders, and that meant he needed experienced people at his side. Who better, then, than the men who’d already forged their bonds in the crucible of war? A war that had demanded cooperation and compromise. It was why Kaidan had been chosen to attend the special assembly; he’d worked alongside some of the galaxy’s burgeoning leaders, had aided their people, and had served the Council as a Spectre. A shrewder person would say he grasped their missteps and vulnerabilities—that they were weapons to be put to use—but Kaidan saw them less as weapons and more as tools. He saw the potential to be a conduit, and he saw the potential for the Alliance to cement their place in the post-war sphere through careful strategy and alignment. And while he didn’t feel qualified enough to be an admiral, or a diplomat for that matter, he knew his seat at the table had been well considered.

Admiral Hackett had just finished carving his list down to the barest bones when the Prime Minister pitched his head to see around him. The turians were funneling out of the ballroom and stalking toward them in silence, their expressions as adamantine as their carapaces.

“Primarch Victus!” Osoba called out. “Just the man we wanted to speak to.”

“Prime Minister Osoba, congratulations on your election.” The Primarch strode toward him and extended his hand.

“Thank you, Primarch,” said the Prime Minister, giving his hand a firm shake. “The winning margin was much wider than we expected. Competition for the job wasn’t the most robust. Not that I’m complaining.”

Victus’ mandibles flared playfully. “I don’t suppose many people envy being responsible for all this right now.” He gestured widely to the space around them.

“Envy? I sure as hell don’t.”

“Admiral Hackett. It’s good to see you back to your old self.” The two soldiers exchanged salutes.

“Old self? Oh, I am feeling pretty old these days.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed it along the side of his face.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Relax, it was a joke,” he said, smiling, and tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket. “Say, we just wanted a quick word. Do you have a few minutes?”

Victus’ brow sank as he leaned in toward Hackett. “Is it about…that, then?”

Kaidan furrowed his brow as he tried to sort out which ‘that’ the Primarch was referring to. He turned to Garrus for a clue, but the ever-vigilant soldier was preoccupied with scanning the crowd in the atrium.

Admiral Hackett also seemed wary of the company around them. He glanced over his shoulder before addressing Victus. “We should speak in private.”

Primarch Victus acknowledged him with a brief nod and signaled for his guards to follow.

“If you’ll excuse us, gentleman.” The Admiral pointed the way with an open hand, and the three leaders slipped away to seclusion, with their security details trailing close behind.

The rest of the entourage scattered, but Garrus and Kaidan exchanged a knowing look. While they had never been close, they had shared an unspoken camaraderie throughout the years, and whatever feelings of personal friction there may have been at one time had been put to bed long ago. Here and now, they stood as equals: as right hands to the galaxy’s most powerful figures.

“Vakarian,” said Kaidan, saluting.

“Alenko.” Garrus saluted back. “So, just us underlings now.”

“Weaklings is more like,” another voice blustered.

An approaching shadow engulfed Garrus from behind, and raucous laughter rattled the leaves of the palms above.

Kaidan smirked. “Nice to see you too, Wrex.”

Their imposing friend shoved his way between them and dropped to a bench at the edge of the plant bed, a sigh heaving out as he propped an elbow on his knee. “So….this is going well, huh?”

“About as smoothly as a vorcha pick-up line,” said Garrus, fluttering his mandibles.

“It’s only Day One, boys,” Kaidan reminded them. “We’ll have to keep our big-boy pants on for the rest of the week. After that…”

“You were planning on taking yours off? I didn’t take you for an exhibitionist, Alenko,” Wrex said with a wicked grin.

“Gotta to take the edge off somehow.”

His dry reply made Garrus sputter. If Garrus had been sipping a drink, Kaidan was sure he would have choked on it right then and there. Playing the straight man in a group of jokers had its benefits.

“Hey, what were you two whispering about earlier, in the ballroom? Care to share with the class?”

There was silence as Garrus glanced at Wrex, and Wrex stared back at him, the line of his wide mouth gaunt and curled.

Wrex wagged his head. “Nothing important,” he said, staring past Kaidan. Something had caught his attention.

Kaidan looked over his shoulder to see Tali pounding towards them from the far side of the atrium, arms swinging wide. She stopped at Garrus’ side and perched a hand on her hip.

“Were you just going to leave me out of this cozy little chat?”

“Well if it isn’t my favorite niece! I’d get up to hug you, but my knees have been killing me.” The bench creaked as Wrex shifted forward. “We were just talking about how Kaidan here was gonna take his pants off.”

“Kaidan!” Tali gasped. “I’m surprised at you. If you could kindly leave your trousers on, thank you very much. This is a professional setting.”

Playing along, he crossed his arms and cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t seriously believe him, do you?”

“No, of course not,” she deadpanned.

“Got to keep yer fancy guns, huh?” asked Wrex.

“On compassionate grounds. You were listening, weren’t you?”

“I don’t know, I might have dozed off while the volus ambassador gave that speech about terraforming. Blah blah blah soil blah blah geology blah blah blah.”

“That stuff is kind of important, Wrex.”

“Well I know that, but it doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Kaidan was quiet as Wrex and Tali continued to trade quips. He watched his friends’ faces and was struck by an unusual thought: what an anomaly they were.

They were people of different species, brought together under the leadership of a tenacious woman. People who had traveled the galaxy on the same vessel, with the same mission. Who had become friends through shared victory and loss, and who were now poised to steer the future of the galaxy. There was no other group of friends in the universe who could claim the same path.

It was a hopeful thought.

But on the other side of that hope, there was quiet fear. The crew of the Normandy had once set aside long-standing prejudices and fraught histories to achieve a singular goal. Now there was a chance they’d be locked in opposition, each of them advocating on behalf their own people, desperately panning for prosperity and salvation, for the things they’d lost in the war. Their own allotment of peace. Could old alliances bear the weight of entire worlds? Or would they now find themselves cold and shut out? Bitter, perhaps?

The idea saddened him too much. Kaidan shut it out of his mind as Wrex’s deep guffaw shook him back to the present; the laugh was world-weary but comforting. He could still enjoy this for what it was, even if it wasn’t forever.

“What are you doing tonight, Kaidan? Care to join me and Garrus for dinner?” asked Tali.

“I can’t, Admiral Hackett asked me to attend an event hosted by the hanar primacy. Thanks, though.”

Kaidan glanced at Garrus. He wasn’t paying attention to the conversation at all, instead staring down at his omnitool with a pinched face, preoccupied with whatever had popped up on his display. A faint growl rumbled from the turian’s throat.

“You okay, Garrus? You seem a little out of sorts.”

“Yeah. I’ve just gotta make a quick call.” His mandibles tightened as he flicked something on his screen like it was an obnoxious fly.  “As much as I’d love to just shoot the breeze with everyone—no sarcasm intended—my afternoon is back to back.”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it, you’re too good for us now,” said Wrex, who made a shooing motion with his hands.

“Still on for dinner, Tali?”

“Yeah, of course. Say hello to Shepard for me.”

“I will. The next time I speak with her, anyway. I’ll see you all later.”

Kaidan gave him a quick wave, but he’d already turned around and was hurrying away.

Searching for a quiet corner, Garrus swiveled his head about the room. Light flooded through the glass ceiling, breaking between the fronds of a giant fern and streaming into his eyes. He squinted. There was no quiet to be had. There were too many people milling about, the dense foliage and blooms doing little to dampen their chatter. He hated having make a quick escape, but he’d already missed his reminder to call Sol; he couldn’t wait any longer. 

He took cover under the overhang of a second floor balcony and brought up his omnitool. After five rings, there was no answer. He rang her again. No answer. He called one more time. Still no answer.

Crap.

He’d already missed the last two chats with his mom and foisted off most of her medical correspondence to Sol. He could only imagine how pissed off his sister would be now. Garrus pressed his back to the wall, letting his head drop back, and it hit the glass with a clipped thud. He was done with it all. Just done.

He looked out blankly onto the atrium floor. A quick figure crossed his field of vision: Tali cutting across the rotunda, toward the corner of the breezeway where Admiral Raan and Admiral Koris waited for her. Spirits, she walked fast. She seemed taller than before, too, standing alongside Admiral Raan. It had been less than two years since he’d seen her last, but he could see in her square, uplifted shoulders, in the surefooted breadth of her stride, how different she had become. Different than the friend he’d left behind, and worlds different than the fledgling pilgrim he’d first met in the Citadel alley. That nervous and earnest girl. Girl no longer. A woman, an admiral. It made for a remarkable story. She could have sold the vid rights to her biography, if she’d wanted to.

But Garrus’ story wasn’t all that pedestrian either. When he retraced his steps, he followed a swift, but serpentine path to the present: from insular cop, to space-faring Spectre hunter; from vengeful vigilante, to respected war advisor. And now, that same man had become a general in the turian Hierarchy, someone within a talon’s grasp of the Primacy. All this in the span of five short years.

All this, yet he'd failed, again, to call his family. It was all too easy say “later” or “another day”, “there’s something more important happening right now”. Important? What was more important when his mother, who hardly remembered he existed, slipped further from his fingers each day? Someday there would stop being a “later”.

The question Sol had asked him months ago looped through his mind: “Are we bad kids?”. Bad kids. He heard the words in his father’s voice, not Sol’s, and he clenched his teeth to bear the phantom pain. Dad’s not here anymore, Mom. Dad’s not here. He would try to call one last time.

But the sound of footsteps pounding the tile made him jerk his head up. General Pallas, second in command to Primarch Vaelen, approached, and his boots squeaked as he came to a sudden stop.

“Vakarian, Major Paetrus has just contacted me. He’s sent a request for spec ops to move from the Laupus Cluster to Palaven. I’ve already signed off, but he needs you to give the okay.”

Garrus stared back blankly. He’d heard the words but his brain hadn’t processed their meaning.

The General gave him a pointed look and let out a sharp breath.“Did you not receive his message?”

“Oh,” said Garrus, feeling confused. “I’m sorry, I must have missed that.” He turned his omnitool on and scrolled through the last few messages. Major Paetrus had indeed sent him a request, but he must have swiped past it at some point that morning. “I don’t know what happened. I’ll make sure he gets that right away.”

“Before lunch, yes?” General Pallas shook his head. “I’ll see you at the joint session.”

Garrus gave a curt nod, and the General stomped away, clearly annoyed that Victus’ right hand had fumbled over something so simple and time sensitive. He brought up his omnitool again and opened the Major’s message. It can wait two minutes, Garrus. Two minutes, five, ten—no one is going to die. Call your sister.

The line rang. It was already too late, he knew, but he left a voice message anyway.

“Hey Sol, it’s me. I must have just missed you. How’s Mom?” Without thinking, he stopped to listen as if Sol could answer him somehow—a placeholder for connection. “Um, if you get this before her appointment, can you ask the clinic to send me another copy of the last bill? Looks like there’s an error. They’re asking for full payment for the last test. That should’ve been covered. Oh, and Administrator Octana got back to me. She said Mom’s eligible for the additional stipend, but the deadline is end of this week. But you’ll need to call her yourself. I’ll be in meetings for the rest of the day. Message me when you get this. Thanks.” He’d almost hung up. “H-hope you’re holding up. Love you, sis,” he added awkwardly.

It was something, at least.

The moment he hung up, his omnitool pinged. It wasn’t Sol but Primarch Victus.

“Yes, sir?” he asked, struggling to keep his subvocals from betraying him.

“Garrus, we need you in the Rigel Room, on the second floor. I’ve spoken to Admiral Hackett about our plan and he has a few questions for you, directly.”

“Yes, sir. Be right there.”

Garrus straightened his back and rolled his shoulders. Duty called.

Die for the cause.

Chapter Text

PART II
Chapter 16: Comfrey*

2 years, 4 mo. after the end of the Reaper War
Okanagan Valley, British Columbia, Earth

It wasn’t even noon yet, and already the day felt over.

The sky spat in Shepard's face like she’d insulted it for being too grim. She huffed and jerked the hood of her jacket up, the snap of its fabric banishing water into the air. Aside from December’s deep shroud of white, winter in the valley had passed without remark, and the falling snow warmed to stubborn rain by February. Everything was uncharacteristically damp. God, was she ever sick of the damp.

Struggling for traction on the muddy hillside, Shepard began to slide down, nearly colliding with an overgrown patch of sagebrush before catching herself with a firmly planted boot. A sudden pain shattered in her ankle. She cried out. It tore up her leg and lanced her back. She froze, her eyes widened and unfocused. A long breath. Take a breath and let it pass.

At least she wasn’t dizzy. It was enough that her hips ached and that her chest felt heavy, or that her knees were rusted in place. But she wasn’t going to stop. Nothing could stop her. Not the rain or the mud. Not the creeping feeling that her body was falling apart, returning to the form that had crossed the skies of Alchera.

Cautiously, she made her way down until she came to the edge of the property. Her foot sunk into the slick muck of the orchard bed. It had become a mulch of moldering leaves and droppings left by rapacious deer that grazed the hillsides. Each step dredged up the scent of spring: a tepid bog of fetid fish-stink and worms, of roots and twigs and insects long dead in the dirt, rotted with the thaw. It was the volatile perfume of eleventh-hour decay.

Shepard trudged toward the first alley. She lifted her head and listened. The orchard was nearly silent. The birds had not returned, nor had the bees. There was only the squelching of mud under her boots and the patter of rain.

When she crested the second hill, she surveyed the trees below. It had been two weeks since she’d last inspected them up close. The nascent buds of the apples and cherries were still shut tight, but the buds of the apricot trees had opened, hugging to their scraggly branches like knots of frost and ice. Plants full of hope and vigor, they’d bloomed despite the dreary weather, before pushing out leaves. A kind of temporal protection against extinction.

Gently framing a blossom between two fingers, Shepard ran her thumb over its white petals. She smiled. They were soft and speckled with water. They were as delicate and new as the hair on a baby’s head.

In an instant, the rain began to pick up. She would have missed the beeping of her omnitool had the orange halo around her arm not stood out so plainly in the gray. Her smile grew as she saw the name that appeared on its display.

“Liara!” she cried after answering.

“I’m so happy to hear your voice, Shepard. How are you?”

“I’m…”—she was looked up at the colorless sky, and a fat drop of rain hit her in the eye—“doing okay.” She ducked to take cover beneath the tree. “Yep, doing okay.”

There was a pause at the other end of the line. “I don’t believe you.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” asked Shepard, unsure of how to reply. “I haven’t heard from you in an age. Where have you been? What have you been doing? Where’s Javik?”

“On the Citadel, currently advising the new Council security committee. They’re very interested in hearing the Prothean perspective on galactic-wide defense. No one wants to take chances when it comes to the possibility of another Reaper style threat.”

“They can’t ignore a 50,000 year old man, I suppose.”

“Shepard…I don’t want to lie to you. This isn’t a social call.”

“I guessed as much. You’re not one for chats. Out of the blue, that is. ”

“Is that a joke?”

“What? No, of course not,” said Shepard, stifling a laugh. “What I mean to say is you prefer speaking face-to-face.”

“You know me well,” she replied quietly. “What do you think, then? About meeting face to face? I have something I need to ask you. A favor.”

“You can’t ask me now?”

“I’d prefer to see you in person. It’s rather a delicate matter.”

“Delicate?”

“I’m already in Sol, on Mars. Are you free tomorrow?”

“I am. But I can meet you there if you want—”

“There’s no need. I’d prefer to meet you on Earth.”

“Sounds—”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Liara’s line dropped abruptly, leaving Shepard dumbstruck as she stood under the apricot tree, her arm still held to her face. Liara was only curt when something was bothering her. Whatever was happening must have been more serious than she was letting on.

Shepard, furrowing her brow,  gazed up at the canopy of flowers overhead. Liara wanted a favor? And why meet in person, on Earth for that matter? Maybe she’d resumed her position as Shadowbroker. She might need sensitive intel. But what intel could Shepard offer? She wasn’t an active officer or Spectre, let alone someone with their finger on the pulse of the galaxy. She was of no consequence as far as she was concerned.

While her thoughts flitted from one to another, her gaze flitted too, roving from flower to flower and filling her vision with details she’d overlooked earlier. The blooms on the inner branches were dotted with specks of brown as if stained by the wet. The stamens at their centers hung limp. And some flowers, which should have been pert, had begun to collapse in on themselves—wind-torn umbrellas, wrinkled and deflated.

Shepard pressed her lips together and shut her eyes. The rain grew to a nervous rattle against the trees. Deep behind her forehead, a thrum.

God, was she ever sick of the damp.

The Citadel, Sol System

Fingers still fiddling to close the buckle of his collar, Garrus hurried down the hallway with Sergeant Laren trailing close behind. They’d just settled down to dinner when he’d received a message from Primarch Victus: “PRIORITY MEETING, ASAP”.

The embassy doors slid open, and the jagged scent of buffed metal whiffed out. It prickled Garrus’ airways, bringing him close to a sneeze, but he repressed it just in time. He always hated that smell. It reminded him of being a cadet, of the times they’d been forced to prepare sites for important visitors or ceremonies, of scrubbing and polishing every surface by hand, right down to the last molding and finial. Work that could have been done by basic drones was done by artless grunts in the name of discipline. At least no poor bastard had suffered on his account.

The administrator behind the desk acknowledged the men with a nod. Garrus had become a regular visitor, performing daily check-ins after the Primarch had left last week. He turned the corner of the hallway and stopped short of the comms room.

“I need you to stay here, Sergeant.”

“Understood, sir.” Laren saluted and stood at ease.

Collar finally done up, Garrus entered, letting out a sharp huff as he keyed into the secure channel. Primarch Victus, Admiral Hackett, Admiral Bhatt, and Prime Minister Osoba appeared on the holo-vid—not people you’d want to keep waiting for long.

“Ah, General Vakarian. Thank you for joining us on such short notice,” said Admiral Hackett.

“Of course, Admiral.”

“I know you’re all very busy right now, so I’ll cut to the chase. The scenario we feared has come to pass. Word is the asari have formed an informal alliance with the salarians. The main driver seems to be economic in nature, but given what the salarians proposed regarding the Treaty of Farixen, I don’t doubt that their partnership will include other arrangements.”

Garrus tightened his jaw. His instincts at the meeting had been right. Not something he could gloat about now, however.

“We’ve only just begun recovering from the war,” said Prime Minister Osoba.  He stroked a pair of dog tags hanging from his neck. “The faith of the public is still fragile. We need to be careful. We can’t be seen as stoking the embers of conflict.”

“Will appearances matter once they have the rest of the galaxy in a stranglehold?” blurted Garrus.

The Prime Minister’s expression turned grim.

Garrus blanched at his slip. His breach in protocol should have at least earned him a look from the Primarch, but his superior took no action.

“If we’re to be prepared for the consequences,” said Primarch Victus. “we’ll need the cooperation of the krogan. We don’t stand a chance without their support.”

Admiral Hackett nodded. “We’re on the same page then, Primarch.”

“Is it wise to owe the krogan more…favors? Their demands for expansion will never end,” said Osoba.

“A likely outcome. But there’s a price to pay for everything—lose your hand or your foot, that’s always the choice you have to make.”

Hackett wasn’t wrong, and it was obvious to Garrus what the right choice should be. “I don’t know about you, but my bets are on the two-hundred kilo reptiles with guns,” he added.

Admiral Bhatt, who was standing with her hands behind her back, tilted her head. “May I suggest one thing, gentleman?”

“Please, Admiral Bhatt,” said the Primarch.

“We should speak with Urdnot Bakara. While curing the genophage went a long way in smoothing out relations, there are still those on Tuchanka who balk at the idea of linking arms with other species—with the turians, in particular.” She unclasped her hands. “If you’ll pardon me saying so, Primarch.”

“What about Urdnot Wrex?” asked the Prime Minister.

“As crucial as Urdnot Wrex was to the war effort, it’s Bakara who holds the most influence over their people. She has the presence of mind to approach the situation with more…”—Admiral Bhatt swirled a hand in the air—“…sense. ”

The Admiral was right, but the Hierarchy was already two steps ahead. They had foreseen the need to engage Bakara as an active asset months ago and had drafted an informal agreement. But there was no use in complicating matters now, the Alliance would find out soon enough.

“Think of it this way, sir,” continued the Admiral. “She’s the miracle that saved the krogan race. She’s the mother of all mothers. And you don’t say no to Mother.”

The Prime Minister shook his head. “Well, when you put it that way…”

“I think we can agree that a new war should be avoided at all costs,”said Primarch Victus. “But now’s not the time to sit idle while others take advantage of our efforts. Whoever we need to woo, we do it now. ”

Sitting idle was what had gotten them into this situation in the first place, but voicing more acerbic comments wasn’t going to do him or the Primarch any favors.

“Don’t forget—we still have another card to play,” said Admiral Hackett.

Admiral Bhatt drummed her fingers on her console. “Threatening the salarians with our intel will cause a big stir. I don’t see them giving in easily.”

“Look, if they don’t take the bait, word of their sabotage will still get around,” said Hackett. “Because we’ll make it go around.”

Garrus stifled a grin; politics didn’t excite him, but retribution certainly did. “At the very least it’ll piss off the krogan. A call for vengeance? That’s something the salarians can’t afford,” he said.

“I wouldn’t count on them licking their wounds for long. With backing from the asari, they won’t be hurting for resources,” said Admiral Bhatt.

The Prime Minister crossed his arms. “And the asari? If they decide the salarians aren’t worth the trouble?”

“They won’t,” said Primarch Victus. “Their attempt to block the cure can only hurt the salarians in as much as anyone cares. They have a stranglehold on tech development, and the asari are desperate to retain their influence. It’s worth the headache for them.”

Frowning, the Prime Minister seemed to mull over the Primarch’s words.

“The good news is we have some insurance on our fair blue friends.”

“Insurance?” Osoba perked up and cocked an eyebrow. “Did you know about this, Hackett?”

“It’s something we’ve kept under wraps for some time now, sir. But it looks like we may have reason to deploy that intel.” Admiral Hackett’s gaze fell on Garrus. “Only waiting on one more piece to fall into place.”

Garrus pretended not to notice. Instead, he looked to the Primarch, whose stiff brow betrayed his thoughts. The reluctant leader’s mind was turning; Garrus wagered he’d already run through the different scenarios and was five steps ahead of everyone else. When it came to gaining and maintaining an advantage, the Primarch was as shrewd in the board room as he was on the battlefield.

“Regardless, we should prepare for the worst case scenario should diplomacy or negotiation fail,” the Primarch reminded everyone.

A young man appeared on the Prime Minister’s feed and leaned in close to his ear. Osoba cleared his throat. “That will have to be a talk for another day, unfortunately. I have a cabinet meeting to attend to.”

“Yes, of course Prime Minster.”

“Thank you all for your time and your valuable insight. I’ll trust you to agree on the right decision.” And without warning, the Prime Minister’s feed went dark.

The comms room was silent for a few moments before Admiral Bhatt spoke up.

“The right decision? What do you suppose he meant by that?” she asked, her face twisting in confusion.

“I think it means, Admiral,” said Hackett, “that he wants us to go ahead with exposing the salarians.”

The grin Garrus had stifled earlier crept back into his face. This was going to be one hell of a ride.

“Ugh, let's hope that's it until morning.”

Garrus glanced down at his blank omnitool. It was late, but he was thankful for some downtime at last. He nodded a quick thanks to the bartender. The grizzled turian grunted in response and turned back to the dirty glassware piling up behind him.

“That meeting this afternoon! Did you see the look on Caria’s face when Minister Tyllin called her out?” asked Tali, snatching at her drink.

“‘This one believes you may not fully comprehend statistics.’”Garrus waved his arms loosely at his sides. “‘Perhaps this one may provide a rudimentary review of ratios.’”

“Keelah, I thought she was going to drown in embarrassment. He basically called her stupid.” Tali popped her straw into her glass and took a long sip.

Garrus shook his head. “Tyllin was right to shoot her down. Building a joint military base on Kahje is a terrible idea.”

The friends sat in silence, content to let the conversation breathe. With the big shots gone, the fanfare and spectacle of formality had died, replaced by the grit of subordinates: officers, ministers, and experts left to perform the vital, unsexy work envied by exactly no one. But line-by-line details were the lifeblood of deals. They knit muscle to bone and breathed life into deflated promises; they allowed the Council to function as the civilized body it was designed to be.

At the end of the day, the subordinates stumbled out of their pokey chambers and makeshift meeting rooms, and found their way back to their temporary quarters. Back to their gray, plain walls and their gray, unyielding mattresses. Garrus, on the other hand, stayed far away from his quarters. A nagging insomnia had taken hold of him since he’d arrived, and the thought of laying in empty room for hours on end depressed him deeply.

Nursing a brandy, he took stock of his surroundings. The mood at The Bad Mistake was decidedly subdued. There was a pall of blue lighting bleeding from every edge, rendering the interior a mottled contusion of people and furnishings. Between the slumping patrons and the dirge-like turian ballads bleating over the sound system, the Kithoi Ward mainstay read like a den for the forlorn. But Garrus and Tali hadn’t exactly been spoiled for choice this late in the night cycle.

Two seats over, a turian woman sat with her eyes closed. She held her body perfectly still aside from mandibles that throbbed in time with the music. At the other end, a quarian man drummed his fingers on top of his helmet and sighed. Garrus flicked his mandibles.

“Interesting saying to display in a bar.” Tali raised her chin toward the wall behind the counter. A large holo-sign in white script read: The worst mistake is the one you don’t learn from.

“Huh.” Garrus leaned in and whispered as he eyed the old bartender. “Must’ve been one hell of a mistake.”

“A broken heart, maybe?” Tali whispered back.

True or not, Garrus raised his glass to the sign and drank.

“Speaking of broken hearts…what do you make of your chances of receiving a seat on the Council? Sounds like they weren’t convinced the quarians would make a big enough contribution.”

“Not good. But we did a lot of favors. We kept ships flying and systems running. It’s time we were recognized for that.”

“Admiral Raan was pretty confident.”

“Like Shepard used to say, we’ve still got a trick or two up our sleeves.”

“Care to share?”

“You know I can’t.”

“Fair enough.”

Chin resting in her hand, Tali rolled her straw around in circles along the edge of her glass. “I wish she were here… Shepard. She would know what to do.”

A heavy lump sat in Garrus’ chest. It felt wrong to carry on without her. She’d made this entire summit possible and she wasn’t here, not even as a figurehead.

“Maybe I should talk to her…” said Tali idly.

Garrus gripped the top of his glass and tapped a talon against its side.

“…or, you know, not.” Tali dipped her head down and took a slow sip from her straw.

“We shouldn’t trouble her with this right now.”

“You don’t think she’d be interested?” she asked swiveling in her seat to face him. “She’s probably bored to death out there.”

“To tell you the truth, I’m worried about her.”

“Really? She seemed perfectly happy the last time I spoke to her.”

“Come on, this is Shepard we’re talking about,” Garrus said, giving Tali a pointed look.

“What can we do? We can’t force her to share anything she doesn’t want to.”

“I know. Trust me, I’ve tried.” Pressing the tip of his tongue to the roof of his mouth, he struggled to swallow. That last sip of brandy tasted bitter, somehow. “I don’t know…wish I could tell you.”

Another long, turian plaint echoed through the bar. The lyrics spoke to honor, to sacrifice, and to the virtues of fealty. Its slow drone began to build: a throbbing cantata of drums and voices in counterpoint; the doublet a parade of syncopation, brutish and driving like an unbridled call to war; the beats and baritones stuttering; a rabid lapping of sounds, each galloping faster and faster; the composition feverish and bleeding until it succumbed to the bang of a single gunshot, and the music stopped.

The sudden glut of silence caught Garrus off guard. He jerked his head toward the door, expecting to see a platoon of soldiers in formation by the vestibule, awaiting his orders. There was nothing. Whatever was in this drink was doing him in.

“I’m sorry, Garrus.”

“What for?”

“That must be hard, with everything else.”

He sat up a little taller and poked his elbow out at her. “I’d say the same to you.”

“I just want to go home,” she sighed.

Home. What was that anymore? It was the thing they’d been fighting for, but neither of them had found it. For Tali, it was merely a matter of reaching it, but for Garrus, it extended beyond physical presence. There was always something to be done, other places to go, other priorities to attend to that kept him from feeling it in his heart.

“Hey, we didn’t ask for this. But we’ve gotta do it anyway, right?” he shook his head. “That’s just how it is.”

She snickered. “Keelah, isn’t the truth.”

He took another sip of the strangely bitter brandy. The turian woman who had been sitting quietly at the bar was now facing the wall and dancing, if you could call it that. A malevolent serpent had taken possession of her body and was trying out its new skin. Garrus didn’t know the woman, of course, but he felt embarrassed for her just the same.

“You know, if you’d have told young me that this is how he’d turn out,” he said, turning back to Tali, “he’d have called you a lying tirrur-tut.”

“A what?”

“A…uhh…” His mind was too fuzzy to give a coherent explanation. “You know, there isn’t really a good translation for that.”

“Tell me, what did young Garrus want, then?”

“Mmm, let’s see…” He wanted to tell her the truth, that he’d had thoughts on being a designer or an painter when he was a fledgling, but it was easier to tell a half-truth than to explain how he’d fought with his dad, bitterly, over what was and wasn’t a stable career. “What did I want? A brand new M-98, a copy of Grim Terminus Alliance, and lifetime access to Fornax,” he said coolly.

Tali erupted into a guffaw. “Such a simple young man!”

“I know it’s hard to believe,” Garrus said in a loud whisper. “But this handsome piece”—he gestured to himself—“was once a naive kid.”

“Excuse me?” She laughed again and rolled her eyes. “You are so full of crap!”

A heavy thump pulsed through the bar. Garrus mistook it as part of the music at first, but the sound stopped right behind them, and they both glanced over their shoulders to see Sergeant Laren. Collar undone and sleeves rolled up, he was out of breath.

“General…s-sorry to interrupt, sir. We have a situation at the embassy. Turian protestors have handcuffed themselves to the railing on the balcony. C-Sec is already on scene, but they say they won’t leave until they speak to someone in charge.”

“What the hell are you doing here, then?”Garrus asked, irritated.

“I, uh, went to the establishment across the way after we split up.”

Tali leaned out to look toward the window. “Across the way? But the only thing there is the strip—”

Garrus kicked her in the shin.

“Ow!” She kicked him back.

“Why don’t you go on ahead, Sergeant. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Yes, sir.” Laren saluted and hurried out of the bar, rolling his sleeves down as he went through the doors.

“Damn.” Glass still half-full, Garrus took one last swig and whacked it down on the counter. “Sorry to drink and run. Take care of the check for me?”

“Hey! You still owe me from last time!”

He rose from his seat. “I’ll wire you the credits later.”

“Yeah right! That’s what you said last time!” she shouted after him.

“Sorry!”

“BOSH’TET!”

Okanagan Valley, British Columbia, Earth

The buzzer at the storage building had been plastered over with a piece of ragged duct tape, presumably because it was broken, but knowing Jillian it was more likely to keep interlopers from disrupting her work. Shepard pounded on the weathered, steel door.

She listened for a response, for the sound of footsteps or a voice calling out, but she couldn’t hear anything over the plinking of rain on the roof. There was no answer. The flutters in her stomach turned to tremors. She pounded again—harder this time—hard enough to make the bones in her hand tingle.

At last, there was a deadened clunk. The wide door rolled open as the former admiral leaned all her weight into its handle. It screeched and juddered to a stop. Jillian stood in the half-opened threshold, gawking.

“Commander Shepard…”

“Sorry to bother you. I tried the house first but there was no answer,” she said hesitantly. Water dripped from the rim of her hood and streaked down her hot, flushed cheeks.

“Holy hell! Come on in out of the rain, sweetheart,” Jillian said, peering outside with a pinched expression. “It’s raining cats and dogs out there.” Grabbing Shepard by the wrist, she pulled her inside then shut the door.

Shepard wiped her face with the back of her hand and lowered her hood. The building was still. Between the dense, concrete walls and the dearth of windows, she could hardly tell it was raining outside, though the water on the floor was evidence enough that she’d languished at the door like a stray cat, wretched and mewling for comfort. Her soaked clothes sucked up the chilled air of the storeroom. A vein of ice cracked through her spine.

“Here, let me get you something,” said Jillian, disappearing behind a long row of casks. They were stacked three high and smelled of rich coffee and smoke.

On either side of the central arcade there were more casks, these much larger than the others. Something about the way the enormous cylinders were arranged—so orderly and efficiently, all the way to the ceiling—reminded her of a graveyard.

When Jillian returned, she tossed a thin towel to her unexpected guest.

“Thanks,” said Shepard, catching it with one hand.

“I keep them in the storeroom”—she began to undo her loose, tatty braid—“because this is where I do my morning yoga. Cool air keeps the circulation healthy, you know!”

Shepard threw the towel over her wet head. Cool air keeps the circulation healthy. It sounded like the kind of phlegmatic advice her granddad would’ve given Here was one of the best strategists in Alliance history; the architect of the Anhur Offensive; the first woman to be nominated for Admiral; by all accounts redoubtable, hard-nosed, and cunning, living in the countryside and making wine, doing yoga in red batik pants and an oversized Sorcerers tee tucked in at the waist like a baggy balloon.

The polarity of those two states—however sensible Jillian’s explanations were—confounded her. Two years out of the service had been agonizing enough; retirement was beyond Shepard’s comprehension. The idea of settling down anywhere long enough to pay off a mortgage or own appliances made her itch.

“So,” continued Jillian,“What brings you—GAH!”

Shepard yanked the towel away. Charlie’s mammoth head was pressed between his owner and a structural column. Jillian stared down with her math agape as he shoved past, his bushy tail smacking furiously against her leg.

“Excuse you!” she scoffed. “So rude!”

He made a beeline for Shepard. Scanning her all over, his twitchy nose went over some spots twice–maybe three times–in quick succession. Whatever he’d caught a whiff of seemed to concern him enough that he licked her hand and nudged at her wrist.

“Hey, buddy,” she said with a flat smile. She tossed the towel over her shoulder and gave him a half-hearted scratch under the chin.

The fine lines on Jillian’s forehead creased into furrows. “Circe…is everything alright?”

“Mmmm…” Charlie’s attention should have cheered her, but it didn’t. She flattened her lips. “Do you have a few minutes? I could use your help with something at the property. I…I just need another pair of eyes.”

“Oh? Well in that case, let me grab my rain gear.”

“Thanks.”

Jillian disappeared behind the row of casks again, leaving Charlie to tend to Shepard. His eyes had just met hers when the weight of his rump slumped to the floor. An impassable mound of black dog.

Shepard stared back. Drool escaped his flapping jowls. She grimaced. He sucked his lolling tongue back into his mouth, snapped his chin up, and barked.

“Whoa…what's wrong, Charlie?”

No reply, of course. He circled round her, then a second time as he let out a long, pitiful whine—a sound she’d never heard from him before. There was an abrupt pang in her chest, as if a belt was being tightened around her ribs, notch by notch. Shit. Her mind sped through the list of side effects Miranda had warned her of: Inflammation? Nerve damage? Muscle spasms? Cardiac arrest? Would this be like one of those stories Auntie Iris used go on about?  The kind where an animal could sense impending doom? But the feeling faded as quickly as it came on, and she convinced herself she’d just been surprised by Charlie’s odd behavior.

The dog had stopped circling, sitting at her feet instead, still watching her face with deep concern. Before Shepard could investigate further, Jillian reemerged in her raincoat and mud boots.

“Whatcha barking at, huh? It’s just Circe!”

Charlie stood up, poised to follow them outside.

“You stay here. It’s too wet out. I don’t want to have to clean mud off you today.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll be back in two shakes, boy,” Shepard said with hollow cheer and gave him a reassuring pat on the back.

He stared up at her again. His eyes didn’t leave hers until she and Jillian turned to walk outside.

Chapter Text

PART II
Chapter 17: Branching

“There are a few times in life when you leap up and the past that you’d been standing on falls away behind you, and the future you mean to land on is not yet in place, and for a moment you’re suspended, knowing nothing and no one, not even yourself.”  

- The Dutch House, Ann Patchett

2 years, 4 mo. after the end of the Reaper War
Hierarchy Embassy, The Citadel, Sol System

CALLING: Circe Shepard…

Her name scrolled past in an endless loop.

CALLING: Circe Shepard.

CALLING: Circe Shepard..

CALLING: Circe Shepard…

CALLING: Circe Shepard….

After the sixth try, Garrus canceled the call, and the soft tones of his omnitool stopped. The log on his screen was a solid column of Shepard’s name; read out loud, it could be taken for a mantra or an incantation. If he kept calling, would he summon her to appear? Could he find a channel that led straight to her? But this wasn’t ancient Palaven. There were no priests or priestesses to act as a conduit, and Shepard wasn’t dead. She just wasn’t answering calls.

“General?” Sergeant Laren called loudly. “General Vakarian?”

“Hmm?”

“I called your name a few times, sir, but you didn’t answer.”

“Sorry. I was a bit distracted.” He flicked off his omnitool and crossed his arms. “Say, Sergeant…do you think you could cover for me for a few hours? We don’t have anymore meetings for the day–we should be safe. That is, unless General Pallas decides today is a good day for an inspection.”

The sergeant laughed nervously.

Garrus grinned. “Don’t worry, he’s not even in the system. He’s in the Lapus Cluster somewhere.”

“Yes, sir,” Laren replied with an air of ease. “In that case, I’d be happy to help.”

“Thanks. If anything urgent comes up I’ll head back straight away.” Garrus leaned in. “I owe you.” He clapped Laren on the shoulder and jogged in the direction of the shuttle terminal.

Okanagan Valley, British Columbia, Earth

Three days after Shepard discovered the blighted flowers, beads of sap bled and hardened on the branches like honeyed scars. Leaves that had just begun to break bud turned off-color. Some curled at the edges. Jillian guessed that the trees were suffering from a fungal disease based on the recent spate of rain. It was a logical answer: wet conditions and  unseasonal temperatures made for a dodgy cocktail in this climate. Her initial scans indicated Monilinia fructicola , but being a grape grower, she couldn’t be certain.

It was Dusty, the co-op’s longtime guru, who confirmed the diagnosis. Brown rot, he called it. The spores had likely been carried on the wind, or survived as malicious stowaways from a previous season, bedded down in mummified fruit or old leaves, waiting for the right time to spread. And spread it did, sweeping through the canopy like invisible wildfire and devastating the entire stand. Fungicides proved useless when washed away by rain. Worse, it was likely the other crops had been affected too: the cherries, the peaches, and the apples, all possible victims. But Dusty said it was too early to know for certain. The timid cheer in the old man’s voice could not hide his doubt, and Shepard nodded along, hopeful that the thin veil of her artifice was not as thin as his.

But she knew: it was a near total loss.

The moment his truck rumbled out of sight, Shepard slouched on the boulder at the end of the driveway and stared blankly at the dirt near her feet. Crop loss. You’re a farmer’s daughter, you know how it goes, she told herself—they’re only trees.  No one could have stopped it. No one could have demanded nature to stand down—not a commander or an admiral, not the orchardist or the farmer or the vigneron. But emotions never stood to reason. She had been given responsibility for the orchard in exchange for escape, however small that might be in the grand scheme of the universe.

With no one to witness her shame, Shepard wandered back into the house and collapsed to the bed, still dressed in her mud-caked pants and filthy boots. All the burning in her bones had been eclipsed by a penumbra of cold numbness: like someone else had died, their body lost to the indifference of space.

It didn’t take long before she took her anger out on something. The garden at side of the house had run rampant with sprawling invaders, everyday something new sprouting as she slept. For two days, she strangled their toughened stems, tore them from the earth and clawed out their roots, as if she could quash all the unwanted things, as if she had the power to control the wildness that had been seeded long before she’d arrived.

Greasy strings of hair hung around her face. She was sweating, though it wasn’t all that hot out. Sweat migrated to her eyes, and through her half-blurred vision, she came to realize she didn’t know which plants were weeds and which were wildflowers. They all looked the same this early in the season. Scowling, she continued her work just the same. Discerning friend from foe made no difference to her now.

He’d been nervous the whole way there. Other than the time after Tokyo, Shepard had never ignored his calls. Rationally, he could infer the reason for her callousness, but the doubtful part of him wondered if he’d said or done something to deserve the cold shoulder, or worse, if something dreadful had happened to her.

The gripping in his heart eased as the lake came into view. Like any sensible turian, Garrus was wary of deep water, but from above, the long, snaking body was familiar and unthreatening. In the winter, its half-frozen surface had resembled jagged shelves of dried-up salt; now it was a shimmering blue, the water calm from end to end. It was easy to lose track of time on the ships and stations of space. One day bled into the next without regard to place or season. Planet-side, however, there was comfort in seeing time pass tangibly—in the sky, and the trees, and the color of the land.

As he descended upon the Alenko property, he thought of what he would say if she were home. Where have you been? Why aren’t you answering my calls? I’ve missed you. Maybe not that. He always missed her—that fact was blue as blood—but he hadn’t had time to think about it. Any longing he’d felt had been pressed between the weight of his work and the anguish of his mother’s decline. His sister’s burden was a dim third.

Hoping to escape notice, he flew the craft down low and landed in a grassy field next to the service road. His long, quick strides through the dropseed were nearly soundless as he stalked parallel to the road, then cut across the shrub dotted knoll leading up to the house. He slowed. Halfway up, he could see Shepard kneeling in the courtyard, in the place she called a garden, though in Garrus’ eyes it was little more than a patch of scrub, wild and mangy—not like any garden he’d ever known. At least she was okay. That was a relief. Pivoting to avoid her line of sight, he made a diagonal toward the outbuilding and crept along its black, aluminum roll-up door. He stopped where the building met the short fence of the courtyard.

Between the slats, his girlfriend’s back appeared in slashes, its staunch curve exaggerated by the slant of sunlight through the pines. She was bent over something, talking to herself. A blade in her hand gleamed.

“Get…the fuck…out!” she snarled and stabbed the ground with a violent grunt, levering the knife down to crack the soil. Her other hand choked a bundle of stems, and she tossed the offending plants, roots and all, over her shoulder. They landed in a small pile of dirt and greens. Whatever she was doing, she’d probably been at it for a while.

Before he could take another step, Shepard’s head jerked over her shoulder. She scanned the courtyard. Still on one knee, she held position like a figure in a sculptural frieze.

“Who’s there?” She rose and flicked the knife up.

Sabbatical hadn’t done much to dull her senses. Like the old turian saying went: you can take the soldier from the fight, but you can’t take the fight from the soldier. Not willing to risk a knife to the throat, Garrus came to his full height.

Shepard’s defensive stance fell away. “Garrus?” she said with shaky breath. “My god, what are you doing here? I thought you were a bear!” Knife still in hand, she met him at the fence.

“No, just some other predator stalking you,” he said impishly. “Sorry, I realize how that sounded…”He looked down at her from over the fence. “It’s my last week on the Citadel. Thought I’d drop by while I was in the neighborhood.”

A wave of relief seemed to wash over her face, and the knife fell from her hand, thumping to the ground as she pushed through the gate at the other end of the fence.

“You weren’t answering my calls,” he said as she approached.

Without saying a word, she gathered her arms around him and pressed her cheek to his chest. Right away, he understood that she didn’t want to talk about the whys. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and his other hand came up to cradle her head.

“I thought you might need me today.”

She tilted her head up to look at him. Her green eyes glinted, the hard facets of a freshly polished jewel. “I can’t believe you remembered…”

“You can’t, huh?”

She pressed her cheek to his chest again. “I hate my birthday.”

“I know you do,” he said quietly and closed his eyes.

The memory was so clear. The crew had encountered a derelict freighter adrift in the Maroon Sea, not far from the Perseus Veil. They boarded under the assumption that the crew were dead or MIA, but they soon discovered the ship was crawling with husks. The undead had rushed the squad at the initial turn, and Kaidan went down in the first thirty seconds, nearly dying at the entrance. Shepard drew the heat off him just in time by charging headlong into the the fray without a thought. It was a Geth deathtrap, and they’d fallen right in.

That night, safe aboard the Normandy, Shepard appeared at dinner like she always did. She was beyond beat, but it was her policy to join her crew in the mess whenever she could. “We’re brothers and sisters in arms,” she would say. “We eat together, like family.” None of them had known it was her birthday, or at least they weren’t supposed to have known, but Liara—of course it was Liara—showed up with a high-cal muffin on a banged-up, Alliance-issue plate. She proudly held the ersatz cake aloft as she breezed through the mess. It was little more than an edible fuel cell with a single candle shoved through, but she was determined to mark the day, explaining that she’d studied human customs regarding birthdays, and that she’d done her best under the circumstances, and she smiled shyly, apologizing for the meager offering, and set the plate down.

The tiny flame quivered under Shepard’s stony face. She smiled back, her smile sagging as she held it long past its ripeness. Garrus would later come to understand this close-lipped smile as the one she wore against her own sentiments; it was an expression of politeness.

Shepard blew the candle out and everyone congratulated her on another year. She didn’t say much after that. She retreated to her quarters as soon as dinner was over. Kaidan—who Garrus had already suspected was in love with the Commander—followed after her, but he returned as quickly as he’d gone, a disappointed sigh leaving his lips as he took his seat.

Garrus had watched all of this happen and understood the implicit meaning. The vacancy in her eyes that day. The tension in her shoulders. Even the way she pushed food around her plate as word of her birthday got around the ship. The observant eyes of a C-Sec investigator hadn’t missed a thing. She hated her birthday. Of course she did. Her parents had been dead for years. No real home since she was sixteen. Aside from Anderson, the only family she had were the crew aboard the ships she served on. He imagined all her birthdays celebrated amongst a rotation of comrades, some of whom would not survive the next year, or in the case of Akuze, none. Yeah, he would hate his birthday too.

When the next April came around, he made a point of not contacting her. He considered it his way of being thoughtful. Not that he would have received a message back; she had already been dead by then, and no one had thought to inform him. Those were the bad times.

Two years later, she came back from the dead; she came back from the dead and saved him. It was as close to a miracle as Garrus had ever experienced, and he wasn’t going to take her birthday for granted ever again, even if she did.

Outside the garden, he opened his eyes again. “What about me? It’s alright if I don’t hate your birthday, right?”

“I guess,” she said, still looking down.

“It’s why you’re here.” He crooked a finger under Shepard’s chin and lifted it gently to see her face. “And I’m happy you’re here. Well, me and everyone else in the galaxy.”

A faint smile crossed her face. “Christ, you’re corny. But thank you.”

“I promise I won’t say anything more about it.”

She nodded. “Do you want to come inside?”

The warmth of midday brushed the plates of Garrus’ neck, and he turned his face towards the water. “Why don’t we go for a walk? It’s beautiful out.”

“Alright,” she said, letting go of his waist. “Give me a sec.” She closed the gate, took him by the hand, and led him down the path to the service road.

“Where are we going?” he asked as she tugged his arm.

“The usual spot!”

The usual spot was down the hill and past the vineyard. A beautiful little beach, but the memory of watching Shepard slip beneath the water for what felt like hours still gave him chills. He’d stood at the shore like a helpless fool, too scared to go into the lake past his knees.

Pulling him toward the precipice, Shepard looked back and smiled. “You wouldn’t know it, but this is the first dry week we’ve had in months. They say humans of old used to pray for rain, but I must be the only one who’s prayed for the opposite.”

When they reached the edge of the Alenkos’ property, they were met by scores of grapevines stretching on in perfectly spaced lines; their bare canes poked up like the bristles of a brush from the gently raked hillside. Confused, Garrus stopped to survey the vineyard.

“Did the Admiral’s vines die?”

“Nah, that’s normal for this time of year.”

“Huh.” He stepped over a fallen fence post and continued walking. “How is the Admiral?”

“Same. Still spunky as ever. Though she’s taken to checking up on me. I try not to let it get to me , but it makes me feel a bit like a child.”

“She’s a mother, Shepard. That’s what they do. The good ones, anyway.”

“A mother without a child...” Shepard leapt over a stretch of mud that crossed the path. “But I’m a child without a mother, I suppose, so that’s something.”

“We all become children without mothers by the end.”

It was a reflex, his consequential way of thinking, but the moment the words left his mouth, he regretted even thinking them. If Solana had been there she’d have begun to keen, or maybe scolded him for being dark, but Shepard simply squeezed his hand and walked closer to him, pressing her shoulder against his body as if to say “I understand.”

The trail ended just past the stand of firs. The beach may have been strewn with rocks, but the trees sheltered the cove, and Shepard liked that it was secluded. Stopping where the vegetation met gravel, she let go of Garrus’ hand and approached the water’s edge. She plucked a stone from the limpid shallows. Fixing her gaze to the horizon, she pelted the stone and watched as it grazed the surface in a shrinking chain of ripples.

“Fifteen…not bad, Shepard,” Garrus said, stepping up from behind. He searched the water and palmed a few candidates, tossing out all but one, and hooked the oblong form between his finger and thumb. The long arc of his arm sprung forward. “Damn!”

“I counted…eight? Come on, I taught you better than that, Vakarian!”

He shook his head and gave it another try. Six skips. She almost felt bad for teasing him, but the competitive streak between them always did run long. That was par for the course for two hotshots.

“Hey, bet ya my last bottle of quarian whiskey you can’t beat fifteen,” Shepard said, raising her eyebrows.

“You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Garrus took his time choosing the perfect implement. When his back was turned, Shepard rubbed the flat of her hand into the meat of her upper arm. Chucking the rock at full power had been a bad idea; her arm ached down to the bone, as if a beast was gnawing on it where she stood, and it tingled too. Maybe it was wrong to think, but she was relieved that Garrus was preoccupied. He didn’t have the wherewithal to see how brittle she felt. She could’ve won a Cosmos for how well she was pulling of this act.

“Hah! Twelve!” he crowed, throwing his arm up in the air.

“Congratulations, Vakarian! But that doesn’t beat fifteen.”

“Killjoy.”

“The secret...”—Shepard crouched and ran her fingers over the bed of rocks at her feet—“is in picking the right stone. You want one that’s thin, with a smooth, flat bottom. Not too heavy though or it won’t fly.”

She picked one up and held it out for him to see before whipping it into the shallows. “See?”

His mandibles fluttered. He scanned the ground with a methodical zeal. She could see the evaluations running through his mind, running past the windows of his eyes and round again, the same as when he’d fine tune the Mako’s cannon programs.

“I heard about your testimony,” he said casually, still scanning the ground.

“That’s no surprise.”

“How did it feel, being in front of the Council again?”

“The same? Almost like I’d never left.” She wanted to say she hated it, but that would be inviting more questions she didn’t want to answer. “But it felt like I didn’t belong there. Kind of strange.”

“You do belong there. It’s just been a while.” He clamped a slim stone between his finger and thumb and held it up to his face for closer inspection. “And what about Liara? How’s she holding up?”

“Considering she just ratted out some very powerful matriarchs? As well as can be expected.”

“Never thought the old gal had it in her,” he said, turning the stone over in his hand.

“I think traveling with Javik has given her some perspective. The conviction to go forward.” Shepard furrowed her brow. No, it was more than that. “Grief can change you in ways you don’t understand. Not right away, at least.”

“I don’t know if I could’ve done the same.”

“Me either. I only went because she asked me to. But in the end, she felt their inaction hurt their cause. That they might’ve saved Thessia if they’d ‘fessed up about the beacon earlier.”

Garrus huffed lightly. “Liara might be sensitive, but she’s not stupid.”

Shepard watched as he lined up for another attempt. The triangular stone he’d selected shot out in a perfectly straight line, skipping so fast that she lost count of how many times it kissed the water.

“I’d ask what Primarch Victus thinks about all this, but I have a feeling I know.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?” he asked, still looking out to where his stone had disappeared.

“Mmm…he and I don’t think that differently.” Shepard crossed her arms. “If I were him, I’d use this as an opportunity to gather allies. Buttress the Hierarchy’s position with an alliance of some kind. The asari suffered losses, but they still have capital, resources. Ilium came out relatively unscathed thanks to all that money, and they’ve got operational eezo mines to boot, which is a lot more than the rest of us can say.” She tilted her head. What could appear to be an act of thought was really an opportunity to relieve the sharp pinch in her neck. “The Hierarchy has a strong relationship with the Protectorate, which helps, but that’s a drop in the bucket. There’s still so much infrastructure to rebuild, and you don’t have enough people to protect what you have.”

“You sure you don't want to go into politics?” asked Garrus, a smirk playing about his mouth.

“Ha. Ha.” She rashly snatched a stone near her feet. “I’d just as soon become a monk.” Cranking her arm back for the launch, she aborted halfway, her perfunctory fling not enough to keep the rock from sinking after two touches.

“Wish I could laugh, but it’s too late for me,” he retorted. “I was dragged into this clawing and screeching. No, this galaxy—it isn't done with me yet.” He sent one last stone blazing across the lake like a ship hurtling through a relay. Shepard gaped, but he didn’t seem to think anything of it. “But enough politics. That isn’t why I’m here.” Dusting his hands off, he stepped closer and held her shoulders gently. “I’ve missed you, Shepard.”

“I’ve missed you too,” she said, placing a hand atop his.

“I’m headed back to Palaven at the end of the week. We’ve got tentative talks with the salarians, and I need to be there. This is my last chance to see you before I leave the system. I’m afraid it’s going to be a while this time. A long while.”

“How long do you have? Right now, I mean.”

“Mmm…a couple of hours? Maybe three? Most I could grab without getting myself into trouble.”

“Hell, what are we doing here, then!”

“What do you—”

Shepard grabbed his wrist and tugged him toward the trailhead.

The sun hung in just the right spot to paint a band of light across the bed like a bold brushstroke. Skin still warm and dewy, Shepard stretched out over the sheets too cool off. She let her breath out through pursed lips, her taut nerves unwinding like twine from a spool, and in that moment, she felt something akin to relaxation for the first time in months.

“You owe me a bottle of whisky, by the way. Don’t think I forgot…” Garrus said, grinning, and trailed a talon over her sternum and down to her stomach.

Clenching her abs, she resisted the the urge to squirm. “You’re lucky I’m not ticklish,” she said with a stiff smile.

“And the whisky?”

This was the third time he’d reminded her since they’d left the beach. Technically the fourth if she counted his gloating. “You have a one track mind, don’t you?”

“And you don’t, hmm?” he said, nodding his chin at her half naked body.

“Touche, darling.”

Garrus shifted to sit up. “Any plans tonight?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Shepard draped an arm over her forehead. “A couple of gals at the co-op invited me to a bar crawl, but I’m thinking of canceling.”

“Why cancel? It might be nice to let loose a little. You know—have too many bad drinks, dance on some tables, forget about today.”

It sounded like something she might have done as a private; sometimes that was all there was time for when you were on shore leave. But the cure to her ailment lay beyond the nostrum of any drink or act of foolishness. What was the point when it would all be waiting for her in the morning: the gnawing pain, the aimless resentment, the indistinct sense of dread?

Through the skylight above, the ponderosas began to pitch, their spindly columns circling and bending, repelling each other through some unseen force enveloping them like a bubble.

No, she decided, she wasn’t doing herself any favors. These fears were nothing compared to what she’d faced before. Name them, be present, be mindful, she reminded herself. Be brave.

Her fingers curled on the clammy sheets as she drew a deep breath. “Hey, G…”

His mouth opened as she looked over, but the abrupt, insistent bleeping of his omnitool startled them both. She recognized the sharp tone as the one he’d set for Primarch Victus.

“Damn, I need to take this.”

She acknowledged him with a nod. Her fingers relaxed, and she watched the trees continue their tense dance of keep away.

Shifting to sit at the edge of the bed, Garrus answered the call with his back turned to her. “Sir?”

“General. Word has reached the asari. They’re furious. They’re demanding an audience with the Council.” Victus’ voice was harried and clipped. “We’re being summoned. I need you to return to the Citadel immediately.”

“Understood, sir.”

“And Garrus…” he said with more care, “While I have sympathy for your situation, please remember your duty is to the Hierarchy first.”

He sat up a little straighter at his superior’s words. “Yes, sir,” he said, his voice deeper than before.

The call ended, and he sat for a moment, unmoving. Heaviness filled Shepard’s gut. It was as if she'd swallowed each stone they’d skipped, and the broad bow of his silvery carapace—the definition of durable and protective—was imposing in a way she’d never felt before.

“I should leave soon,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.

“Yeah, no, of course," she said with false poise. The bravery she’d so quickly gathered slipped away just as quickly.

She sat up to put her shirt on and watched as Garrus began to dress. First his undergarments, then his non-combat uniform, which she had carefully draped over the armchair. A shadow-gray, placketless number with white Hierarchy insignia and three silver bars on the upper arm, stamps of allegiance and fidelity. This man—this turian man—with his hard shell and soft insides, was responsible for billions of other souls. With no hope for clear answers, their complex calculations, however ungainly, would continue on for years.

Outside, the gusts began to howl. The pines flailed and crooked at their waists. Shepard imagined their trunks snapping.

“I’m sorry,”  Garrus said as he pulled the zipper closed below his spur. “Thought I could get away with stealing away for half a day. I guess I was wrong.”

Shepard swung her legs to the edge of the bed. Filtered through the shrubs and trees, she could see part of the orchard through the window in front of her. A flurry of white swept up into currents, like someone had shaken a snow globe. But there was no snow, only the petals of the apricot trees let loose by the wind, spent and withered.

She pressed her palms to the mattress. Her fingers again curled around the clammy sheets, the trunk of her body weighted down with rocks. She would not be moved, could not be moved to mourn.

“I… I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

“Do what?”

The sound of footfall came up from behind, but she didn't turn her head. Garrus was standing directly over her shoulder now. She could feel the gravity of his body working to draw her near.

“This,” she said, looking up at him. The dark uniform made him taller, monolithic. “I can’t keep up with you.”

“What do you mean ‘keep up’ with me?” He came around the bed to sit next to her. “You don’t need to keep up with me. Sure, we’re far apart, but I can still make time for you. Or we can talk about other arrangements if we have to.” He laid a reassuring hand on her thigh.

“That’s not what I mean.”

“What, then?”

She brushed the backs of her fingers over the emblem on his arm. “You’re a general in the Hierarchy. Bringing an empire back to its feet...it’s a lot. You’re in line for the Primacy for god’s sake.”

Garrus scoffed and laughed in equal measure. “Look, it’s just a title. Probably one of the crappiest titles you could have right now. And I’d hardly call the Hierarchy an empire. More like inherited rubble now. Whatever you call it, does it matter? That doesn’t change anything between us.”

“Yes, it does,” she said flatly. Humility had always been one of his most attractive traits, but right now he was pissing her off; brushing off the enormity of his duty didn’t suit him, even if it was to appease her wounded spirit.

“Shepard—don’t take this the wrong way…”—he paused to take a breath—“but it was never easy keeping up with you. The first human Spectre? Charging ahead at every turn? Hell, how many times did I watch you nearly die?” He looked her square in the eyes. “But we got through all of it, together.”

She shook her head. “That’s not the same. We weren’t that serious then, not until the end. And we shared everything—work, personal space, down time. Always in sync. But these days? These days I feel like a dead weight dragging you down when you barely have your head above water.”

“That’s bullshit, Shepard,” Garrus snapped. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“I don’t know.” She looked down at her lap, unsure of how to articulate the swirl of worry in her head. “What I do know is that between your work and your home life—I mean, your mother—”

“Why don’t you let me handle that?” he said firmly and placed his hand on top of hers on the bed.

Shepard slipped her hand free.

His face stiffened. His eyes—clear and cutting like glass—scanned hers, calculations running past in bright flashes.

“What is this really about, Circe?”

“I told you already.”

“No, I don’t think you have.” The gravel in his voice scraped at her heart.

Her voice was flaccid and cloudy. “There’s nothing more to say about it.”

For a few moments, neither said or did anything. But the calculations were deepening, and she could hear it in his deep, steady breathing.

“Does…does this have something to do with the medication?” he asked hesitantly.

Her hands pressed into the bed again. The room darkened. She felt hot and dizzy.

“When I was here in the winter, you asked me to find your medigel. It was in the wrong place and…I didn’t mean to, they were just there.”

Not daring to meet his gaze again, she stared straight ahead through the window. The hapless trees were ready to fall; a cold front was coming, her bones told her. She gripped the sheets for dear life.

“You weren’t supposed to see those,” she said, the words barely escaping her tightened lips.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure you want to know what they’re for.”

“I’ll admit I was curious. But I didn’t get a good look.”

She turned her head toward him, but could only bring herself to look down at his knees. “They’re for neuropathic pain. It’s a side effect of damage to my biotic system.” Maybe it was best to avoid the details of her experimental treatment. Miranda had given her full warning about the possible side effects and she’d chosen to do it anyway. Garrus would be furious to know they were worse than the initial pain.

“You weren’t going to tell me?”

“I was. Eventually.”

“Eventually?” he croaked. “How long has it been?”

Shepard hesitated. “More than a year? It might have started before that.”

“Spirits.” He slid his hands up, then down his thigh. “Why… I don't understand…why wouldn't you just tell me?”

“Because…we have such precious little time together.” She met his gaze for a moment. “I don’t want to waste it on worrying. It’s too much—it’s too hard—to hear the same questions over and over. ‘Are you alright? How are you feeling? Are you in pain?’. What am I supposed to say?" Her fingers loosened on the sheets. "You...you were the last place where I could be myself. Be myself without feeling like I’d failed.”

“Failed? That’s crazy, Shepard. What is there for you to fail?”

“We're soldiers. We don't whine about every little ache and pain. I know you understand that.”

“This isn’t the same as being at war. There’s no one here to judge you.”

“I’m judging me,” she retorted.

The set backs, the hardships, the years of sacrifice she’d poured into the Alliance, she’d persevered through it all. Crawled her bloody way there. She pulled the trigger on the Reapers. She survived. She’d survived again and again by the skin of her teeth and the stubborn will to live.

“Do you have any idea…” Her voice began to break. “No, how could you.”

Garrus leaned into her. “What? What is it?”

Shepard tried to hold back, but her other thoughts came fast and loud. “It’s eating me alive. Watching everyone else get on with it, and I’m shit useless. I can’t even keep a damned tree alive.”  She sprung from the bed, breath quickening, and began to pace in front of the window. “I’ve spent my whole life out there,”—she pointed an angry finger towards the sky—“Since I was sixteen, my choices have been fight or die. Well I didn’t die. I didn’t fucking die! I’m still here, still fighting. Oh, I’m fighting. You bet the damned farm I’m fighting! But what for? I’ve been grounded two years and I have shit all to show for it.Two years!” Shepard could hear herself shouting, but she couldn’t stop. “I’m too young to retire, Garrus. So why am I here? I don’t belong here. This isn’t even my land, it’s Kaidan’s!”

Garrus reached for her wrist and caught her mid-stride. “Shepard,” he said gently. “You’re here to get better. That’s why you’re here.”

Well that was a Pollyanna answer if she ever heard one. It was almost funny. “Better? Better?” Shepard spat bitterly. “There are miles—no, a canyon—a solar system—between 'Our Hero’and this. No, there is no ‘better’.”

“Circe, that’s not—”

“Don’t.” She shook off his grasp.

He tried to grab her wrist again, but she wasn’t going to let him have it this time.

“Don’t tell me it will be okay.”

“Listen—”

“Just DON’T!”

The room emptied of air.

The silence that followed choked them both; there was only the rise and fall of the wind rushing through the pines.

In an instant, the corset of muscles around her torso laced itself tight. Shepard collapsed into the armchair and buried her face in her hands. How could she look him in the eyes? To let him see how pathetically diminished she’d become?

“I’m sorry,” she said in a hushed voice. “It’s been a long week. I think I just need some space.”

The shuffle of feet grew close. A comforting weight fell on her shoulder. She might have begun to cry had she not shuddered first.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, her shame too big to swallow. She gingerly removed his hand. “Maybe you should leave.”

“You want me to leave?” he asked, his subvocals nearly silent.

She glanced up at his confused face. “Yes.”

“I don’t—”

“Go. They’re expecting you. You don’t want to keep them waiting.”

“Circe…”

“Please…” If she had to look into his eyes again she was going to snap, to crash and splinter beyond mending.

Garrus let out a shaky sigh. “Alright, I’ll go. But only because I have to.” He buckled the collar on his uniform and leaned down to kiss her on the forehead. “We’re not done here, you know.”

Shepard bit the inside of her lip. There was so much more to explain but no time to say it.

“I’ll call you when I can.” He squeezed her limp hand. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she said faintly. “Goodbye, Garrus.”

He turned to leave the room and stopped in the doorway. Leaning his shoulder against the frame, he took one last quiet look at her. She looked pitiful, she was sure, but she forced herself to smile. At last, he disappeared around the corner and down the hall; she heard him fiddle with his boots in the foyer. The door shut and the autolock beeped.

Torso still in spasms, Shepard stayed glued to the armchair. Why hadn’t she at least seen him out the door? If she couldn’t tell him how she felt, she at least owed him a send-off. Surely she was capable of doing that much. Or a proper apology, for that matter.

Whatever progress she’d made in therapy had all but abandoned her. The black dog was gnawing, sinking its teeth in deep and dragging her about like a rag doll. She needed to shake him off and run.

She wrested herself from the chair, rushed down the hall, and ran out front door in her bare feet. Frantic, she scanned the area for Garrus, but he was nowhere to be found. She hurried further down the gravel path, hoping she could see him from there, but again, he was gone. As she squinted past the service road, an engine thrummed in the distance. She turned her head toward the sound to see the skycar rising from a grassy field.

“GARRUS!” she shouted. It was useless. There was no way he could hear her. The skycar sped away into the blue, leaving Shepard dumbfounded and alone.

The wind whipped across her face. It battered her body. She buckled and pressed the heel of her hands into her knees. Her shoulders crept up toward her ears. Her feet dug into the earth, the pea-sized stones pressing marks into her soles, her body resisting the pull of space on every atom of her being.

All the pain—the pain she’d coddled and soothed and cradled—rose to the surface like warm, salty water. The stinging warmth spread from her face and into her neck, through her chest and down her arms, through her torso and her legs, until she couldn’t stand it anymore. Her head felt like it would burst.

Suddenly, a familiar reverberation flooded her hands. It was more intense and focused than she remembered. It burned. Screaming, she shot up. Her hands flew out in defense. Dark energy cracked through the air, and a pine came crashing down against the outbuilding, splitting in two against the pointed roof.

Shepard gasped, and the pain was gone.

Chapter Text

INTERLUDE

Seeds

Circe licks her lips. The log under her feet is narrow and slippery, but her leaps are nimble, and she possesses every confidence that she can keep herself from falling. The fen is her natural habitat, after all; scampering amongst its edges and snaking waters comes as easily as breathing.

At the edge of the creek, she squats and stares down at her brand new trainers, the sodden ground staining their white laces a stubborn gray. She frowns. Her mother will scold her endlessly when she gets home. It’ll be trouble enough to show her the big, fat “61” slapped across her latest math test, but spoiled shoes will be the death knell of playtime. The prospect of seeing the angry red line between her mother’s brows deepen further conjures a new kind of dread in her. She can’t let fear rule, however, not if she’s going to enjoy the time between then and now. She scribbles over the image in her mind and continues her search for the perfect skipping stone.

The stick in her fist is long and knobby. She likes the feel of it in her hand, the way the knurls press into her palm. Pretending the stick is a wand, she waves it about like she is a sorcerer casting for magical guidance. Her eyes scan the water. The current moves so slowly that it could lull her to sleep, but a sudden glint catches her attention, and she inches forward to inspect it. A ripple bumps up against the outflow. That’s when she sees it: a lilotu, with its dark, emerald skin and its long, stalked eyes peeking just above the surface, sitting so still that she nearly mistakes it for a rock in the creek bed.

Circe’s heart begins to pound. She remembers the only time she ever caught one. Afraid to squeeze too tight, she’d held it with care for the briefest moment before the amphibian leapt away, only a slimy coating of mucus left in her hands. She'd lunged after it again with outstretched arms. Up it jumped, and the poor creature burst mid-air, as if it were an overstretched water balloon thrown on a hot day. How she’d cried in terror! How she’d wailed and soaked her shirt through with tears. How guilty she had felt for killing the creature without even touching it.

That was nearly two years ago now: all the appointments and doctors and consultations, the strange devices peppering her skin like so many swollen bug bites, the freezing prick of needles in her arms. Her parents warned her not to tell anyone, and they barred her from using her strange new abilities around the wrong people. It turned out the “wrong people” meant any people, really. Despite the breadth of their restrictions, she obeyed them to the letter in the months that followed, too scared and shocked to do otherwise.

In the beginning, she discovered she could not always control when it came. The tingle in her hands signaling danger. How many times had she excused herself during class? There was always the latent fear she might be taken away like Gran’da had warned on the day they’d named her “biotic”.

But there are times she enjoys the feeling of mastery it gives her. The thrumming energy is sharp and warm like the tip of a flame. It is the feeling that there is something special about her that no one can ever take away.

Circe continues to stare at the lilotu, which is now is now halfway out of the water. It warbles and licks its eyeball with its coiled tongue as if to taunt her, and she sticks her tongue out in return—a ritual to ward away the memory of the one she doesn’t want to remember.

The creature slips back into the creek, and she takes that as her cue to go home. Why give Mom another reason to chastise her? Skipping stones will have to wait until later—if there is a later. Dusting off her pants and coat as best she can, she checks herself over for any hitchhiking bugs or seed heads. The shoes, unfortunately, are beyond hope. She picks up her school bag and traipses toward the grain field, crossing her fingers that Damian will, once again, save her from the storm that is her mother.

“Circe Nora Shepard! Late again! Get yourself in here now, please.”

Circe’s mother is standing in the doorway of their prefab, working her long, dark hair into a plait at the nape of her neck. Her figure cuts a rawboned shape, and in her ivory tunic she’s a dagger of a woman—delicate, double-edged, piercing. She looks down at her daughter at the bottom of the stairs and sighs.

“Really? Your brand new shoes?”

“But Mom, I—”

Her mother shakes her head. “Come on, get on inside, miss. You’ve got work to do.” She tucks a few stray locks away and slicks her hands across the sides of her head. “And wash those filthy hands. You’d think we were raising pigs on this farm.”

“Pigs?” she wonders out loud. She’s certain she’s seen them in one of her grandad’s old picture books.

When her mother withdraws into the prefab, Circe scrubs her feet on the door mat that says “Dallinger”. Its once bold letters are now faded to gray, the tops of the l’s shaved shorter by well-worn work boots and children’s shoes lousy with mud. She enters the common room, removes her shoes, and shuts the door behind her.

“Did you say pigs? Earth animals! Smart things. Fat. And tasty to boot!” Gran’da’s laugh rattles from his armchair by the window.

“Pop…”

Bounding over with a spring in her step, Circe sloughs off her bag and throws her arms around Gran’da. He smells of musty silt and hard peppermint candies imported from Earth. When she lets go, he grins and pats her cheek before she runs off.

“Where’s Damian?” Mom asks as she scoops up her daughter’s satchel. “He ought to be home by now.” She hangs it on a hook above the console and scours the console’s drawer.

“Ah, I forgot to tell you. John asked him to drop by Philmont’s, see if he couldn’t pick up some new sensors for the combine. That doddering VI can’t tell up from down.”

“Oh for f—” She slams the drawer shut and bites her lip when she sees Circe staring from the adjoining kitchen.

Circe has heard the word fuck enough times to know it is not a polite word. Why Mom is using it at all? Is she mad at Dad or Damian? The cupboard creaks as she swings it open. She scans the shelves for her favorite biscuits while continuing to eavesdrop from behind the cupboard door.

“I wish he’d stop mucking with it. There was nothing wrong to begin with. It’d still be working if he hadn’t tried to alter the programming. I had the steering aligned perfectly. Perfectly!” Mom bleats like a child. “Foolishness.”

Circe peers around to see Gran’da gripping the arms of his chair and jutting his lip out. “Come now, Hera, show the man a little more respect. He didn’t graduate top of his class fer nothin’! You ought to be thankful to have a clever husband. Most men in this settlement are about as useful as a sack of doorknobs.”

Mom snaps, “And what am I, chopped liver?”

Climbing the counter to reach the top shelf, Circe’s brow crinkles. Is a sack of doorknobs a bad thing? And what does chopped liver have to do with doorknobs?

“Now, now, I didn’t say that, darling. John just has a different kinda smarts.” Gran’da stifles a cough near the back of his throat. “Mind you, taking that job aboard the salvage vessel didn’t do you any favors. If only you’d stuck to something stable, like your brother.”

“Oh yes, that again,” her mother says sarcastically. “Your oh-so-dutiful son? The one who left you high and dry for his rich, petulant wife? That son?”

“He sends money enough.”

“Margot sends money.”

Gran’da scoffs. “I’ll have no more of this talk. Your mother—rest her soul—wouldn’t want to hear you speak ill of your own flesh and blood.”

“Fine,” says Mom, grudgingly. The subject of Uncle Lex never fails to bring out the worst in her.

Having carefully arranged her jammy biscuits in a perfect cross, Circe brings the plate to the kitchen table where her mother busies herself folding a pile of clean cloth napkins. She snaps the wrinkles out with a practiced brandish. Crack! Mom is angry; she doesn’t need to say anything for Circe to know. Hoping against hope that Mom will forget about the math test, she avoids her gaze and takes a tentative bite of biscuit, then another, much bigger one.

“So,”—her mother blurts out—“how’d you do on your math test?”

Startled, Circe looks up, crumbs spilling from her lips like so many grains of sand.

“Weren’t you supposed to get that back today?”

“M-maff?” she mumbles around a mouthful.

“Yes, your last math test.”

“Mmm…” She gulps down the dry bite still sitting on her tongue.

“That bad, huh?” Her mother raises an eyebrow. “Hand it over, please,” she says, gesturing with impatient fingers.

Swinging her legs around the chair, Circe moves with all the urgency of a blade of grass. She drags her feet to the common room, unzips her bag, and brings the datapad back to the table, dangling it between her finger and thumb as if it’s diseased.

Her mother tugs it away. The corners of her mouth crease in starched lines as she reviews the results, but she refrains from frowning outright. “Oh, Circ…this just won’t do. I see you’re going to need more review. ”

Where the young girl had expected a tempest, there was only a drizzle. She feels comfortable letting her guard down. “But it’s just so boring!” she whines. “It all goes wobbly in my head,”

“Remember what I told you? You need to develop good habits now, while you’re still young. It’ll be no use later when the Earthers and military brats leave you behind.”

“I don’t know why you’re so hard on her,” grumbles Gran’da. “The poor girl’s only eight.”

“You want her to get stuck on this far flung rock? There’s nothing here but farms as far as the eye can see,” her mother says, shaking the datapad.

Gran’da’s woolly eyebrows inch closer to one another. “And what’s wrong with that? Perfectly respectable living. We’ve done just fine, haven’t we?”

Mom sets the datapad down on the table and lets out the smallest of sighs. Her demeanor changes. Turns a little sad, Circe thinks, though she doesn’t quite understand why.

“Really now, don’t go putting nonsense in her head.”

“It’s not nonsense, Pop. She’s perfectly capable.” Her mother turns to her with an imploring gaze. “Aren’t you, miss?”

Mom’s eyes are round as round can be, and they remind Circe of a cow. She’s never seen a cow in person before, but in pictures they have great big eyes and long eyelashes just like Mom’s, only her mother’s eyes are hazel, and they aren’t nearly as sweet or innocent. They’re more like glass marbles—streaked and tempered.

She takes a moment to consider her mother’s question.“Yes,” she finally answers. “I am.” This much she knows, even if times tables and fractions elude her from time to time. The smile softening Mom’s stern face is evidence enough that she isn’t the only one who believes it.

After she’s done her snack, Gran’da takes his usual afternoon nap, and Mom pours over the farm’s operating expenses. Circe does homework in the solitude of her bedroom. Twisting a lock of hair her around her finger, she tugs it hard, and the prickling in her scalp grants a temporary distraction from frustration. Problem #5 is staring at her with disdain. It mocks her with its clumsy denominators. She stares back. If she stares long enough, maybe she can burn a hole right through it. Is laser vision a biotic thing? No, she discovers, her eyes are just tired.

She gazes upon her walls lined with posters of nebulae and star clusters, at her drawings of cargo ships and shuttlecraft rendered in thick, blue pencil. She drew them after Dad took her to the trade port one afternoon, after she’d pleaded with him to let her join his usual rounds. It didn’t take much persuading, fortunately: Dad was keen to share the family business, and Mom was keen to have her out of her hair for a few hours.

Going for a ramble with Damian on Sundays to catch craw beetles was nothing compared to the thrill of watching spacecraft take off. She’d seen them from afar of course, but that was the first time she’d been so close that she could smell the ozone, could feel the hot jets of air scud past her plump cheeks. The idea of space travel enchants her. When she thinks of space, she thinks of Mom’s stories, and Mom’s stories make her think of Gran’da’s books: the ones about ships and pirates, water-dwelling monsters, and real life explorers that sailed Earth’s untamed seas. Space is a sort of sea, she thinks, only with no water and a lot bigger.

Before long, she forgets about her homework and is lost in a daydream about stowing away. She’ll need a roomy bag to pack her favorite snacks, and a change of clothes for when she arrives. Maybe some comics and an extra power pack to keep herself entertained. Oh, and a quick note for Mom and Dad so they won’t worry. Are there toilets in the cargo hold? What if she gets caught sneaking about? She considers the alternatives and makes a sour face. The disgusting reality of waste is enough to make her dismiss the fantasy all together and get on with her work.

Mom comes to to check on her a couple of times to make sure she’s focused on the task at hand. To Circe’s annoyance, she glances over her daughter’s shoulder and tuts to herself, but she doesn’t say anything useful beyond “Try that one again.”

An eternity passes—what she imagines a day on Venus must feel like—before she is finished. Floating from her desk to the bed, she flops to the mattress and stretches her gangly limbs until they snap back like rubber bands gone slack. The growing pains are hurting more than usual. The desperate need to move, to jump and run, overcomes her, and she springs from the bed ready to take on the world.

In the kitchen, a puff of air spews from Mom’s pursed lips as she glowers at the family’s shared computer. The glare of its display limns the rutted bags under her eyes. Numbers must be bad again. Proceed with caution, Circe tells herself. She wears her best smile as she waits patiently for her mother’s attention.

Her mom rubs her forehead as she looks up at her daughter through heavy eyelids. “Yes? What is it, love?”

“I’m all done homework, Mom. Can I go play now?” she says, doing her best to hold back her anxiousness.

Mom narrows her eyes. “All of it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She glances at the display again and takes a deep breath.“Okay. But check in with your gran’da when you come home, okay? And don’t go too far. I’m off to the lab to check on our grain samples. I’ll be back before dinner. Got it?”

“Got it!” Circe grins and skids toward the door.

Her rubber boots squelch as she takes long, sinking steps through the mud. There’s something so liberating about mud. She likes the way it oozes around things, the way she can slide around on it like it’s ice. And the brackish sucking sound is so satisfying that for once she is glad for her mother’s nagging. Before she’d flown from the door, her mother had insisted that she wear her boots on account of the clouds gathering in an ominous ring above the valley. But the rain has not materialized, and what better thing is there to do in boots but stomp around?

When she’s well beyond the edge of her family’s farm, she crosses the waterlogged clod of the fen and into a grove of merrams so thick that they swallow her whole. Their long, silver leaves blow like paper ribbons in the breeze. They usher her further in, and in the near distance, the distinct hooting of children bounces off the trees’ enormous trunks. Morgan and Boggie have already arrived.

“What took you so long!” booms Boggie from somewhere above.

Circe looks up to see her closest neighbor with his stocky legs wrapped around a flimsy branch.

“I had to finish my homework first!” she yells back.

“Booooo!” he hollers and shifts his hands to gain more purchase on the branch. Its slender length totters under his hanging weight. Circe winces, thankful that her feet are planted solidly on the ground; at least one of them can run for help if anything happens.

“We thought your mom wasn’t gonna let you play outside. You know, ‘cause of the math test and all,” says Morgan, nestled in the crook of two thick branches. The twiggy girl slinks across one and hangs upside down by her knees. “I got a 98. My dad says I get to go to the Celestia Vale concert ‘cause my grades are so good. Can you believe it? I get see her live!” she squeals, and her long, tawny hair ripples as she shakes her head in excitement.

Circe considers squishing Morgan’s cheeks together, if only to stop her gloating. How had she heard about her grade, anyhow? Embarrassed, she puts on a carefree smile. “Nah, my mom doesn’t care,” she says, crossing her arms and cocking her hip. “She says there’s always next time. My mom’s real nice.”

Morgan scoffs. Boggie gives Circe a sideways glance. Or at least it looks like a sideways glance—it’s hard to tell when he’s upside down and his face is flushed red.

Bracing her feet against the branch, Morgan flips backwards and lands with a dull whump. She smiles slyly at Circe, like she recognizes the lie for what it is. Circe ignores her and yells for their still arboreal friend to come down from the merram.

Bogdan gives them the thumbs up. The boy is strong but ungainly, and he struggles not to step on his own toes as he takes his time climbing down. After he’s safely on the earth once more, the friends play rock, paper, scissors to decide what they’ll play first. Boggies throws the winning hand, but Morgan gripes about his choice. “Circe always wins,” she says. “It’s not fair.”

It’s true, skipping stones is easily her best game by far. No one in all of Hadfield Elementary is as good at skipping stones as she is. So after the children venture further to reach the pond, it’s no surprise to any of them—Circe included—when she wins the first round.

“Dang, Shepard,” says Boggie, giving her a light punch in the arm. “You got some kind of super charger in that thing?”

She looks down at her muddy boots with a sheepish smile. She would never say so, but she enjoys being the best at skipping stones. She’s good at lot of games, but skipping stones was the first game she ever beat Damian at fair and square. Admittedly, having a patient older brother who gives her pointers doesn’t hurt.

It’s time for round two, and Circe rolls a stone around in her hand, feeling out its weight and shape. She calls for Boggie to take his place, but the boy is fixated on Morgan, who is squatting atop a large, flat rock with her hands tucked into her armpits.

“Hey, I can show you how to throw better if you want! It’s easy!” he says and motions for her to rejoin them.

“Yeah, Boggie can show you!” Circe adds, hoping to encourage her. “He’s real good at it. We can even pick out some rocks for you, if you want!”

The girl’s expression sours. “Ugh, let’s just climb. Your games aren’t fun.” She’s already scrambling up a bulbous root before either friend can answer.

The line of Circe’s mouth hardens. Why does Morgan always do that? Whenever she loses she gets in a huff and calls the game boring or says it’s unfair, and she makes them do whatever she wants to do instead. Sometimes, Circe gets the feeling her friend might not like her—might hate her even—but she can’t think of a good reason why, and she can’t put her finger on what makes her feel that way.

Morgan cups her hands around her mouth and yells down, “Hey, Boggie, watch this!”.

In one graceful, practiced motion, the girl stands up straight. Her lithe body is poised on the branch, and her once sour face washes over with profound stillness. Without warning, she raises her arms up highand launches herself headlong from the tree. For a moment, Circe panics, but Morgan’s front flip twist ends in a perfect, noiseless landing.

“Whoa! How’d you do that?” Boggie asks, his mouth hanging open.

“Easy,” she says, shrugging. Her nonchalance feels forced, as does the smirk curling at her lips. “We do a lot harder stuff at my gym. If I make it to finals”—she interrupts herself to do a handstand pirouette— “Coach says I can train with the big girls next year. Maybe even travel to Earth.”

“Wow…” marvels Boggie.

Circe tries not to scowl. It’s just so fake. Not the gymnastics, but Morgan’s vapid smile, like she’s just won a competition only she understands the rules for. It confuses her, and a funny burning rises from her gut.

“I thought you only got to go to Earth if you win the system-wide tournament?” she asks, narrowing her eyes.

“Yeah, well…” The girl plunks her hands on her hips and furrows her brows. “I’m gonna.” Without further explanation, she looks down at her brand new holowatch—the one she made sure to show everyone at school—and lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Gosh, I have to go home now. Daddy says he’s gonna take me to the new fancy bakery today. It’s French. The first one on all of Mindoir, you know. I get to pick out whatever I want.”

If Circe could roll her eyes right out of her head right now, she would. She’d roll them right out of her head and into her hand, then shove her hand into Morgan’s face and scare with her slippery eyeballs. The absurd image makes her giggle inside, but she suppresses the urge to laugh before it erupts from her mouth.

“Aww, don’t go!” Boggie whines. “It’s no fun without you!” He playfully tugs at Morgan’s sleeve, but she jerks her arm away, and he frowns.

He’s being sincere. Circe knows him well enough to know. But why does his frown bother her more than Morgan’s obnoxious bragging? It’s no fun without you. The words wriggle in her head like so many lucidian worms. What about her? Is she not any fun to play with?

“Sorry,” Morgan says. “I guess I’ll see ya at school tomorrow? Bye!” She turns on her heels and abruptly skips away.

Still frowning, Boggie continues to wave long after she disappears through the line of trees. “I can’t believe she gets to go to Earth,” he says with awe. “I heard there’s lotsa people and and lotsa things to do there.”

Circe rolls her eyes behind his back but avoids correcting him. “Yeah, it sounds fun.”

No, it doesn’t sound like fun. Earth is overcrowded and overbuilt, that’s what Gran’da said. And besides, Morgan isn’t going to Earth!  Not yet at least. Did he not hear that part?

It’s not fair. It’s not fair that Morgan gets to show off. Everyone claps for her. They give her medals and cheer for her because gymnastics is a normal thing for a child to do. Because Morgan is normal. Circe Shepard is not normal. The doctors said so. Her parents said so. The accidents and broken bed frame and shattered dishes said so.

It’s not fair. If only she could show them, the other kids at school would scream but in the good kind of way.  She’d be more than the girl with a funny name, or the girl always covered in dirt. She could be useful. She could help them retrieve their confiscated toys from the top of the teacher’s shelf. She could bring down their balls when they got stuck on the flat roof of the science building. No—she could be the one to throw the balls, to hurl them from all the way across the court without moving, without touching them, and she’d score the winning basket for the team, and they’d cheer for her, and they’d love her.

She’d have more friends. Ones who didn’t brag all the time or put her down, who didn’t make her feel lonely even when she was with them. She could help Dad with jobs on the farm, or help lift Gran’da out of his chair when his back got too sore. All these things she could do to help the people she loved, and they would love her back.

But she can’t.

It’s not fair.

Whatever invisible thing that had been holding back the clouds dissolves all at once, and the clouds rush in as Circe and Boggie make their way home through the fen. The rain comes down in intermittent spits and splinters, but colony kids aren’t deterred by a spot of bad weather: they’re built for the rough of the outdoors, and they visit the creek before heading their separate ways.

Bogdan’s feet plunk through the cold water. He’s chasing after a tadpole with cupped hands as Circe watches from the bank in a daze. She wonders if the lilotu she’d seen earlier is still here. It stirs her memory again, and the burning in her gut returns; it roars up through her throat and into her mouth until she spits something she can’t take back.

“Hey, Bogdan!”

“Huh?” he grunts without looking up. His hands clap at the water and come away empty.

“Wanna know a secret?”

“What?”

She motions for him to come closer. Boggie wades through the creek to meet her, his heels still halfway in the water.

“I can do magic,”she whispers.

Boggie leans away and stares at her below furrowed brows. “Liar!” he says, and lets out a rolling snicker. “Magic isn’t real! Just like how Santa isn’t real.”

“Says who?”

“My brother said, and my brother knows lotsa stuff. He’s thirteen.” Droplets of water fly through the air as he shakes his hands off.

Circe’s jaw sets. “I’m not lying, Boggie.”

“You can’t do magic.”

“Yah-huh I can!”

“Okay. Do a trick then.”

A trick? “Um, okay…” Her arms stiffen at her sides. She hasn’t considered the consequences of actually showing him, but if she takes it back now, he’ll never believe anything she says ever again.

There isn’t much to impress with save for a moss covered boulder half-buried in the mud. It’ll have to do. She sizes it up for approximate weight, though she knows right away that it’s bigger than anything she’s ever moved before, but if she’s going to wow Boggie she needs to try.  She checks the space behind her and backs up several meters from the creek’s edge. “Watch this!” she says, hoping her feigned confidence will stir up her own mettle.

She starts with the familiar routine. They’re the steps to a dance she’s only just begun to memorize: planting her feet hip-width apart, grounding herself with a deep breath, and letting the tense muscles of her face relax. She lets the world around her fall away. Of all the lessons she’s learned during her time practicing in secret, the most important is this: don’t think too much.

The rest of her body loosens, and she extends an arm out low, her fingers spread apart like she’s waiting for someone to take her hand. It doesn’t take long for the warm tingle to start at the base of her neck. It swells through her spine and down her arm until it reaches the tips of her fingers where it pools.

She centers all her attention on the rock. The rock, twice as big as Boggie’s head, only jerks forward at first, but it’s soon loosened from the mud, and it hovers just above the ground. Circe strains. Her eyes never leave the weighty stone. As she lifts her arm higher, mud drips in heavy gobs and the boulder follows, mimicking the arc of her hand as if connected by set of ghostly struts.

“WHOA…” says Boggie, inching forward out of the creek. “How—how are you doing that?”

A grin cracks the flatness of Circe’s face as she glimpses his gaping expression.“Easy,” she says with aplomb. “I told you—I can do magic!"

With her confidence boosted, she raises the boulder higher in the air.  Her grin widens. This is the highest she’s ever lifted something. But with Boggie observing, she’s distracted, and her control wanes the higher she lifts it. The boulder begins to sway.

“Ahh, careful!” he barks nervously.

The adrenalin coursing through her tiny body urges her to keep going . The boulder continues rising until it’s levitating above their heads in a precarious pause. Signals are stretched too far and thin—the boulder lurches from side to side. She struggles to regain control. Keep going, Circe! Keep going! chants the crowd in her mind. Her heart is racing. The cool rain bites her hot skin. She grunts and holds her breath. She thrusts her other arm out to shore it up, but it’s no use: the heavy stone plummets to the earth, free of its tether.

As she stands gasping and desperate for breath, she almost doesn’t hear it. A shrill wail that pierces through the rushing of blood in her ears, like the sound of distant bird call through a thicket.

It’s Boggie. He’s doubled over. For a moment, he doesn’t move. Then, a groan tumbles out as he shoves the boulder from his foot. Circe looks on, too shocked to understand what’s happened. He snaps his head up to meet her gaze, and it’s then she sees the tears streaming down his ruddy cheeks, the trembling drops of rain clinging to his brow. The absolute revulsion with which he scowls up at her.

“What’s wrong with you!” he cries through a closed throat.

“Boggie, I’m sorry…I-I didn’t mean to. I—” She takes a step forward. “Are you okay?” She reaches out, but her hand is shaking. She stares hard at her hand. Something stops her from going farther.

The boy’s face crumples as he looks down at his foot. Choking back more tears, his voice quivers. “M-Morgan was right. You—you’re a witch…”

“A what?”

“She said you’re a witch,” he says louder.

A witch? Gran’da had used that word before, when he said Circe was a witch’s name from ancient myths. Or does Boggie mean those ugly women with black cats and brooms, the women who sow misfortune wherever they go?

Circe shoves away the wet bangs plastered to her forehead and grits her teeth. “I am not!”

“You…are…a…WITCH!” he shouts again defiantly.

“I am not a witch! You take that back, Bogdan Tomas!”

“WIIIIIIIIIIIITCH!”

His howl sets off the beast inside her. Too angry to remember why they’re shouting, she swings her arms wildly through the air in a selfish fit. A spray of pebbles fly up and out from the ground, pelting Boggie across the chest and neck and raining down into the creek.

He cries out. More pained tears fall from his eyes. “Stop it! Stop it, Circe!”

The frightened boy shields his face with his hands, and she remembers why he’s upset, why he’s called her a witch. Her body turns rigid with fear.

“B-Boggie…”

“Stay away from me!”

“Boggie, I’m sor—”

“I HATE YOU!” he screams. With all the fight taken out of him, he pants, then winces as he turns in the direction of home. “I hate you…” he repeats, limping as he drags his injured foot behind him. “I’m telling my mom!”

“FINE THEN!” she screeches after him. “TELL YOUR MOM, MAMA’S BOY!”

Boggie doesn’t turn around. Circe shuts her eyes tight to keep herself from crying, but shutting her eyes does nothing to stop the rage from fermenting inside her.

Somewhere beyond the fen, the lonely, plunging whistle of a cheegral penetrates the darkness. It’s soon joined by a lilotu—its chant is deep and monastic—hidden within the tangle of reeds that line the dilapidated storehouse.

Circe’s eyes are only half shut when a distant voice rouses her. Her sleep is too restless, too dream-laden to be valuable, and any strength she may have saved since sunset has evaporated into the night air. She listens closely, too exhausted to move.

“Circe!” the voice calls again. They’re shouting her name.

But the voice may as well belong to a ghost. She is frozen in the spot where she fell. The spot where the door of the storehouse trapped her small body. Too afraid to go home, she’d run out of the pouring rain and into the building for shelter, a place that once stored excess grain but was abandoned by its owners after too many seasons of failed crops.

Heavy footfall tramples the reeds outside. The sudden rustling startles her, and she grunts, trying once again, unfruitfully, to lift the bent metal door above her. The footfall stops just short of the entrance.

“Circe?” says a familiar voice. A splinter of light shines beneath the door just where it touches the floor.

“Damian…” she answers, her voice echoing against the door.

“Shit!” Her brother lunges through the open threshold, his shoes scuffing the concrete as he scrambles to pull the door up. “Can you push up on the door at all?”

“I tried,” she says, her teeth chattering. “But it’s too heavy.”

“I’ll pull up, but I need you to push up at the same time, okay? Can you do that for me?”

She’s too tired, but she how can she tell her brother ‘no? “Yes,” she says.

“Okay, on three then. Ready? One…two…three!”

On three, the siblings push and pull until Damian is able to pivot the door free and clear of her body. Circe’s arms collapse to the floor, and she stares up at his shadowy face as he stands over her, his headlamp shoved back and askew over his head. His dark hair, even darker than their mom’s, hangs down in wet hanks.

“Ugh! You’re dripping all over me, Damian!”

His grave expression breaks as a small laugh escapes him. “Glad to see you too.” His soberness returns as he looks her over. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

“Um, my butt hurts a little, I guess. But I think I’m okay,” she says, pushing against the dusty floor to sit up.

He extends a hand to help her to her feet and frowns. “You’re shivering. You must be freezing. Come on, let’s get you home.” Damian lowers himself and places a knee on the ground. “Hop on. I’ll give you lift.”

Circe is too cold and tired to argue and drapes herself over her brother’s back. At least it’s stopped raining; she can tell even before they leave the protection of the storehouse. Cheegrals don’t usually sing when it rains, but more have joined the night’s chorus, so many that their whistling turns comical as they overlap one another.

The siblings are silent as they make their way across the grain field, their way illuminated only by Damian’s dim headlamp. The silence is a kindness. Her brother, the perennial troublemaker, would understand its value at a time like this. Still, she wishes she could say it. Tell him everything that happened. But she’s too ashamed, and she finds herself without the words to explain.

Instead, she comes back to the self-reproach that had led her to the storehouse. How could she be so stupid? How many times had her parents warned her? She was so sure she could control it, but she couldn’t. Showing off had been a fool’s errand. The only thing she showed off to Boggie was her arrogance and recklessness.

And what about Boggie? Was he alright? She’d probably hurt him, or worse, maimed him for life. The thought of never earning his forgiveness weighs heavier than any boulder ever could. Maybe she deserves that.

When Damian and Circe reach the machinery shed, the question finally comes.

“What the hell were you doing in the storehouse anyway?” Damian asks, trying to sound casual.

Circe tightens her grip around her brother’s neck. “The rain started real hard. It was dry in there.”

“And the door?”

“I might have ripped it out…” she mutters.

“Ripped it out?” He jerks his head over his shoulder. “Jesus, remind me not to piss you off!”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know you didn’t, Circ.” Damian stops to hitch her up his back and get a better grip on her slipping legs. “Boggie’s okay, you know, in case you were wondering. He’s fractured his big toe, but he’ll be okay.”

Circe’s cheeks burn hot with guilt. “You knew?”

“Yeah,” he says solemnly. “Mom was at the Tomas’ farm when Boggie dragged himself outta the woods looking like a wet rag. She sent me and Dad out to find you when you didn’t come home.”

“What about Gran’da?”

“He’s holding up the fort.”

Circe bites her lip. It’s so much worse than she imagined. “Is she…mad?”

“Mom?” He sighs. “You know how it is with her. She’s all quiet until she’s not. She’s gonna make you go to Boggie’s tomorrow, to apologize in person at the very least. I don’t know what she’s gonna do after that.”

Leaning her head out to see ahead, Circe catches the lights of the prefab glowing between the stalks of allip beans. She doesn’t want to go home, but she doesn’t have much choice. The trade port will be closed right now; there’s no running away.

“Hey, Damian?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think I got made this way as like, a punishment?”

“A punishment?”

“Yeah. Like maybe I did something wrong.” She presses her cheek against her brother’s back, then rests the weight of her head.

“What? No, of course not. It’s just one of those freak accidents. No one is punishing you.”

“I feel like it sometimes.”

“Listen, I get what’s it like to have something inside you that feels…different. But you can’t let it get you down. Think of it as a strength. A superpower.” Damian snorted. “Like, you literally  have a superpower. How amazing is that?”

The prefab comes into clearer view and every single one of its lights are on. Soon, Dad and Gran’da and Mom will descend upon their confused witch and ask her too many questions she can’t answer. Not in a way that will make sense to them, anyway.

“Damian?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you really have to go? To the Allliance?”

Her brother doesn’t answer right away, only sucks his teeth. “I do. They need soldiers to fight the Batarians.”

“I’m going to miss you when you go,” she whispers.

“I’ll miss you too, doodle.”

And for the first time, she feels like her world is just too small.

Chapter Text

PART III
Chapter 1: Ballochory*

2 years, 10 mo. after the end of the Reaper War

“Commander! Three o'clock!” Shepard sprinted for cover, a plume of dust trailing behind her like an apparition.

She tucked in behind a collapsed cooling tower and ejected her spent thermal clip. The open chaparral was hot and unforgiving, and sweat was already beading at her brow as she shoved a new clip into her shotgun.

She leaned out and fired. The target darted right and shot back, but she was quick to return to cover.

“I’ve got this!” shouted her lieutenant. He was some thirty meters back, safe behind a solid metal balustrade. He fired two rounds from his sniper rifle, just nicking the target’s shields.

“You’re a good shot, but I’m no slouch,” she shouted back, all too delighted to show off to her talented subordinate. A fleeting heat stung the back of her neck. She grinned and sent a warp hurtling through the courtyard, the mass effect fields wicking at all sides. The combatant zig-zagged up a ramp before she could follow up with a throw. “Oh no you don’t…”

Boots biting into the gritty ground, she scrambled into the open and took a running leap up the ramp to fire point blank. Her enemy fell with a clatter.

Shepard lowered her shotgun and let out a joyous whoop. Her lieutenant gave her a thumbs up from across the courtyard, and she waved back, content with their work that morning. She’d begun to walk down the ramp in his direction when her pilot’s voice came over the comm.

“Sorry to interrupt, Commander, but the shuttle’s ready to go.”

“Understood. We’ll be right there.” She went back up the ramp. With a wry smile on her lips, she bent down to pick up the lifeless practice drone.  It felt damned good to be back. She circled an arm into the air to rally her scattered team. “You heard the man, let’s get going!”

At midday, the moon sat big and close in the sky. Gossamer white, watching over mountains, it was always big. Now bigger still, it was a spectral reminder of ill-fated futures, of predetermined paths set in motion long before life had formed on the planet below it.

Was there still life here? 

Shepard leapt to cross the span of the creek but only made it halfway and landed with a noisy splash. She grimaced. The calf-deep water was cool and clear, clear enough to make out the scratches and gouges in the toes of her boots. Physical proof: she was back where she belonged.

She looked over her shoulder toward the clearing where they'd disembarked. The rest of her team was struggling to make their way through the dense sward behind her, the grass so tall that it brushed their chests and shoulders as they wove their way through. Her corporal, the shortest of them all, was barely visible above the purple-tipped blades. She was a bobbing head in a pastoral sea while the others made headway with long, stomping strides.

Shepard checked her omnitool to gain her bearings. The sound of sloshing came up from behind.

“From farther away, I’d have mistaken you for a heron, standing here so peacefully like that,” Lieutenant Palmer said blithely.

“Just getting the lay of the land.”

“Good gravy it’s hot here!” Fitzpatrick wiped the sweat from her brow as she approached the edge of the creek. The gunnery chief’s milky face had already reddened.

“Told ya you wouldn’t want your helmet,” said Lieutenant de Luca, sidling up beside her. “Last time I was on Ontarom it was a good 35 plus Celsius. And that was in the cool season!”

“Oh? When was that?”

“I was stationed at the base for six months when I was a private. Before sniper training, I was known to be pretty handy at comm repair.”

Fitzpatrick gave him an approving expression. Corporal Kamau, who had fallen behind, was bringing up the rear with a pack nearly the same length as her body slung across her back.

“You could have let me carry that,” said Palmer, making a sour face.

“Not to worry. It’s not heavy.” Setting the bag down on end, Kamau tipped the pack down in the trampled grass and unzipped it.

“What the hell’s in there anyway?” asked Fitzpatrick.

“Surveying tools.” She drew out a collapsed yellow tripod. “The landscape in this area has changed quite dramatically since our last mapping.”

“What an archaic thingymajig...” said Palmer.

“The planet’s electrical storms are interfering with our orbital passes. The ship can’t get a consistent read and we’re down two tech drones,” said Shepard, looking up from her holomap. "Sometimes you’ve gotta stick with the tried and true.” 

“Tried and true? A lot like you then, eh, Commander?” Palmer flashed a louche smile.

Shepard thought to reprimand the lieutenant for his familiar tone but shook her head instead. It hadn’t taken her long to notice that his confidence and good looks inclined him to a kind of reflexive flirtation, a bad habit that he made no effort to curb. It was a habit she knew well. There was a time when she and James had made an unspoken game of flirting, the both of them upping the ante for weeks on end, neither giving an inch until she challenged him to make good on all his coquetting, and he was forced to concede that he, in fact, did not actually want matching tattoos.

Now she was here—not with him, but in command of his crew. Her crew.

“Listen, everyone. We don’t know what we’re walking into out here. Could be civilians, could be pirates or mercs, could be opportunists. Could be anyone. Could be no one. With all Alliance assets destroyed, we can assume the worst. But you never know. People have a way of surviving in all kinds of conditions.” The memory of Corporal Toombs had shaken itself loose as they had descended to the surface of Ontarom.  Shepard unslung her rifle. “There’s no way to know how things played out here, so keep your eyes and ears open.” Then she nodded at Kamau, who was already settling into her work.

The rest of the squad followed as she crossed the creek and swished up the sloping terrain toward a copse of gaunt trees. Behind the trees, a ridge of dirt ringed the landscape like a keloid scar; it was the edge of a crater three kilometers wide, the apparent aftermath of a Reaper strike. The Alliance had held onto hope that the planet had been spared, but it was clear it had fallen victim to catastrophe in the last days of war. The comm buoys in the Kepler Verge had been destroyed. The communication arrays yielded nothing. The Alliance base and dish fields they’d spent so many years developing were merely tracts of dust and scrap now. Only a single distress signal had been received from the planet’s surface, and according to their readings, it was originating from somewhere in the immediate area.

As they reached the height of the rim, Shepard commanded everyone to lay prone. Lieutenant de Luca pressed his face to his scope and scanned the valley below, its floor overgrown with shrubs and bracken but little else.

“Nothing of concern, Commander,” he said coolly. “I do see some kind of basic array. Maybe the source of the signal, but I can’t be certain from this distance.”

“Alright, let’s go.”

The group trekked on. A crust of debris limned the lip of the crater; chips of ceramic composite, the jagged shrapnel of IFV skins, polycarbonate pebbles, and stray wire crunched under their boots as they descended into the thickly carpeted bowl.

When they were halfway down, a voice rang out over Shepard’s comm. “Commander, electrical storm’s cleared up enough to give us a crude scan. Looks like there’s some kind of encampment twenty-five clicks northeast of your current position. A former research site for the United Bioshpere project. Not very big, but it might be something.”

“Got it.” Shepard continued to inch down the hill, hopeful to hear there might be survivors.

“And Commander?”

She paused in expectation. She could feel a joke coming on.

“If there’s anyone alive down there, try not to scare ‘em away with your angry mug? They haven’t seen anyone for three whole years…how ‘bout a nice big smile! Maybe a hug while you’re at it.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be fine.” Her eyes darted up toward the sky. The moon stared back, still watching.

“Okay, but I won’t take the blame if you get your head blown off by some touch-starved yokel.”

“Thanks, Joker, I’ll keep that in mind.”

They reached the communications array after a sweltering fifteen minutes. It had been rigged using a communications module ripped from the cockpit of a shuttle craft and two obsolete transmitters, one to broadcast radio waves and the other to transmit an optical beam. De Luca remarked on the resourcefulness of whoever had rigged the array but was uncertain of who had done it. Its message held no traces of its sender; it was a generic distress signal set to broadcast on any available frequencies. Shepard made the call to continue to the settlement, and after collecting Corporal Kamau, they took the shuttle to the coordinates Joker had sent them.

The settlement was tucked away in a cleft between two steep mountainsides, a place where everything grew a deep shade of blue-green. From above, they could count the number of buildings on one hand. There were tents too, the kind normally deployed for far-flung missions in unfriendly terrain, and further along, at the south end of the grounds, a herd of six-limbed cows grazed in an enclosed paddock. Shepard recognized the animals from her last mission to the outpost. They had roamed the hillsides freely then, but these unlucky cattle were stockaded between a patchwork of high fences, their posture slack and despondent.

When the quad stepped off the shuttle, right away, Shepard felt a change. A deathly quiet strangled the air. The mountains cast long shadows over the close, making it feel cool, and a pungent scent—a mix of musk and myrrh—wafted up from the soft ground with each step they made.

Upon closer look, the paddock was made from sheets of salvaged metal. They’d been wrested from the hull of a defunct ship, its scraped paint and insignia still visible under a thick layer of grime. As the squad drew closer to the buildings, a fierce updraft swept through and rattled the rickety fences. The jarring noise startled the cows. They brayed and stamped their feet. Then, just as quickly, they silenced. Their heads turned toward the soldiers. Their wet, dark eyes were unblinking against the rush of mountain air.

“Jesus wept!” yelped Palmer.“Those things give me the willies.”

“They’re only cows, Lieutenant,” Kamau said in her usual deadpan way.

“They’ve too many arms and legs. And they look like they’re”—he squinted—“…smirking?”

It was true, the long, turned corners of their mouths gave them an expression that was all at once sinister and grimacing. 

“It’s too quiet here,” Fitzpatrick said in a hush. “I don’t think anyone’s home.”

“Shhh!” Shepard signaled for them to listen. There was a high pitched creak, an imperceptible whine, like an old hinge opening or metal giving way underfoot. She pointed her rifle toward the door of the nearest building. The stacks of empty crates and canisters at the eastern wall implied some kind of supply storage, but it could just as easily have been a cache of weapons.

A scuffing sound behind the door caught everyone’s attention. Shepard approached with her weapon raised and silently directed Fitzpatrick and Palmer to cover the east and west sides of the squat building. Before she reached the door, a single shot ripped past her shoulder. It hit the top of the fence behind her, and the shifty cows shrieked, some of them roaring up to their haunches or running headlong into the corners of the paddock like desperate flies against a window. Everyone dropped to the ground. 

Lieutenant de Luca, who was positioned on an elevated outcrop, called out over the comm. “Ventilation grill, south wall.”

“Hold your fire,” said Shepard, her cheek hovering above the ground. She shouted toward the building, “Don’t shoot, Alliance Navy! We’re here to help you!”

It was silent again, save for the agitated cows scraping their hooves along the ground. The front door slid open. From the darkness of the doorway, the tip of a shotgun emerged, then a face, hard and wan. A young man—no, an older boy—took a few tentative steps into the daylight with the butt of his shotgun braced against his bony shoulder. “A-Alliance?” His voice was quivering. The gun looked too heavy in his arms.

“Alliance Navy,” Shepard repeated. She set her rifle to the side and held her hands out to show they were empty.

“You’re lying!” he screamed, lunging and aiming the gun directly at her head. “They’re all dead!” Behind the matted fringe of his hair, the boy’s dark eyes shone through, wet and widened.

Palmer and Fitzpatrick edged toward him with weapons raised, but Shepard signalled for them to hold. She craned her head up to show the boy her face, hopeful that he recognized her from media footage. “I’m Commander Circe Shepard, Alliance Navy. We’re here to help.”

The boy looked up from his shotgun. The pain in his eyes turned to shock, then relief as he  lowered the weapon and shoved the fringe away from his forehead. “It…it is you!” He gaped. “Why are you on Ontarom? What happened to the Alliance? Why didn’t you come for us? What happened to everyone?” More questions came down in a hail of indirect fire.

Shepard pushed herself off the ground. “I can answer all your questions. Just please, put your weapon down first.”

The boy did as he was told and placed the shotgun on the ground. He glanced over his shoulder. The thinned fabric of his shirt hung from him like a battered sail, dulled with dirt and grease. He beckoned someone with his hand. An elderly man and a young girl, no older than five or six, stood in the doorway holding hands. The girl, upon seeing two fully armored soldiers stationed at her side, began to howl. Soon, seven more people spilled out from the makeshift barn, and three more from the tents.

“I’m Elias,” said the boy, his eyes now wet with tears. “And this is our home.”

It was quiet. The rest of the team had already scattered and were attending to their roster of duties, leaving Shepard alone in the locker room.  She’d stayed behind to supervise the colonists’ arrival aboard the ship, and to see that they received basic care and assistance and were registered with the new Alliance census.

For all the scrapes and battles she’d seen, the Normandy had become part of the recovery process like any other ship in the fleet. Her new mission: to be the first ship through the newly repaired Shadow Sea relay. From the doorstep of the Attican Traverse, they would explore what had become of the Alliance’s assets and clear the way for other vessels to follow. The plan was to press forward as more relays came back online, or until the Normandy was called home, but if all went perfectly, each relay would be rung in the ladder to reach Rannoch.  What they would find after years of isolation remained a mystery. If Ontarom was any indication, the journey to the Terminus Systems would be grim.

Shepard let out a sigh of relief as she undid her breastplate. Wearing it again had, like everything else, been an exercise in rebuilding tolerance. She carried it over one arm as she walked down the aisle. Second row, three in from the end. Her gaze lingered on the blank nameplate before she opened the locker. She stared into it. The locker was empty. But it still held the faint scent of astringent herbs, the kinds used in balms to treat chafing on thick, metallic hides. She swayed, inhaling a year’s worth of fading memories at once. Then she snorted and shut it again.

Two spaces over, her own equipment locker lay nearly bare, with only a helmet atop the shelf and a perfect blue feather taped to the inside of the door. Shepard traced a finger over the edge of the feather’s fine barbs, admiring the black stripes that ran horizontally to the shaft. Her bird friend had visited in the spring, just after her birthday, and never returned. This was the parting gift he’d left in the Alenko’s garden, as if to say goodbye because she was flying away too.

After stowing away her plates and pads, Shepard worked at removing her inner suit. Peeling it off always made her feel like a piece of fruit—like an unripe banana—but today she was a grape, her sticky sweat sucking the nanofibers to her body like a filmy rind. Shepard grimaced as she pulled the suit down her thighs. She was careful not to drag it across her skin to avoid a nasty friction burn. Finally, she rolled the fabric over her calves, tugged her feet out with a satisfying snap, and let the suit melt to the floor.

It wasn’t customary for the commanding officer to dress in the common areas, but she held a deep belief that shared rituals strengthened bonds. She needed to observe her crew’s shapes and volumes, how they fit together in the day-to-day and in the field. It wasn’t enough to understand tactics. You had to know people if you wanted to be a successful officer. So far, she’d been off to an awkward start. Her commander’s muscles had atrophied after such a lengthy absence, and the ineffable presence she mustered so easily before the war was not so easy now.  Joining an existing group was tricky. And replacing a well-loved leader—one who had died a hero’s death—was daunting. Now there were two names to live up to instead of one.

Shepard stood with her hands on her hips and huffed in relief.  She was half-naked. If she had her way, she would stay there like that for the rest of the day, letting the cool air slide over her bare skin, never donning a stitch of clothing. She’d become feverish on the way back to the shuttle, walking at a short stagger, almost a stumble, by the time they reached the ship. Thankfully she’d been the one bringing up the rear, and no one noticed when she lumbered on board.

No sooner did she step off the elevator than her new comms specialist bombarded her with the latest updates from command. Shepard was still overheated and a little dizzy, and she struggled to keep up with Specialist Lu’s barrage of words.

“I appreciate your thoroughness, Lu, but if you could just” —she pinched her fingers close together—“slow it down a touch next time? Still finding my sea legs here.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” she said sheepishly. “Oh, I almost forgot, Commander—you have new messages.”

“Thanks, I’ll take them in my quarters.” Shepard gave her a worn smile.“Carry on.”

She continued along the CIC, nodding at the crew who were seated at their stations, and came to a standstill at the threshold of the bridge. Hands clasped behind her back, she said nothing. Through the viewport, Ontarom’s atmosphere—a protective golden ring—flamed against the star-flecked cosmos. The galaxy was replete with faraway, heavenly bodies, but she never tired of its beauty. The infinitude of space. Something in the long distance always calling her farther away. She took a deep breath of the recycled air and was thankful for it.

“Soooo….how long are you just gonna stand there?” said Joker without turning around. “I can feel your eyes on me. It’s kinda creepy.”

“Sorry, just enjoying the view.”

“Didn’t know you liked me that way, Commander,” he said over his shoulder.

Shepard snickered. “I don’t.”

“That’s a relief. I’d hate to have to file a harassment claim with HQ. Too much paperwork.”

She watched as Joker’s fingers jerked across the control console in a chaotic dance. “How does it feel to have your butt back in the seat? Looks like they kept it warm for you.”

“Well, whoever the last guy was messed up all my custom settings. Took forever to get everything back.  I tell ya, never lend your state-of-the-art military stealth frigate to another person. They’ll always find a way to wreck it.”

From the back, Joker’s shoulders were held high and stiff, and he was slouched forward in his seat, his whole body curled around a giant, invisible ball. Shepard wondered about his health. It had only been two weeks and already he’d been working himself harder than before. She worried he was trying to do too much, too fast.

“In all seriousness, how have you been holding up here?” she asked, crossing her arms.

He was quiet for a moment, then spoke over his shoulder again. “I…I’m sleeping better. Ironic, right? The ship’s bunks are about as comfortable as a slab of granite. And I’ve been holding myself accountable. No alcohol, no eating alone. So there’s that…” Joker’s fingers paused and hovered over the console. He swiveled his chair around—a slow and considered turn. “Listen, I love the Normandy. She’s my ship. And I would never want to give her up again. But it’s hard. Sometimes I catch myself…” He gestured toward the co-pilot’s seat with his thumb. “I talk like she’s still here.”

The distant roar of laughter carried over from the CIC. Joker leaned in his seat and stared down the corridor, and Shepard glanced over her shoulder. Palmer and de Luca were at it with their usual banter, and Fitzpatrick had collapsed into into full-fledged snorting fits, the latter gasping for air with loud, hiccuping breaths.

Joker looked up at Shepard again. “Then I remember she’s not here. And I start thinking of everyone else—my dad, Hilary, old friends who didn’t make it. The whole shebang.” His eyes were heavy-lidded now. “They say it gets easier, but I don’t think it does. It just becomes…different, you know?”

“I do.” And that was all that needed to be said. There was only injury in placating someone with overworn platitudes like ‘they’ll always live on in your heart’. 

“Anyway. I didn’t mean to bum you out.”

“Hey, I asked.”

“Thanks. But I’m good now.” Joker touched the brim of his cap and turned back toward his console. “Whaddya say, Commander? Shall we fly this baby outta here?”

“Cast off and away, Lieutenant.”

“Aye aye, ma’am.”

On the observation deck, the colonists had made themselves comfortable. The children, sporting full bellies and freshly laundered clothes, draped themselves over the seats or pressed their faces to the wide window as they watched the stars streak by in pearly rills. The adults were catching up on all they’d been frozen out of since the war; they could hardly believe how much destruction had been wrought, nor the progress made in the face of it. And despite that, or because of it, these handful of people had been the only survivors located within a 4000 km radius of the Alliance base on Ontarom. What had happened to them during the war? How had they survived in the intervening years? Had they had contact with anyone else? As the ship set on its course back toward the relay, Shepard asked these questions and listened to the colonists’ stories.

She learned that by the last days of the war, those who had not been evacuated had been called upon to fight, regardless of age or skill. What remained of the Eighth Fleet had been destroyed in the skies over Ontarom, confirming the Alliance’s suspicion that the planet had gone undefended when communications were cut. A last ditch effort was mounted at the former ExoGeni Corp facility, but with the Alliance base destroyed and no reinforcements on the way, their sacrifice had been for naught.

Those that survived had been the ones who were left behind: the very young and the very old, the infirm. One of the children had barely been out of diapers when the Reapers made their final attack. He was cared for by his grandparents, who had traveled for three weeks on foot before encountering other survivors. They were the fortunate ones. It wasn’t long before most of the others succumbed to the harsh conditions. There was no one to care for them, limited medical supply, and little food. The group eventually found their way to the old United Biosphere site and made it their permanent home. The location kept them well hidden from pirates or other malefactors, though they reported not having encountered anyone else in their time there. It was as if every ship in the system had simply vanished, eaten up by the sky.

Shepard thanked them for their time and promised they would be well taken care of aboard the SSV Shanghai. There, they could make contact with any surviving next of kin and discuss possible relocation with Alliance administrators. Though it was hard to imagine anyone wanting to remain on Ontarom, Shepard understood what it meant to be ripped from one’s home. The adults, with their wealth of life experience, could inure themselves to change. But for the children, losing the only home they had ever known would tear at wounds cut long and deep by war. Cocooned in this serene room, insulated from the wider world, they were safe and contented, but soon the invisible wounds would ooze, would fester, manifesting for everyone to see. They might look like nails bitten down to tattered nubs. Pissing the bed. Lashing out. Laying awake. Or they might look like losing control, tears flowing, pulse racing. Screaming. Withdrawing. Retreating. Checking and rechecking that someone was still there. Squeezing someone’s hand so tight they gasped. Letting vigilance become a way of life.

These were the things that had happened to the surviving children of Mindoir. These were the things that had happened to her. She’d been sixteen, shrunken to a small child, wanting nothing but her mommy and daddy and the comfort of her own bed. She recalled craning her head to watch Mindoir shrink away, a tiny crumb through the viewport of the SSV Einstein.

If she’d cried, she couldn’t remember now. What she remembered most of her time aboard the ship was the kindness of the crew. The smiles they offered. The small gestures they made. The laid-back doctor who showed her how to use a handheld medical scanner. The young private who shared his collection of tiger figurines. The mess cook who brought them chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven. And the captain who promised to keep each of them safe. If the Normandy could provide some measure of comfort to the colonists of Ontarom, if only for this brief time, then Shepard was glad to repay that which she had received in manifold all those years ago.

With the colonists still on her mind, she made one last stop on her tour of the ship. She peeked through the window as she strode past the empty galley. There was no one else inside. The doors slid open and Shepard rapped on the inside of the doorway before drawing further into the room.

“Hey, doc. Got a minute?

Dr. Chakwas turned away from her work and smiled warmly. “Commander, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I just spoke with the colonists. They seem to be in good spirits under the circumstances. How were their medical scans?”

“Mmm…some malnourishment, which is to be expected. And some rather nasty parasites in the children. But nothing some antiparasitic agents can’t cure. As for the adults…” Dr. Chakwas tapped a finger on her desk and pressed her lips into a frown. “Well, considering their ages, it’s not surprising to find more serious ailments. Rest assured, they'll receive more thorough care once they’re transferred to the Shanghai. I’ve already spoken with their medical staff.” She gestured for Shepard to sit, but Shepard shook her head. “To tell you the truth, I’m shocked they made it this far without incident.”

“They’re a tough bunch. You don’t live on a colony like that without learning how to weather a storm.”

Dr. Chakwas tipped her head. “You know, sometimes I regret not settling on a colony. There had already been a woeful shortage of doctors before the war. I dread to think of what will become of the programs now.”

“It isn’t too late. They’ll still need doctors after all is said and done.”

“True. But I’m far more useful here.”

“Selfishly, I’m happy you’ve chosen to stay on. You’ve seen us through a lot, Karin.” She wouldn’t normally address the doctor by her first name, but her feelings on the matter were genuine. "Anyway, I should go.” She jerked her thumb back. “Got a report to file before dinner.”

“Commander, one more thing you before you leave…” Dr. Chakwas turned to her terminal and pressed a few keys. A file popped up on the display.

“What’s that?”

“It’s about your…condition,” she said, turning back to Shepard.

“Condition?”

Dr. Chakwas crossed her legs. Tilting her chin down, she glared up at Shepard with a look that reminded her of the one her mother used to give when she’d caught her lying.

Shepard shifted her weight. “Ah. That…”

“Yes, that. I’ve been forwarded your medical records in regard to your treatment. Ms. Lawson insisted that I look over them carefully as medical officer aboard your ship.”

Of course Miranda had been ‘thorough’. “And?” she asked a little too sharply.

“I’m sure you’ve been properly warned, but I feel it bears repeating as your doctor. You must moderate your use of biotics. Any strain on your rehabilitated system could result in catastrophic failure. It’s simply too soon.”

Shepard’s gaze was drawn to the display behind Dr. Chakwas. It was illegible from where she stood, but judging by the graphic layout, it appeared to be data from her suit’s monitoring system.

Dr. Chakwas caught her staring and raised her eyebrows. “Although, I suppose asking for moderation from you is like asking a tiger not to roar.”

Shepard smiled impishly. “You won’t tell Miranda if I cheat just a little, will you?”

“As she’s not officially in charge of your medical care—no. But if needs must…” Dr. Chakwas gave her another pointed look. “Do let me know if you experience any new or recurring pain. Fevers, numbness, dizziness, shooting pains. Anything unusual or unrelated to combat injuries. It’s important we address any problems right away.”

“Understood.” Shepard tipped an imaginary hat. “And thanks for your help with the colonists.”

“Of course, Commander.”

The glass of the built-in fish tank had clearly not been cleaned in some time. There were errant fingerprints daubing its surface, and Shepard wondered for a moment if they belonged to James. But of course they didn’t. It had been a year since his death, and she couldn’t imagine the room had gone an entire year without being cleaned. The last oily impressions of him rubbed out from the universe by a shabby rag and a spritz of orange-scented window cleaner.

The lack of fish had been a predictable, but minor disappointment. She would’ve happily led the children to the captain’s quarters and taught them the names of each colorful specimen. Besides, what other Alliance starship hosted live fish aboard? And then there were the scale models. How had she forgotten? But as she took a seat at her unadorned desk, she was relieved to have forgotten. Her detailed replica of Sovereign would have inspired terror rather than awe in the littlest ones. Shepard laced her hands behind her head and leaned back in her chair. Showing off her fancy toys sounded like a lot more fun than completing the day’s mission report.

Shepard blew a long breath between her lips and turned on her terminal. She opted to read her messages first, the ones Specialist Lu had so eagerly reminded her of in the CIC. The first two were standard Alliance correspondence regarding the coordination of supply lines, cc’ed to all commanding starship officers and base commanders. The third was a message from Dusty—a surprised but belated congratulations on her return to the Alliance. Everything else had been read and sorted, save for one message at the bottom of the page:

Unread, 92 days old

She blinked at the display and wiped a hand over her face. 92 days unopened.  92 days without a reply. 92 days of a sour churning in her stomach. She stared blankly at the subject line.

Subject: “Are you alive?”

She sank her chin into her hand. She chewed her nails, the clicking of her front teeth echoing through her skull. She fixated on the three curt words until the letters were branded at the backs of her eyes, stinging them. Are. You. Alive.

She deserved it, the stinging. She had been stupid. She had been thoughtless. She had been a coward. And worst of all, she had been recklessly selfish. But it was too late to take it back now.

Chapter Text

PART III
Chapter 2: A Meager Yield

2 years, 10 mo. after the end of the Reaper War
Cipritine, Palaven

Somewhere in the Presidium, a turian man mouthed something and gently took the hands of a young, quarian woman. As their eyes met, they declared their love in a soundless pantomime, the subtitles speaking for them without inflection or tone. But Garrus didn’t need the sound on. He’d seen Float and Flotilla enough times to hear the lovers’ plaintive laments in his head. “But Shalei, we can never be together. I have my duty, and you have your people,” the turian said stoically.

Arms folded across his stomach, Garrus sat slouched, his limbs too long for the shallow chair. He glanced over at the bed. Light from the small screen flickered across his mother’s face like shafts of sun through blowing leaves, lending life to her withered cheeks, and to the dark room with its vacant, colorless walls. It was no-nonsense kind of room, like all hospital rooms. The vidplayer was a luxury as far as Garrus was concerned.

Shalei and Bellicus continued to emote on the screen. “Though I know that dawn will set us on course for our separate ways, I will hold this night in memory for all my living days…” the lovelorn woman sang. Garrus had never seen the musical version before now, but whatever the song’s melody, surely it was cloying and melodramatic.

“Fire in the Courtyard” from the original vid had once been a favorite of his. But his days of smoking bad guys to its heart-thumping beats were behind him, and the visor he played it on was now worn out of habit. He’d seen more of squabbles in rooms than battles in the field. For the last two weeks, the beeping of his mother’s biomonitor had become the soundtrack of his life, its steady meter reassuring him that she was still of this world, even if she was not often in it. She’d been bedridden for months now, unable to walk or care for herself in any capacity, forced to move to the hospital for hospice care when it was clear they would no longer be able to care for her at home.

So when another beep sounded—off-beat, in the silence between his mother’s heartbeats—his own heart leapt. He checked her over. Her mouth was agape, but she hadn’t stirred; the cannula beneath her nose was still firmly in place and delivering oxygen as normal. Only when he saw her chest rise and fall did he realize the noise had come from his omnitool. He sighed in relief and checked his notifications.

He was expecting to see a communication from the Hierarchy. He’d worked himself ragged for months, and after tense negotiations with the salarians finally drew to a close, he’d been granted standing leave to be with his mom, subject to recall in case of emergency. But it wasn’t a message from the Hierarchy. Reading the sender’s name, his breath caught in his throat and his heart leapt again. He opened the message.

SUBJECT: Re: Are you alive?

G—

I am alive. 

As I write this, I am hurtling somewhere through the Attican Traverse. I’m sure you’ve heard the news by now. I’m sure you know everything. You’re privy to a lot more information than I am by this point.

If I’m being honest, I’m not sure what to say. I’ve written and rewritten this message about a dozen times. Nothing I said sounded right. This time I’ve promised myself to write the thoughts as they come and not delete them.

I don’t have a good reason for doing what I did, so I’m not going to pretend it wasn’t selfish. Looking back, it’s obvious that I should’ve told you I was leaving. Hell, it was obvious then. But there was so much happening…you were in Palaven and the treaty with the salarians looked like it might go tits up, then the fallout with the asari…I knew what the consequences would be. (I’m kind of grateful there are no politics out here. I don’t envy you.)

Getting back to the point: it was the wrong time to interrupt a delicate situation with personal matters. You had bigger things to grapple with than whether I went back to work or not.
Can I ask you something? If I’d told you I was thinking of going back to the Alliance, would you have encouraged me to go? Truthfully? I ask myself this a lot. Because I think you would’ve tried to stopped me. You would’ve told me it was too soon. You’d have worried I was going to burn myself out. 
Or maybe I was afraid I’d give in, that I’d listen to your advice and stay. You wouldn’t have been wrong to tell me to. Chakwas keeps telling me that I have to take it easy or else I’ll explode. No, not explode really, but you get the picture. 

I just couldn’t stand on the sidelines anymore, doing nothing. Do you know how hard that is? I think you know what it’s like, feeling useless while people suffer. Needing to right wrongs. That’s what I’m doing now, Garrus, I’m righting my wrongs. Wrongs I helped create. And after seeing some of the things I’ve seen since we crossed the relay, after all the times I barely squeaked by, survived by the skin of my teeth when I shouldn’t have…I guess I feel responsible for doing something with my life. What is it worth if I’m not doing that? If I’m not where I am now?

So I took the chance when it came. Admiral Hackett says that if I lead this mission successfully, there’s a possibility for promotion. There’s talk that I’d finally make captain. I can’t mess this up. I know this doesn’t explain my actions, and it doesn’t excuse them, but I hope you can at least understand. 
I’m not asking for anything. You don’t owe me anything, and I don’t expect your forgiveness. I can only ask for your understanding.
I’m sorry for the way I left, and that it took me so long to write. I wish you and your family well. Please take care of yourself. 

With love,
Circe

P.s.- is it wrong to say I’ve missed you? 

Garrus stared at the display, dumbfounded. Months of waiting for a reply, a sign, anything, and this was the message he received? What the hell was she even talking about? Did she actually believe he’d stop her from going back to the Alliance? That sounded like the biggest load of crap he’d ever heard. When had he ever stopped her from doing anything? He could never, even if he’d wanted to. Getting in Shepard’s way was a lesson in futility.

She was right, he was privy to a lot of intelligence, but she was wrong too. When she didn’t answer any of his calls or reply to his messages, he went back to the orchard. No one answered the door. All the farming equipment had been put away, locked up tight, and the shades on the windows were turned black. Rear Admiral Ly was shocked when he rang at her door She asked him where Shepard was; she didn’t know her whereabouts either. “One day she was just gone,” she’d said. All Kaidan could tell him was that she’d given up caretaking of his family’s property, that he’d found out from his mother, who received only a brief, apologetic message and returned to the house to find it cleared out and spotless. In the end, it was Miranda who’d told Garrus, as a personal favor. She’d been worried that Shepard returned too soon, that they needed longer to ensure her biotics were stable enough, but Shepard didn’t listen. She was as stubborn as ever. When her Alliance assessments came up clear, there was no impediment, nothing to hold her back on Earth. She ended her sabbatical and applied to rejoin the same day. Whatever arrangement she’d worked out with Admiral Hackett must have included sensitive mission intel, or else she’d asked him for a favor, because knowledge of her return did not become public until three months later. By then, she’d been long gone, off to who knew where, somewhere out of Garrus’ reach, literally and figuratively.

The more he thought about it, the more infuriated he became. She was afraid he’d be worried? What the hell did she think disappearing for months on end would do? Reassure him? Make him forget about her? Help him focus? She may have had a severe case of tunnel vision, but her excuses were beyond logic.

With a single communication, Shepard had become another person in his life whose mind he could not know. She claimed, somehow, that this was for the greater good, for the benefit of others, but all Garrus saw was a lost woman, too scared and too proud to live any other way. But was that fair? Could he really say  he’d have felt any different in her place? He couldn’t agree with her actions, but his feelings remained. Maybe love could wait until things were set right again. When that would be…there was no way to know.

He read the message three more times in hopes that he could divine some missing meaning from the characters on his display, to bring her closer through the empty spaces between words. The vid was still playing when he finally looked up from his omnitool. It was the pivotal parting scene in the second act: Shalei was bidding as tearful goodbye to her turian lover, who was holding her tight. When he finally let go, she disappeared into the airlock of her ship without looking back, and he looked on with a brave face as the door shut behind her, his quivering mandibles betraying his otherwise steadfast expression.

Garrus snarled. Some goodbye, he thought bitterly. It wasn’t a goodbye. That’s not how this vid ended.

Too uneasy to stay sitting in the dark room, he shut off the vidplayer and made his way to the ward’s courtyard. His sleeping mother would be fine without him; Solana would be here soon to offer relief from his watch.

Outside in the courtyard, the night was warm and stagnant. Faint whiffs of something metallic hung in the air. Garrus checked his sensor readings. The air quality was hovering just below “fair”—no mask needed. It was too quiet, though. Most of the other visitors had gone, and patients were asleep in their beds. The only sound was of  humming skycars in the distance.

He’d had enough of silence. He stood at the railing and looked out onto the dim city, wishing for the bustle of old Cipritine: the roar of the aged maglev, the steady rhythm of garbage drones, the sizzle of grills on snack carts, the boisterous yelps of youths before shipping out, the hiss of the wind between blocks of skyscrapers. Those were the sounds of life at its fullest, the sounds he’d taken for granted before his life was turned upside down.

As his gaze shifted up toward the sky, he couldn’t help but wonder which star she might be closest to now. That one? Or that one? Or the one he could barely make out with his naked eye. Just how far away was she? But soon he came to his senses, pushing away from the railing and turning heel. It didn’t matter. She was lost. Until she found her way back, there was nothing he could do to change their course. In this way, she’d forced his hand. If he wanted to stave off the feelings she’d so recklessly stirred, he’d have to shift his attentions to matters of the here and now. How very tactical of her.

He’d nearly cried out, thwarted as he was, but the light jangle of a woman’s voice broke the night’s restraint.

“Ah, here you are. I went back to the room but you were gone. Just needed some air?” Solana had returned from her excursion to freshen up at home and bring him clean clothes. She held out a cup of something hot. “Hey, you feeling alright?”

“No,” he said flatly, taking the cup. “Shepard finally wrote me.”

“She what?” His sister was confused. “Wait, what do you mean no? Isn’t that good news? What did she say? Where the hell has she been?”

“She’s gone back to the Alliance. She’s on assignment, headed toward the Terminus Systems.”

Solana scoffed. “Is that where she’s been this whole time?”

Garrus glanced at his sister, then took a long sip of the bitter tea.

“So she leaves without a word—disappears—and doesn’t bother letting you know she’s alive until now? Did she even explain why?”

“She has her reasons.” He wasn’t sure he agreed with them, but that was another matter.

“I’m sorry, I know you love her, but what kind of a person does that?” She stared hard at her brother, as if he should already know the answer. “A selfish one, that’s who. Spirits, what a bitch.”

“Easy, Sol. You’ve never even met the woman,” he said, countering her incredulity with composure.

“And? I don’t need to meet her to know that it’s a shitty thing to do, especially to someone you love. You deserve better.” Her flaming eyes cooled as she regarded her brother’s face. “After everything we’ve been through, you deserve a bit of happiness.”

He gurgled. “I do, huh? Spirits, I don’t know…”

“Bah! Just dump her,” she said, gripping the railing with one hand and leaning away from it. For a moment, he caught a flash of fledgling Solana. “Find yourself a nice turian girlfriend and…I don’t know, make some babies or something. We could use more babies, you know.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Sure it is. Tell her it’s over. ‘Have a nice life.’” She waved and let go of the railing. “Done. You don’t owe her anything, not anymore.”

That phrase again. You don’t owe me anything. What the hell did that mean anyway? What did owing have to do with it? Love was giving, and love was receiving, but it was never owing. That phrase sounded like a disavowal of responsibility. Of course they had a responsibility to each other, didn’t they?

“I don’t have time for dating anyway,” Garrus snapped, slapping his cup down on the nearest table. “What woman is going to want a scarred workaholic who’s never home?”

“I don’t know, but you’re not getting any younger.” Solana approached the railing again, this time leaning into it to get a good look at the skyline. “Tell me, Garrus, are you a port?”

“A port?”

“Yes, a port,” she said sharply, whipping her head around.

“No…? What are you getting at?”

“If you’re not a port, then why does she come and go as she pleases? As if she has undisputed privileges? This isn’t the first time she’s disappeared on you.”

Garrus looked away from his sister and a spasm of embarrassment seized his mouth shut. Maybe Sol had a point. He’d gotten too used to this pattern of Shepard disappearing and reappearing like a shadow. What did that say about him? About the two of them together?

There was always a reason before. But this time she hadn’t died, hadn’t been resurrected, she hadn’t been jailed or humiliated or chased out of the public eye. She hadn’t been ordered back to duty. She chose this. She chose to hide her illness, she chose to leave, and she chose silence over him. Now, he felt absolutely abandoned.

“We should get upstairs,” he declared abruptly. “Mom’s going to worry if she wakes up and no one is there.”

Before they even entered the room, the siblings could hear that their mother was awake. There were muffled grunts behind the door, and the voice of a nurse spoke in low, soothing tones. Inside, he was leaning over the bed with the tubing of their mom’s nasal cannula in hand.

“Mrs. Vakarian, we need to keep this on, okay? It’s helping you to breathe. It won’t hurt, I promise. I’m here to help.”

“No!” his mother squawked and made a feeble attempt to push the nurse away with her flaccid arm. Unsuccessful but undeterred, she panted as she desperately tried to grip her IV line using her other hand, but the nurse held her wrist to stop her.

“Mom, I’m here,” said Solana, rushing to the bedside. She put her hand on her mother’s forehead and began to stroke it. “Garrus—there’s a box on the middle shelf of the cupboard there. I need you to fetch the small stone inside it, it’s wrapped in a piece of purple fabric. Bring it here.”

Garrus hurried and found the box as he was told. It was the one that had held their family keepsakes, the one he had rifled through back at the house when Sol and his mom had first arrived to Cipritine. He fished out the pebble and handed it to his sister, who promptly placed it in their mother’s hand, enclosing her fingers around it.

“Here, Mom. Do you feel that?”

Their mother’s breathing slowed as she gently squeezed it in her palm. The nurse let go of her wrist.

“There, see? There’s nothing to worry about,” said Solana.

A soft hum rattled their mom’s phlegmy throat before she managed a whisper. “Castis…”

The nurse looked up at Solana, his expression expectant.

“It’s okay, we’ve got this.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

Solana nodded and the nurse conceded. “Alright then. But please let us know if you need anything. We’ll be keeping an eye on her vitals from the nurses’s station.” The nurse carefully put the cannula back into place and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

“What’s that?” Garrus asked Sol, curious about the stone. He would have asked his mother directly, but communication with her had become all but impossible. More often than not she didn’t understand, or she couldn’t find the words to answer, even if she had acknowledged his presence at all. An expected outcome, yet no less painful.

“This is from Dad, isn’t it, Mom?” Sol answered indirectly, still stroking her mother’s forehead.

A crook twitched at the corner of her mouth, the best version of a smile she could muster since she’d lost her fine motility.

“When Mom and Dad first met, she was completing her first assignment as a military historian. They were assigned to the same legion. You remember that, right?”

“I do remember, yeah.”

“Dad was just a grunt. Mom had seen him before, but they’d really never spoken much. They’d exchanged polite greetings at most, though she’d caught him staring at her plenty of times. She was eating in the mess one day, with Professor Mithrenus—remember him?—when her stomach started bothering her. Anyway, the Professor didn’t notice, he just kept blathering on about something or another. But she must have been making a face or something, because when Dad was passed her, he stopped. He stared at her without saying a word, then set the stone down on her tray and walked away.”

“I don’t think I ever heard this story…”

“No, probably not. She only told me after the Corpalis symptoms began to worsen. She repeated it everyday, over and over. But you were off with Shepard by then.”

Garrus’ guilt throbbed like an old shrapnel wound, its fragments pressing against a sensitive nerve.

Solana smiled at their mother. “You’ve told me this story a million times, haven’t you, Mom?”

Suddenly struck by a disgusting thought, Garrus looked at the stone in his mother’s hand. “Wait, she didn’t regurgitate that and keep it, did she?”

“What? No, gross! She didn’t swallow it, you twit, she kept it from the start.”

“Ah…”

“Castis…” their mom whispered.

Garrus tried to meet her gaze, but she wasn’t looking at him—she was looking somewhere past him, just beyond. He checked over his shoulder but there was nothing there, only the empty space of the room.

“Oh Castis…you were so handsome in those days,” she said, lifing her hand as if waiting for someone to take it. Her mouth hung open and she appeared to be listening. “You knew?”she asked indignantly. There was another long pause as the illusive Castis seemed to answer. “Yes, but spirits—what an arrogant prick you were. What a foolish prick!”

It was another hallucination. She’d been having them almost daily since she’d been hospitalized, but Garrus couldn’t help but snicker a little. He’d never heard his mom use the word ‘prick’ before in any context, and certainly not so ardently to describe his dad.

Upon hearing her son’s snickering, her gaze roved about the room until it landed on Garrus.

“It’s Garrus, Mom,” he said as brightly as he could.

Without warning, her face changed. She was more alert, and her eyes, glazed and watery just a moment ago, shone with clarity as she regarded her son with renewed recognition.

“Castis, Garrus is here,” she said with slow, gasping excitement. “My son is home. Our son.” Her eyes sparkled now. “Do you—do you remember? That night. It was so late in the night, almost morning. I was so tired. When he came, you were the first one to hold him. Spirits, he was such a needy thing. So squwaky! And gassy too…”

This time Solana snickered as she looked over her shoulder at her brother, who ran his hand over the length of his crest.

“Yes, but you shouldn’t be so hard on him,” their mother continued. She paused again, listening to the other side of a conversation neither sibling could hear. “Then you should tell him that. A boy needs to hear that from his father.”

From the depths of his gut, Garrus felt a weight drop.

“Did you hear that, son?” she asked, her gaze soft on his.

“I’m afraid my hearing isn’t what it used to be. What is it, Mom?” he asked, stepping forward to take her hand.

“Your dad is so proud of you.”

After a brief fifteen minutes of clarity, their mom returned to her usual state, voiceless and lethargic. Those fifteen minutes were all her brain could handle before shutting down again, and within another fifteen she fell back asleep with the pebble still in hand. Nonetheless, Garrus knew it had been a gift to speak with his mother. Their communication had been lopsided for so long that any moment of connection—hallucination or not—felt like a lifeline to the person who was still somewhere inside that fragile body.

He had just changed clothes when he emerged from the cramped privy to find Solana standing near the open door, her eyes fixed on her omnitool as her browplates sank.

“I’m sorry,” she said, ruefully. “I know I just got here, but one of my surgical patients just crashed. It’s urgent. I promise I’ll come back as soon as I can. Are you going to be okay until then?”

Garrus held back a tired sigh. “Yeah, don’t worry about it. We’ll be fine,” he reassured her. “Besides, it’s not like I have anywhere to be right now.”

“If she wakes up again, you know what do.”

He nodded.

“Thanks, G,” she said, and slipped out into the hallway.

The door slid closed. Again, Garrus was left alone in the silence of the hospital room to keep his indefinite vigil. It was already late into the night and there was nothing left to do but sleep. He unfurled the guest sleeper and laid out as best he could, shifting and shifting again, listening to the labored drone of the oxygen concentrator until it became nothing more than white noise.

As he drifted off, distal stars and planets filled his mind’s eye, and he imagined he was scanning them for something, enlarging his view over each one as he passed. A bright garden world came into view. The world spun; a faint, plodding sound rang out, a beeping that began to grow louder and faster—insistent—until, without warning, it diminished into conclusive silence.

“Don’t go," he murmured. “I need you…”

Chapter Text

PART III
Chapter 3: Amend/Recultivate

“But all about there were bones Iying in the grass,
clean bones and stinking bones,
Antlers and bones: I understood that the place was a refuge for wounded
deer; there are so many
Hurt ones escape the hunters and limp away to lie hidden; here they have
water for the awful thirst
And peace to die in; dense green laurel and grim cliff
Make sanctuary, and a sweet wind blows upward from the deep gorge.--I
wish my bones were with theirs.
But that's a foolish thing to confess, and a little cowardly. We know that life
Is on the whole quite equally good and bad, mostly gray neutral, and can
be endured
To the dim end, no matter what magic of grass, water and precipice, and
pain of wounds,
Makes death look dear. We have been given life and have used it--not a
great gift perhaps--but in honesty
Should use it all.”

- Robinson Jeffers, “The Deer Lay Down Their Bones”

3 Years after the Reaper War
Horizon, The Shadow Sea

Miranda stood at the edge and gazed down. It had potential.

The empty concrete pool was deep and wide. The elevated planters were gone, but its system of pipes and pumps had remained intact, a godsend for a project that relied on fickle private funding and a quick turnaround. One less cost, one less impediment.

“How long until we can get this thing operational?” asked Miranda, glancing over her shoulder.

Marvin, her lead engineer, had been going over a list of technical specs. He rubbed at his jaw. “With a full team, we’re looking at the outside of…four weeks?”

She looked back to the pool. “Cultivation of the local strains will take us at least that long, and remaining structural repairs an additional two weeks. We need to begin producing materials ASAP. If I find you more people, can you get it done faster?”

Marvin’s mouth hung open. “I’ll take any qualified labor you’ve got.”

“Consider it done.”

The engineer went back to his work, leaving Miranda alone to survey the cavernous lobby.

Inside the husk of the once sprawling complex, beams of light shone down through the mortar-pocked ceiling. The building felt older than it was, ancient with a peaty, stale odor from being shut up for so long. ‘Sanctuary’ they had once called this place. A place of promised safety. Now the delicate tendrils of vines crept up along blackened stanchions and stumps of concrete, sprouting up through gaps in the floor where falling debris had cracked it open.

In her mind’s eye, Miranda sketched out the most efficient arrangement of algal towers. Combined with the advancements her team had made using native bacteria, this new farm, along with a larger facility in the Tal Valley, would provide Horizon and its neighboring systems with enough self-renewing materials to supply dozens of colonies. Fabrics, plastics, construction materials: all manufactured on demand.

But before all that, there was one issue that would need to be settled first.

She glared at the pool’s far end. A pair of water tight doors had been built into the wall, a discrete entrance that opened onto a series of corridors descending deep into the facility. Past the corridors were a maze of labs and stations, where flocks of hopeful refugees had been led to slaughter, shepherded by Cerberus, butchered in the name of ‘humanity’. Salvation turned to damnation. Immutable atrocities for the sake of one man’s hubris. 

That Miranda had sent her father to his death in the same place was not a regret she harbored.

After the initial structural repairs were complete, she would order the laboratories sealed off. Whatever dead remained there could lay undisturbed, turning the underground sections into a makeshift mausoleum.

Miranda would’ve liked to have taken credit for the idea, but transforming a place of suffering into one of prosperity had been Oriana’s suggestion. It was so easy for her, her tenderheartedness. Miranda’s heart, on the other hand, was like a fine sword: tempered, sharp, sheathed, and with the potential for danger. Handled correctly, it could be made to sing. But used to protect or attack—that would depend.

Once travel to the Shadow Sea had been approved, recovery expeditions to the outer colonies began, preceded by ships like the Normandy and other military vessels from Council worlds. Oriana had seized the opportunity to take off again, joining Miranda’s former colleague, Collin McAvoy, and his burgeoning development firm for a second tour. Her clever work on Sirona had earned her considerable latitude, and McAvoy was eager to take advantage of the young woman’s talent and fresh ideas. Wary of what could lie in store, Miranda cautioned her against going, but Oriana had already made up her mind.

“I don’t forgive our father for what he did. To us… to those people,” she’d said resolutely, “but I need to do this. We can’t let it be for naught.”

Her appeal did not fall on deaf ears, and Miranda reluctantly gave up trying to dissuade her.

The Illusive Man had twisted what it meant to serve humanity’s interests, to further it in the galactic sphere, but that didn’t mean they had to give up expanding human influence. There were ways to do it without committing war crimes or sabotaging the sovereignty of peaceful races. Ostensibly, that was the Alliance’s mandate, but in Miranda’s opinion they lacked the speed and efficiency of private enterprise, still beholden as they were to the apparatus of alliances and partnerships. Such bodies were too top heavy and bureaucratic to keep up with a changing galaxy. Speed was imperative—the imperative—in the new post-war reality.  With the slate wiped clean, whoever developed a resource first held the advantage.

Truthfully, her first reason, her real reason for coming to Sanctuary, hadn’t been as lofty or altruistic as all that. The simple fact was she didn’t trust anyone to keep her baby sister safe. It was one thing when Oriana had been working in systems closer to home, places with military presence and reliable comm buoys, but now she was in the Attican Traverse, grazing the edge of the Terminus Systems. The Terminus Systems, already a chaotic nest of vipers before the war, would be McAvoy’s next destination. What had become of it, then, in its complete isolation?

Of course, there had been scouts sent ahead of them. Miranda trusted Shepard to clear the way and sound alarms. But it was a big galaxy out there. Who knew what lay waiting? Reapers? Power hungry despots? Maybe even remnants of Cerberus who hadn’t made it back to Sol. She didn’t dare think of what they would do with the sister of their most traitorous operative.

It had been three years since Miranda signed her contract with the Alliance. Since then, she’d made her amends. She’d hunted down old Cerberus operatives and provided intelligence support, often risking life and limb when called for. Now it was over. She would shed the apocryphal label of “independent contractor”, a status neither independent nor wholly dependent but an impossible state of limbo. If she wanted a better future for herself, then her life as a true free agent needed to begin here on Horizon.

The next morning, she traveled to the Tal Valley by ground. The road to the area—or, more accurately, a wide dirt path—had been hacked through a thick forest of broadleafed evergreens and over a mountain pass. There was a clear view of the valley from the top of the pass. The mountains gave way to hills, which gave way to a wide glade, and north of that a swathe of partially cleared forest, generously dotted with enormous lime-white buildings. And to the east, set back from the river, the company’s distinctive cubic shelters sat like so many dice cast amongst a field of felt.

Miranda continued to look on as they descended. She was impressed at how quickly the first phase had come together. When completed, Tal Valley would be smaller than Discovery, but even partial recovery would be a success. Horizon’s population had dwindled from an estimated high of one million to less than a few hundred people in a matter of weeks, and there were early doubts about the future of the colony. But with this endeavor, and under the right guidance and care, the planet had the potential to serve as a major trading hub and gateway to the Terminus Systems, one fully driven by humans and human interest.

At the basin of the Lower Reka River, McAvoy’s crew was already at work. They were busy surveying, staking, and excavating the plots that had been prepared in the previous week. They worked as long as there was natural light to see by; their days began the moment the sun crested the ridge and ended the moment it sank behind the hills.

The vehicle came to a rolling stop at edge of the work site. Miranda stepped down, immediately thankful she’d remembered to wear her ugliest footwear. Clods of mud oozed up her boots as she slammed the door shut and nodded a thanks to the driver. He nodded back, then turned off for the equipment lot. Roaring and revving, the vehicle spun its wheels helplessly on the slick ground before it finally lurched forward.  A spray of mud shot out from the beneath the tires. Miranda, who had just come up behind it, recoiled, but it was too late. She spat and swiped at her mouth with the back of her hand. She peered down. Her field field jacket was filthy with syrupy splatters, while a film of fine specks clung to the ends of her hair. Disgusted, she did her best to to wipe it off with her sleeve before walking toward the on-site office. The soil might be what made Tal Valley valuable, but she didn’t need to have this intimate a knowledge of it.

In the near distance, Oriana, Collin, and another young woman leaned against a tall work table. They were poring over a topographic map, and Collin was nodding sagely as he gestured with the air of a self-assured teacher, his down-turned hand gliding across the hologram as if to spread a deck of cards. Miranda stopped. Motionless, she observed them for a moment, half concealed behind a bank of rebar cages that had been laid side-by-side. She didn’t like the way Collin was standing so close to her sister. The way he leaned his body toward her, hip to hip, when there was plenty of space to be had at the table. There was something unsettling about.

The former explorer was self made and rugged. An athletic man with loose, tawny hair, Collin had the look of being surf-drenched and sun-dried, though he’d never ridden a wave a day in his life; growing up in landlocked Colorado was decidedly arid. When his family’s hydroponic farm when bust, he worked to put himself through school and graduated with a masters degree in environmental design. His potent combination of smarts, good looks, and unpretentiousness made him an attractive romantic prospect, though, by his own admission, he’d never had a relationship that lasted more than six months. Once the challenge of “winning” was over, he simply became bored. He’d even pursued Miranda at one time, but being easy on the eyes wasn’t enough to overcome her distaste for untroubled idealism and socks with sandals. Now his gaze was fixed upon her younger, genetically identical sister.

Miranda continued to leer. She had places to be, but she needed to observe a little longer. No one would care if she was a few minutes late.

A faint, needling whine was rising and falling somewhere in the forest and overlapped the present conversation. Oriana said something she couldn’t make out, and Collin grinned—straight white teeth against a bronzed, freckled face. Oriana responded by placing a hand on his arm, then laughed and tossed her head back a little, demurely covering her mouth with her other hand. He laughed back, and his blues eyes flashed like something well honed. The heat rose in Miranda's face. Just as she’d resolved to break up their tête-à-tête, a shy finger tapped at her shoulder.

“Excuse me, Ms. Lawson…”

She spun around. “Yes?” she said in a huff. It was Lamar, the new phycology assistant. The young man could scarcely make eye contact.

“I have the data you requested.”

She did a quick check over her shoulder only to find Collin interrogating her with an inquisitive stare. “And?” she blurted to Lamar, louder than she meant to. “What’s the nitty-gritty?”

“Um…judging by the initial study, I don’t think 565 will be suitable to our needs. Its biopolymers produce tensile strength far below the minimum threshold.”

“That’s including the new additive?” She picked at a fleck on her sleeve.

“Yes,” he said, handing her a datapad. Miranda scrolled through it with a hasty flick of her finger and she could see, even from a mere glimpse, that he was right.

“Right. We need to speak with Dr. Suri. Maybe we can entice him to stay on for the duration this time. Not an easy fellow to get along with, but we have to try, don’t we?” She raised a brow, and Lamar blinked back, swallowing. The poor lad might melt into the mud. “I’ll contact him this afternoon,” she added reassuringly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And forward this to me, please.”

Lamar took the datapad back and slunk away. He’d always been a little reserved, perhaps easily intimidated, but she wondered if there was something about her that was putting him off.

Miranda turned around and readied for attack, only to find her sister was already crossing the glade in her direction.

“Hey, you’re back,” said Oriana, all the vitality in her voice sucked out like marrow from a bone. 

“Ori…” She held her arms out, but Oriana stopped just short of a hug’s reach.

“Flor and I were just finishing up with Collin. Are you hungry? I think I still have some rehydrated meatballs in my shelter. They’re not half bad if you squirt a packet of ketchup on them.” Her eyes raked over Miranda. “You could get cleaned up too, if you like. Although, I’ve used up my hot water rations for the day.”

“All good. I’m afraid I don’t have time.” That wasn’t an excuse, it was true, but the mention of ketchup on anything revolted her, and the idea of cold water touching her skin was unbearable. It was nine Celsius and damp outside; she’d have to live with being filthy until she got back to her corvette.

“Maybe if you have a minute later, there was something I wanted to talk to you—”

“Oi!” she barked.

A large shadow had suddenly descended from the tree line. It was an insect, a fly the size of a housecat. It careened toward Oriana from behind, brushing the crown of her head. She yelped. Miranda jerked to avoid it, but the fly followed her face and hovered next to it, its massive wings chopping and beating the air so fiercely that she nearly screamed in terror. Oriana threw her arm out, sending the primeval pest darting back into the trees.

“Bloody hell!  What the hell do these things eat?” said Miranda, panting.

Her sister laughed. “I’d suggest using bug spray, but the bugs only come in big, bigger, and gianormous out here. Don’t think it would be much use.”

“It’s fine,” lied Miranda. “I’ve dealt with bigger.” That part was true too. One too many encounters with ravagers and klixen had a way of numbing you against giant beasts with too many legs. Not that she cared to ever see one again.

She would never admit it, but a few days in this place had been enough to convince her she’d make a terrible settler. Sleeping aboard her ship was tolerable enough, but good god, what she wouldn’t give for the comfort of a space station. Somewhere away from the wilderness, without killer bugs or bone-chilling damp. Maybe with the grounded luxury of paved streets. Lights and clean buildings that gleamed in the night. Real sushi. A simple stroll along the English Bay, with its built-up harbor and ocean breeze. A warm hand to hold when it got cold.

“You alright? You look a little…frazzled.”

“Yeah, sorry.” Before Miranda could explain, her omnitool let out an audible alert, notifying her of an incoming live call. She pursed her lips and let out a sharp snort. Who would be calling all the way out here? When she read the name, she cleared her throat and recomposed herself.

“Kaidan. This is a surprise. Live calls are rare in this sector.”

Oriana’s face lit up. She mouthed something excitedly, but Miranda held a finger up to shush her and walked a few steps away.

“Priority data stream. I’m a general, remember?” he said jokingly. “I take it you arrived safely?”

“All in one piece.” She looked down at herself as if to be sure. “Now if only everything on this godforsaken planet would stop attacking me.”

“Run-in with the local wildlife?”

“Yes, several.”

“Heh, I don’t miss that at all.”

“Surely you didn’t call to ask about that.” Miranda shifted her weight. “How…how did negotiations go?” She’d meant to ask about his decision regarding the Spectre position but lost her nerve at the last second. She didn’t have the stomach to start a fight right now.

“Oh…uh, well, I can’t speak to specifics, but the asari are sure making life difficult. Their alignment with the salarians means we’re effectively shut out of tech developments. All stop. Outlook isn’t good on the military side either.”

“No? Then we’ll just have to make some developments of our own, won’t we?”

“I guess you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

“I’d have a lot more success if I had access to Alliance research.”

There was a momentary silence. “Come on, Miranda, you know we can’t give you that.”

“A simple formality,” she said blithely.

“You’re like a dog with a bone.” The smile in his voice was coming through, but the comment bothered her.

“Mmhmm. Just call me Bluey.”

Kaidan snorted. “How I do miss you.”

The sword, her heart, glinted. She froze. Gazing down at her grimy boots, she hugged an arm around her waist and withheld the words. “Mmm,” she said, hugging her waist tighter.

“When will I see you again?”

Oriana was still gawking from a few paces away. Her sister leaned out coyly and made a heart with her hands, holding it up for her to see. It was a childish little sign, but it did make her smile. Oriana possessed a buoyancy that Miranda envied, a piece of her old life that she was protective of.

“Hello? You still there?”

Ori gave her an exaggerated frown and inclined her head toward Collin and Flor, who were deep in conversation at the table. She was trying to say she was leaving.

“I’m sorry, I need to go. One of my lab techs is calling for me.” Miranda mouthed the word ‘wait’ to her sister. “We’ll speak again soon?”

“Yeah… yeah, we’ll talk again. I just needed to hear your voice,” he said softly. “I love you.”

She let go of her waist and let her arm drop. “Goodbye, Kaidan”

There was a sigh over the line. It was subtle and drawn, like the fringe of a wave, winnowed, retreating back into the ocean.

“Bye, Miranda.”

Miranda promptly ended the call, leaving no space to linger or doubt.

“Sorry about that,” she said, walking towards her sister. “Thanks for waiting.”

“What was that?”

“What do you mean?”

Oriana’s expression stiffened. “Why’d you lie?”

“You heard that?”  It was easy to forget that her hearing was as superior as hers. “Yes, of course you did. As I’m sure you’re aware, we have a lot to accomplish here and no time to do it in. This is no time for personal matters.”

At the far end of the glade, a shower of rocks tumbled from the bucket of a wheel loader in a muddy glissando.

“Do you regret it?” Oriana shouted over the din.

“Regret what?”

“Leaving!”

Miranda crossed her arms. She waited as the racket of machinery faded away and the loader trundled toward another lot. “Choosing myself?” she said in a low voice. “No, never.”

“You don’t miss him?”

“Sometimes.”

“So?”

“So what?”

Oriana shook her head. “Nevermind…”

“I’m used to being on my own. I prefer it that way, actually.” She drew closer, aware that Collin’s attention was on her again. “Being apart doesn’t mean we don’t care for one another. In fact, I’d say that means we’re pretty damned secure. There are more important things in this life than men. ”

“Yes, but—”

“But nothing. There’s nothing else to say about it.” She couldn’t allow her sister to keep following this naive line of thinking. It was one thing when the relationship was new, but they couldn’t go on like that forever.

“But what happened to wanting a normal life? Aren’t you afraid you’re leading him on?”

“I don’t want to talk about this here,” she blurted. She began to walk away. Hair fell around around her face, hiding the shame that welled in her eyes and the hot, obdurate scowl she was failing to suppress. There was a sudden tug at her wrist. Oriana spun her around.

“I don’t need a babysitter, Miri,” she said with resolve. “I don’t need you to watch over me. I’m an adult, and I can take care of myself.” Miranda stared back, too dumbfounded to respond. “You think I don’t know? You came to Horizon because of me. Because you’re scared! You can lie to other people, you can lie to yourself,  but you can’t lie to me.” She let go of Miranda’s arm and her expression softened. “I’ve got my own people here, friends and colleagues who care about me. You don’t need to burden yourself anymore.” As she said this, Oriana looked beyond her sister toward Flor and Collin.

Miranda’s gaze darted from Collin back to her sister’s flushed face. “Is that what this is about?”

“What? No, I’m just—“

“I’m going to wring Collin’s thick neck,” she said through thin lips. “I gave him one rule—”

“Miri—”

“He’s too old for you, Ori!” she snapped. Of all the problems she’d mitigated, the possibilities she’d planned for, a tryst with Collin was not one of them. “Yes, he’s admirable, but you have no idea what he’s like as man! Don’t be foolish!”

“Cripes, calm down! It’s not Collin, okay?”

Miranda searched her sister’s eyes. “It’s not?”

“It’s Flor…” Oriana’s cheeks flushed a deeper red. “I’m in love with Flor.”

Mouth agape, she started,“Oh…oh god. Thank god!” The glade seemed to be spinning around her, the sky whiter than when she’d arrived.

“Keep your voice down!” Oriana shouted in a whisper.

“I’m sorry, I just…“

“See? This is exactly the kind of thing I’m talking about. I don’t need you to fight my battles for me. I know what I’m doing.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, you’re right.” She touched the back of her hand to her forehead. She was still a bit dizzy from the imaginary gauntlet she’d just run herself through. “Your parents raised you well. I should trust in that more. But…you know how I feel. You’re all I’ve got.”

Oriana furrowed her brow. “That’s not fair. And it isn't true, either.” Stepping closer, she took Miranda’s hand and shook it gently. “You do have someone else. So the question is…why have you been running away from him?”

“I’m not running away,” she explained. “When you’re older, you’ll understand—“

“I understand that if you keep doing this, you’ll lose him. He won’t chase you forever, Miri.”

Miranda freed her hand. “So that’s it then? My baby sister telling me how to live my life?”

“Your sister is telling you what you need to hear.”

She was speechless. This was all wrong. An older sibling should have more wisdom, more forethought, to see how this would all play out. Remarkable achievements aside, Oriana had a led a fairly unremarkable existence until now. To anyone else that might sound pejorative, but it was everything Miranda had wanted for her, what she had set into motion when she snatched her from their father’s grasp. Marriage, a family, a reliable career: it was all possible if she wanted them.

Such a thing would be, at best, complicated for Miranda.

Oriana, from whom she withheld little, was familiar with the story of their father’s obsessive care—his abuse—but there was no way for her to understand what that really meant. The unrecoverable cost of it all. Never again would she allow herself be cut off from life’s infinite choices, or insulated from the universe at large. Staying in one place with one man—it could only end in heartbreak.

She knew from the moment Kaidan mentioned children that he had marriage in mind. It had scared her. She may have harbored fantasies of settling down, but that was exactly what they were: fantasies. Fantasies weren’t something to lose freedom over. But Kaidan knew something of what it was to be controlled. He too had broken free at great cost. If he felt any differently than she did, he hadn’t said.

The sisters were still standing in the middle of the glade, beyond the skeletal rows of rebar, as Miranda struggled for words. Oriana gazed at her with pleading eyes. Miranda opened her mouth to speak, but Collin had given up waiting. The heedless oaf had mistaken their silence for an opening and was striding over with the easy, confident gait of a lion, his shoulder length mane blowing back behind him in the slight breeze.

“Miranda! Welcome back,” he said in his usual jovial timbre. It looked like he might try to pull her in for a hug, but she she shrunk back and offered him a polite smile instead.

“Hello, Collin. Thanks. Everything still going according to plan?”

“Ah, you know how it is with projects like this. You can dot all your ‘i’s and cross all your ‘t’s and something’ll still come up to bite you in the ass.” He thrust his hands into the pockets of his shorts and flashed his brilliant teeth. “Sorry to interrupt your chat,” he said to Oriana,”but do you mind if I speak with your sister here?”

“I need to check in with Touma anyway. Redesign of the waste facility is nearly done.”

“Thanks, Ori, you’re a gem.” Collin winked and clicked his tongue.

“We’ll finish this conversation later,” said Miranda.

Oriana raised her eyebrows and left without a word. Collin watched until she’d reunited with Flor. His smile faded as his head ticked left and right, then over his shoulder as if someone might be following him.

“What’s going on?” asked Miranda, suddenly concerned.

“There’s something you need to see, straight away.”

“It can’t wait? I’ve got a meeting with Martina in five minutes.”

“I’ll tell her something came up.”

“What is it?”

He crouched his head, his face looming close to hers. She’d almost forgotten how much his age showed in his thinned skin, every line a misadventure or close call, a months long job on a scorching planet.

“I’m not sure what it is, exactly. I think it would be better if I just show you,” he said soberly. “You’re the only one I trust to keep a secret. We’ll need to take the shuttle though, this thing is back of the beyond.”

He’d piqued her curiosity. She agreed to go with him in exchange for more information on this Flor woman.

As she followed Collin to the transport lot, she replayed the conversation with Oriana over in her mind.  The idea that Kaidan had been chasing her was ludicrous. They’d agreed a long time ago that work took priority, and while their arrangement wasn’t ideal, it was the best compromise either of them could come up with. She couldn’t help that the stars didn’t always align. That was life. He could hardly chase her any more than she could chase him.

Collin glanced back as she caught up to him. “Everything alright? Looked like you two might be arguing back there.”

“No, just some sibling talk. You know how it is.”

“Hmmm…if you say so,” he said, shrugging. “I can tell ya, though, if my brother had ever given me that much stinkeye,  I’d have given him what for.”

“He’d have popped you in the jaw.”

“Oh, no two ways about it!” He chortled at the ground. “Fought right ‘til the end, that one. God rest.”

In the shuttle, Collin’s demeanor turned sullen. That had been the first time he’d mentioned Liam at all since he’d died. His brother’s prolonged battle with eezo sickness had been hard on them both, and Collin dealt with aftermath by plunging himself into work, far, far away from Earth and the places that reminded him of his brother.

Miranda left him to his silence. Had anyone really wanted to talk about it? The steep rise in cases was yet another tragedy thrust upon people who had already been to hell and back. What they needed was something to look forward to, something to justify all the death and destruction it had taken to survive.

The flight was a good hour and a half. It took them over patchy viridian dales, between narrow slate-capped mountains, and through a wispy fog that thickened into wool the farther they got from Tal Valley. When they finally descended upon the landing site, Collin instructed the pilot to remain in the shuttle and wait for them to re-board. At no time was he to leave the aircraft.

“You weren’t joking, were you?” Miranda said as she stepped off the shuttle.

“Afraid not.”

Collin pointed to a small bluff up ahead and explained that they would need to proceed on foot. He led her up a steep path filled with loose dirt and small, tumbling stones.

“Watch your step,” he said, offering his hand. “Gets rough here.”

“I’m alright, thank you.” More treks in the bush like this and she’d be a proper settler.

It was another fifteen minutes before they traversed the precarious terrain and reached the top. Miranda had been focused on keeping a solid footing when Collin let out a loud exhale. When she raised her head, she saw that they were at the edge of the bluff, overlooking a great depression in the earth.

She gasped. It held what amounted to the thorax section of a Reaper. But unlike similar finds, this one was absent the typical scorch marks and torn panels and bore no obvious signs of major structural damage, almost as if it had been precisely excised and nestled into a bowl for burial.

“Holy shit, Col. This is massive.”

“Sorry to say, but we can’t go any farther than this.  Readings have been showing massive amounts of radiation. We don’t have the equipment to get down there right now.”

“How the hell did no one notice this before?”

“The usual—no resources. There’s only been one planet wide survey and that was a fly over to check for survivors. They wouldn’t have picked this up unless they were closer to the surface. The debris is practically embedded in the rock. It would have shown up as some kind of distortion at best. We found it during an exploratory expedition.” Collin raked his hands through his hair. “What do you reckon it is?”

“I’ve been collecting every piece of information on crashed Reaper tech I can find. From everything I’ve studied, this is the section that houses the drive core.”

“You’re shitting me...”

“And that’s not even all of it.”

“What do you think we should do?”

Miranda stared down. This was probably the largest piece of intact Reaper anyone had ever found. She didn’t need to think twice.

“If we alert the Alliance right away, they’re going to confiscate it. This might be our only chance to study it without interference.” She turned sharply to Collin. “You were right to come to me. Does anyone else know about this?”

“Two leads from our resources team, and one of our pilots. But he’s gone off-world—personal matters.”

“Can you get in touch with him? Tell him it’s a matter of security.” She slid the pad of her thumb back and forth over her fingernails as her mind began to race. “For now, we need to keep prying eyes away. Tell them there’s mudslide danger or a volcano. A man-eating dinosaur, whatever, I don't care. We can't risk this being found.”

Collin nodded. “You can count of me, Miri. Promise.”.

“Good.” Regarding the the wreckage once more, she began to feel like herself again.

Like a dog with a bone, huh? Woof.

Chapter Text

PART III
Chapter 4: Transplants

SUBJECT: Fwd: My condolences
From: svakarian <[email protected]>

Fowarding this to you because the Professor didn’t have the right contact info. He asked me to make sure you got it.

Call me some time? You’ve been awfully quiet.

Love you, G.

- Sol

p.s. - still can’t figure out whether Mom and the Professor were an item or not. Guess we’ll never know. (unless you want to ask him yourself…???)

- - - - - -Original Message - - - - - -

SUBJECT: My condolences|
From: Dr. Dahren Mithrenus <[email protected] >

Dear Garrus,

I hope you don’t mind me sending this. We didn’t get to touch on personal matters the last time we spoke, but I appreciated you apprising me of your mother’s condition. I had, however, been unaware of how dire her situation was until your sister reached out to me a few weeks later. I was able to send her a list of my hospital contacts, which I hope you found useful.

I only recently learned the news of your mother’s untimely passing. I am so very sorry for your loss. Losing a parent is an unbearable sorrow, but after everything else we’ve been through, I know it must be especially hard.

Maybe it’s selfish of me to say, but Bellona was a very special person to me, someone who can neither be forgotten nor replaced. I have many fond memories of her, especially of when we were young (though I will spare you my many long retellings in this message). As you might recall, we attended the same graduate program and served in the 38th Ferox Legion together. Those were bright, happy days. Even in the midst of the civil unrest, we could always count on her to be the most collected of us all. She was unfailingly generous with both her spirit and her time, often volunteering where others would waver. She inspired me to be better person, and she touched my heart in ways that I had not experienced before or since.

After we parted ways, we kept in contact through the years, mostly through messages, though we did see each other on occasion. I remember how happy she was when she found out she was pregnant with you, and I remember the first time I met you! Your mother had brought you to the Quarn Center for Historical Studies, where I was working at the time. She wanted to show you the new holographic dioramas depicting the Relay 314 Incident. (As I recall, that event took place the year you were born, am I correct?) You were so inquisitive, just like Bellona. As I understand, you’ve achieved the rank of General? I congratulate you, Garrus. Your mother would be proud.

She and I didn’t stay in touch much after she left the university.  For a long time, I thought it was your father’s influence (he didn’t like me much, I’m afraid), or perhaps because she’d lost interest in a friendship with me, but I’ve come to realize that her reclusiveness was most likely a result of her condition. There is nothing more devastating to a historian than to lose use of their mental faculties. I do not wish such a thing on my worst enemy, let alone on a woman as lovely and intelligent as Bellona. As you know, she was a proud woman (in the best sense), and I’m sure she didn’t want any of her former colleagues to know the extent of her diminishment.

That, of course, is irrelevant. She was loved by so many, it could hardly matter whether she remembered this or that fact or how such and such came to be. What does matter, in the end, is that the galaxy has lost one of its brightest stars.  She will forever be missed by those whose lives she touched.

Again, I’m very sorry for your loss.  I wish both you and Solana peace and comfort during your time of grief.

I’m currently away on a fact-finding mission in the Minos Wasteland (virtually unreachable with my current bandwidth priority), but if you ever find yourself on Invictus, please feel free to look me up. I wouldn’t mind the company.

Best wishes,

Dahren Mithrenus

3 Years after the Reaper War
Cipritine, Palaven

It was a losing battle. Between the soporific thrum of murmurs overlapping, and the stifling air of the hot lounge, Garrus’ eyes began to drift closed. It had been more than three hours without an update, and the Hierarchy officials were getting restless. Those who’d already been planetside were on standby in case of questioning or consultation, but so far no one had been called in nor pulled aside.

“Look alive, Vakarian,” barked General Pallas, slapping him swiftly on the back.

He started. “Sorry, think I dozed off for a second.”

Garrus tried to shake off the sleep and took a long inhale, but the sour smell of the room did little to reinvigorate his senses.

“Corporal, can we get a handle on those enviro controls?” asked Major Paetrus, his double baritone more gravelly than usual. He was perched on the arm of a long sofa, struggling to undo the buckle of his collar. “This room’s hotter than a damned cookout on Caldus.”

“Has anyone checked on them recently?” asked Primarch Corinthus, who was sitting opposite Paetrus on the sofa. “How do we know Urdnot Wrex hasn’t just offed them and escaped?”

 “Have you heard any loud, sudden noises?” asked Garrus, rising from his armchair.

“No…”

“Then they’re fine. Wrex’s isn’t exactly what I’d call...subtle.”

Hoping to perk himself up, Garrus crossed the room and perused the catering table, but the spread of finger foods had languished for too long in the hot room: shrivelled links of cervit sausages, oily noram, stale tac nuts, and squares of vivo topped with pillit leaves that had gone brown and limp at the edges.

“Not eating, sir?” asked Lieutenant Laren, stuffing a cube of noram into his mouth. He put three more onto his plate and licked the pad of his thumb.

Garrus looked on in disgust, but kept any judgmental remarks to himself. “No. Don’t find I have much of an appetite these days. But you keep on, Lieutenant. Keep up your strength, you’ve got a mission to lead tomorrow.”

A surprise hiss turned everyone’s heads, and the door to the meeting room finally slid open. Primarch Victus and Primarch Vaelen staggered out, their mouths clamped shut, and Victus flung his datapad to the small console next to the door. Garrus could have sworn he’d aged between the time he went in and the time he came out—was his face even whiter now?—but negotiating with a notorious krogan strongman would do that to anyone.

Only when the door shut again did Primarch Victus’ expression slacken. His men regarded him silently, anxious to hear if there had been any progress.

“Thank you for your patience, gentleman. It’s been a long afternoon, but you’ll be pleased to know we’ve come to some agreements regarding cooperative mining in the Minos Wasteland. And shared military resources for at least five more years. So, some solid points there.”

Garrus crossed his arms. “I’m guessing there’s a ‘but’.”

“But,” Victus said pointedly, “he won’t let go of Gellix. He even went so far as to cast some not-so-subtle doubts about my…manhood.” He cleared his throat.

Primarch Vaelen glanced back at the door and muttered, “He may be the most powerful krogan on all of Tuchanka, but his diplomatic skills could use some serious work.”

“What, Bakara hasn’t whipped him into shape yet?” said General Pallas, scoffing.

“Unfortunately, she agrees with him. But at least she has the decency to say so without resorting to insults.” Primarch Victus turned to Garrus. “Garrus, I need you to talk some sense into him. We’ve been going in circles. Bakara’s softened on the idea of mine-clean up, but the man is dug in. He wants Gellix back in krogan hands, no strings attached.”

“That’s a big ask,” said Vaelen.

“What I’m saying is,” continued Vicuts, “is we might have better luck if it’s coming from..a friend.”

Garrus rubbed at the back of his neck. “I can try. Can’t give you any guarantees. You know how stubborn the old boot can be.”

The truth was he was wary of relying on their friendship as a crutch. While it certainly made Wrex more likely to listen, transforming  their relationship into something transactional could very well have the opposite effect of what the Primarch wanted. Wrex wasn’t one to suffer fools lightly.

He promised he’d try though, for the sake of the Hierarchy and for the sake of peace, and barring those things, for his own selfish reasons.

Garrus took a moment to gather himself before entering the conference room.

When the door opened, Bakara, who was attending the meeting remotely via holovid, bowed her head and greeted him with the graciousness he’d come to expect from her. “Hello, General Vakarian. Nice to see you again.”

“You too, Bakara. Forgive me that it isn’t under more pleasant circumstances.”

Wrex, meanwhile, turned slowly in his chair, eyeballing Garrus up and down. “Oh, it’s you. Guess Victus had to send in the reserves, huh?”

“More like special forces. Get in, get the job done, get the hell out.”

“Yeah, you’re special alright,” Wrex said, guffawing.

Garrus pulled out a chair and settled in at the table. “Wrex, you can’t just show up here without warning and steamroll us with your demands. There are protocols.”

Wrex snarled. “Think I don’t know that? We’ve tried your so-called ‘protocols’,”—he made that stupid quoting gesture he’d picked up from Shepard— “but we’ve gotten nowhere. We needed another colony yesterday! And no one on the Council gives a shit.”

Staring Wrex down as best she could—her gaze too incorporeal to penetrate his thick skull—Bakara tried to soften his words. “While we understand the value of galactic diplomacy, I’m afraid Wrex is right. Outreach to the Council has failed, and our pleas have fallen on deaf ears. That’s why we’re appealing directly to the Hierarchy. We believe you’re our best option if we’re going to avoid any more conflict.”

“Look, I appreciate your position. But the Primarch was pretty clear about the terms. I’m asking as an old friend—give him a chance. Listen to reason and—”

“Reason? What reason is there behind denying us Gellix? We’ve bled enough. We’ve fought your wars, sent our men for your new patrols. Men, who, by the way, have done a hell of a job following your tight-ass rules. Sure, they’re a little aggressive, a little rough around the edges, but that’s krogans for you.” Wrex leaned forward. “But ask yourself this,” he said, smacking the table with the flat of his hand.  “What’re you gonna do if they all just up and leave? If they riot? ‘Cause that’s what you’ll be facing if we don’t get Gellix back.”

“Is that a threat?” Garrus asked darkly.

“Should it be?”

“Settle down boys!” Bakara’s booming voice resonated through the conference room. “There’s no place for that kind of talk here. We’re here to negotiate in good faith.”

Wrex, sufficiently cowed, sat back in his seat. “All I’m saying is, if the Hierarchy sits this one out, we’ll have a shit ton of trouble on our hands. My people aren’t going to like it. The peace is fragile enough.”

Exasperated, Garrus tilted his back and stared dimly at ceiling. “I suppose no one wants another Krogan Rebellion.”

“Good to know we understand each other.”

There was a thump and a rattle from the air ducts as the cooling system roared back to life. The two men looked up at the ceiling. Fresh air from the vents felt like a gift from the spirits right now.

“You know, if Shepard were here, she’d have already sealed the deal. And with a kiss too."

Garrus’ breath hitched at the mention of her name.

“You’re sure of that are you?”

“I am.”

“Well she’s not here,” he spat. “Probably gallivanting around the Kepler Verge somewhere. Spirits know where.”

“Heh. Tell me you’re still mad without telling me you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Sure you’re not.”

Garrus stiffened. What the hell did Wrex know about it anyway? Had he had his heart ripped out twice over? Had he agonized over two people he loved, knowing he would never see one of them ever again? The person who’d known him and loved him the longest of anyone in the galaxy—gone, just like that. The startling sting of eternal silence. 

And as for the other—spirits forbid. If the worst ever came to pass, he hoped that someone would tell him before the news went public; he could never bear to hear it over something as banal as the morning news. The thought made him queasy.

Silent during this exchange, Bakara seemed to take the turn in conversation as her cue to leave. She cleared her throat.

“If you’ll excuse me, gentleman, I think I need to use the facilities just now. One too many herbal teas. I’ll be on standby if you need me.”

Bakara’s holovid blinked out without warning, leaving Wrex and Garrus to sit in awkward silence.

Garrus glowered at Wrex, whose expression had shifted from mildly amused to mildly sympathetic.

The krogan shrugged. “Look, I get it. You got a raw deal. But she needed to get the hell out. I would’ve done the same. Wasting away on Earth when she could be out blasting bad guys? It’s a no brainer.”

There was more to it than that, but it wasn’t for Garrus to explain. He defaulted to the easy excuse instead.

“We’re not here to dissect my love life.”

“Hey, you said it yourself, pal—I’m an old friend. And friends say it like it is,” Wrex exclaimed. “Take that however you want. I’m just saying.”

“Point taken,” Garrus  conceded, desperate to talk about anything else.

“So,” said Wrex, throwing his arms out. “What are we going to do about this colony, huh?”

“You know we can’t just hand it over to you. We’ve got the Vol Protectorate involved, the humans too.”

“Then we demand reparations.”

“What?”

“You heard me, Vakarian.”

The statement was laughable. “You know we don’t have that kind of money. Hell, all the Council worlds put together don’t have that kind of money.”

“I don’t know, the salarians and asari are looking pretty flush these days. Can’t we just extort ‘em? You know, give ‘em the ol’ shake down?” A devilish grin unzipped along his face, and he raised his fists in the air to imitate taking someone by the ankles and shaking them.

Garrus smirked.  “I was serious when I said you should consider Victus’ offer. It’s not a bad one. A little housekeeping for a long term, discounted lease? You won’t find a better deal anywhere.”

Wrex, who seemed to reconsider, stroked the side underside of his jaw.

“And we’ll talk to Councilor Arterian again, see if he can’t apply some pressure to the others,” Garrus continued. “But you’re going to need more friends if you want more colonies. That means playing nice and making more compromises.” Remembering Primarch Vaelen’s earlier remark, he added sardonically, “And no insults or name calling. Think you can do that?”

“Think you can go screw yourself?”

Garrus tilted his head.

Wrex’ instinctive snarl vanished as a look of recognition flashed across his face. He recanted. “Yeah, we can do that.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Wrex’s rumbling voice went even quieter. “By the way, Victus told me about your mom. Sorry to hear.”

“Thanks,” Garrus said, lowering his gaze.

“I don’t remember much about my mother, but I know she was one hell of a woman. Had to be to raise this bad boy,” he said, gesturing to his own imposing figure. “I’m sure yours wasn’t any different.”

Garrus smiled weakly. There had been plenty of condolences and well-wishes to go around, but none so oddly comforting as the humor of an old friend.

“Anyway, think I’ve laid into you enough for the day. I’m ready to go home,” said Wrex, standing up to leave. “I’ll consider Victus’ offer.”

“Thanks, Wrex.”

Wrex’s chair rattled as he tossed it aside, and the floor squeaked under his stone-like form. He came around to Garrus’s side of the table and slapped him hard across the carapace.

“Hang in there, buddy. It’ll get better. Promise.”

After Wrex flew off for Tuchanka, Garrus relayed their conversation to the rest his cohort, minus a couple of details of course. It wasn’t the definitive outcome they’d hoped for, but at it least it was a step in the right direction. Primarch Victus, not wholly pleased or displeased, stole away to his office. The rest of the men dispersed, leaving Garrus alone in the oppressive silence of the lounge. He had unfinished business to attend to, and he needed the Primarch,  and the Primarch alone, to bear witness.

Restless, he sunk into the lumpy armchair and scrolled through the extranet on his omnitool to bide his time. This was a new habit he’d developed in the last couple of months, idly browsing every news site and forum he could think of in hopes of finding something, anything, that might give him a lead on Shepard’s whereabouts. As usual, there were unsubstantiated rumors of her demise, gossip about her personal life (sometimes about the two of them), and the occasional elusive sighting—though the latter always turned out to be a case of mistaken identity or a total fabrication. All of these he largely ignored, but there had been a few items that later proved to have some merit: chiefly, claims that she’d rescued a small group of survivors on Ontarom, and a report that she’d visited the former Cerberus laboratories on Horizon, both of which were later confirmed by the shared intelligence he was privy to as a Hierarchy general.

When a good half hour had passed, Garrus worked up the courage to call at the Primarch’s door. The door slid open and there he was, sitting perfectly upright at his desk and going over what looked to be a tedious logistical dashboard on his display. So much for respite. How and when the man ever unwound  remained a mystery to Garrus.

“May I speak with you, sir?”  he said, standing just inside the threshold.

“Vakarian…I expected you’d left with the others,” The Primarch graciously shut his screen off and beckoned him forward. “If this is about Gellix…”

“No, it’s a personal matter.”

“Yes, of course. What seems to be the issue?” Clasping his hands atop his desk, Victus regarded his subordinate with a stern expression and waited for him to speak.

Garrus hesitated, suddenly self-conscious as he stood in front of the seated Primarch. Ghosts of old materialized at the back of his mind: images of his father working in his study, his sawtoothed glare that implored him to ‘speak up or leave’. But the Primarch wasn’t his father, and he was no son—at least, not anymore.

He shoved his doubt aside. “Not really an issue sir. Just something I wanted to discuss,” he said vaguely. “Let me say, first, that I have a lot of respect for you. For everything you’ve done here. From that first day on Menae, I knew the Hierarchy would be in good hands. Now, we’ve had our ups and down, but you’ve always guided us with a steady hand, and I consider it an honor to have worked with you.”

Primarch Victus tensed his mandibles and interrupted with a well timed snort. “Why does it sound like you’re planning to leave us?”

“Because I am,” he said. “I’d like to tender my resignation.”

“Pardon?”

“Resign my position as General. I’m past my service obligation, and you have more than a few qualified candidates to take my place.”

“Excuse me if this sounds rude,” said the Primarch, shifting in his chair. “But what in the hell for?”

“I don’t belong here, sir. Never did. By some twist of fate, they made me Reaper Advisor, but by the end of it all, I found myself a general. You know my past, sir. I belong in the field, not in a command bunker. This stuff?” he said, gesturing broadly about the room. “I’m no good at this stuff. I’m only here because there was no one else.”

Primarch Victus rose from his chair. “And I’m here because Fedorian died in battle,” he said, pressing a finger into his desktop. “Men like us don’t get to choose when we lead. We have leadership thrust upon us—whether we like it or not.”

He walked around his desk to stand face to face with Garrus, meeting his gaze and studying his eyes. Garrus held his ground, lifting his chin slightly and holding his hands behind his back. The Primarch nodded slightly, as if to affirm some thought of his, then balanced himself on the edge of his desk. His expression softened.

“While I understand your misgivings—and trust me, I do—we have a responsibility to our people. You can’t just leave them now, not when we’re finally making progress towards lasting cooperation with the krogans. To have them as friends and not enemies…well, that would be nothing short of a miracle.” The Primarch shook his head. “No, I can’t accept your resignation. It’s out of the question.”

For a moment, Garrus thought of what he could say to sway him, but decided it was better to get straight to the point. Victus never did like equivocators.

“I want to try for the Spectre program.”

Victus’ narrowed his eyes. “I see,” he drawled. “Garrus, I know the past few months have been hard on you—the situation regarding your mother…and other personal matters… but this is too sudden. You aren’t thinking clearly.”

“But I am, sir,” he interjected. “I think I can help our cause. No, I know I can. Get some of the more…unpleasant work done on our behalf, without the burden of bureaucracy or negotiation.”

This clearly intrigued the Primarch. He pushed away from his desk and paced slowly toward the door, his eyes fixed on the ground. He paused for a moment, then spun around.

“I won’t lie—having another one of our own as a Spectre would be an advantage,” he finally replied. “I’ll make a deal with you. If you can get the krogans to officially sign off on Gellix, I’ll consider accepting your resignation. In the meantime, I need you to do your job as usual. I’ll speak with Councilor Arterian, see what he thinks.”

“Yes sir,” he replied. “And thank you sir.”

The Primarch acknowledged him with a slight bow of his head. “If that’s all, then I’ll get back to my work. Good evening, General.”

He took his place behind his desk, and Garrus withdrew from the room, unsure of how well Victus had actually taken it. The Primarch had been sincere with his words, that much he knew, but whether or not he’d been convinced was a different question.

In the foyer of the building, Garrus checked his omnitool for messages as he waited for his shuttle back to New Aeris. His custom alerts, which were still active at the top of the screen, flashed green.

“CALESTON RIFT TO REOPEN IN TWO WEEKS says Council. Alliance and Quarian contingent set to be irst ships through.”

He stared blankly at the headline. It was the first real-time lead he’d had since he received Shepard’s message. Not that it mattered; she hadn’t written again since.

It seemed to him, that to her, he was yesterday’s news.

Chapter Text

PART III
Chapter 5: Slash and Burn

Michael the Archangel,

defend us in battle.

Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil;

May God rebuke him, we humbly pray;

And do thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host,

by the power of God,

thrust into hell Satan and all evil spirits

who wander through the world for the ruin of souls.

Amen.

3 Years, 3 months after the Reaper War 
Hephaestus Station, Caleston Rift

The gap was less than two meters wide. One short jump from the Kodiak to the end of the slipway and they’d have a clear path to the station’s interior, a way to bypass the damaged docking ring and access the airlock. Still, Shepard’s fingers curled. The seams of her gloves squeaked, and a hard lump caught in her throat.

It would only last a moment. Weightlessness was a form of freedom after all, a relief from the forces that bound you. But memories were strong: the swift loss of control, the uncertainty of neverending free fall, that slow tailspin into the cold, impersonal darkness of space as she watched her breath escape. The desperation of true aloneness.

Five years on, in a different body, and fear lingered like wisps of fire smoke. Were they warnings? Figments? The aftermath of a long tamped down disaster?

Now, however, was not the time for a lapse in action. Fitzpatrick and Palmer were right behind her, waiting on her lead.

One held breath and she leapt. Her boots bit the metal with a judder, and the vague dread that had gripped her vanished, replaced by the reassurance of something solid beneath her. So long as the mags held, it was ground she could count on.

“We’ve just left security, Shepard,” Tali’s voice piped through the comms. “We’re headed to the mechanical room, then we’ll see if there’s anything we can salvage in fabrication.”

“Got it,” Shepard replied, moving forward with leaden steps.“We’ll secure the personnel side.”

Tali and her team had already entered via the dry dock at the opposite radial arm. They’d meet them somewhere in the main column after sweeping through the other side of the station.

Lieutenant Palmer’s boots struck the walkway, followed by Fitzpatrick, whose heavy landing rattled the narrow grating beneath them."

The strapping gunnery chief laughed nervously. “Whoa! Nearly lost my balance there,” she said, her arms waving as she steadied herself.

“Don’t worry, the boots will hold,” said Shepard.

Palmer took hold of the safety rail. “Your feet are big enough, after all.”

Fitzpatrick gave Palmer’s shoulder a tentative shove as she lumbered past. “Just testing,” she said waggishly. 

The shuttle took off and the trio traversed the length of the dry dock at a careful pace. Without its mass effect field, the dock lacked oxygen or containment, leaving anyone standing on it vulnerable to the hazards of open space. The stockyard itself was empty. Its contents had likely been sent adrift, though the cranes that moved goods remained securely rooted in place.

By all outward signs, it seemed that Hephaestus Station had long been abandoned. The quarian contingent was the first to detect the derelict shipyard, eager to salvage any usable parts and wares, though, as Tali told it, they still clung to the distant hope of finding quarian survivors. A scouting party was sent as soon as they’d reached its perimeter. So far, no evidence of people had been detected—no communications, no ships, no signs of life.

When they reached the airlock, Shepard engaged the manual override and made sure to secure the interior door before confirming that it was safe to remove their helmets.

“Looks like life support is working,” she said, bringing her hands to her head. She was about to engage the quick release when she stopped. “On second thought, it might be better to leave them on. Never know what you might find on an abandoned station”—she reached for her shotgun and checked it over—“…a hostile VI, a cabal of murderous cultists. A hundred husks barreling toward you like a mob of hooligans.”

“Splendid,” said Palmer, tightening his grip on his rifle.

The smell of pitted metal and stale cigarettes wafted past their filters, as if the collected waste of the welding yard had been left to ferment indoors. Aside from the orange bulkheads above the doors, there was little light, the beams from their own mounts providing the only real break in the tenebrous atmosphere as the squad crept through the corridor.

A stiff, heavy groan sounded from somewhere to the right. Chief Fitpatrick whipped her weapon in the direction of the noise, but there was nothing there.

“This station’s a clunker,” Shepard reminded her. “I wouldn’t put too much stock into every little noise.” The hull creaked again as if to prove her point.

Just then, a low hum reverberated through the corridor, and the secondary lights blinked to life in fits and starts.

“Ah! That’s a little better,” chirped Fitzpatrick. “It was beginning to feel like a horror movie in here.”

“I take it you got basic systems back online?” Shepard asked Tali over the comms.

“That’s everything. The good news is, with everything in emergency mode, there are enough stores to last another three months. But it’ll take a lot of repair if we want to get this heap up and running again.”

“No kidding,” said Shepard, glancing around.

Everything that had been hidden under cloak of darkness was now on full display. Busted vents and overhead ducts were rusting in places. Display panels were loose. Doors only opened half way, or else stuck so badly that Shepard and Fitzpatrick were forced to pry them open with bare hands.

Throughout the construction facilities, tools and materials had been left just so, as if the workers would come back at any moment to pick up where they left off.  Once a locus of intergalactic endeavor—full to the gunwales with engineers, machinists, longshoreman, and construction crews—Hephaestus Station was now a shell of its former self, hollowed out by the dual forces of neglect and disuse.

Famously, the station had been the birthplace of the Keelah Si’yah, the singular quarian ark bound for the promise of a new world. The Andromeda Initiative had launched less than a year before the Reapers mounted their full-scale invasion, and the quarians, so long without their homeworld, had seen an opportunity to find a new one. Many survivors of the Reaper War believed the would-be colonists had surely escaped an ill fate, that they’d awaken years later, none the wiser to the war and its outcome. In a sense, this was true. Yet the result of the colonists’ gamble would remain a mystery, their fates unknown until long after the survivors themselves had passed.

After clearing the shipyard, Shepard’s squad entered the main column, the section of the station containing the offices and living facilities that made such long term projects possible. But what should have been the beating heart of the station was dead on arrival.

Shepard peered down the empty, silent corridor. “Palmer, you take the quarters on the right. Fitzpatrick, take the left. If you find anything, report first. I’ll clear the bathrooms and and change rooms.”

“Aye, sir.”

Her cursory inspection of the change rooms and showers revealed little beyond streaks of mold and hardened soap scum. When she caught up to Lieutenant Palmer, he was examining quarters at the far end of the corridor. Like all the others she had passed, the room was strictly functional—suited only for short stays or contract work, as spiritless as it was sparsely furnished.

“Not much here beyond a few personal effects,” he said as she approached. He’d shouldered his rifle and was holding up a delicate, gold chain. A medallion hung from it, small, like an old coin, and he stared at it fixedly before laying the pendant flat in his palm. “Who do you suppose that is?” he said, holding it out for Shepard to see.

She stepped closer and leaned in. The relief was worn, but she could just make out a loose-robed man caught mid-strike, his foot pinning down the head of someone sprawled on the ground. Both figures bore wings.

“That’s Saint Michael.”

Palmer looked up in surprise. “How the hell'd you know that?”