AUTHOR'S NOTES

Hey everybody! My God, it's been so many years since I last wrote fanfiction. I honestly thought I was done with it, having obtained a degree in Creative Writing at college and finished a science-fiction adventure novel. Then a series of wildly coincidental events led me to play Mass Effect 2…and the desire to write something preconceived came rushing back.

I haven't played the first Mass Effect. I know, I know, shame on me! But I'm still accustoming myself to the universe, so I hope that any flaws will be forgiven. Honestly right now it feels so good to write something that comes so easily, I hope that the enthusiasm of a rediscovered muse overpowers whatever flaws are present.

This fanfic does contain an original character added on to the Normandy's ragtag team of ass kickers…which will probably frighten a few readers off. But to the ones that stick around, know that I tried my very best to fit her in as seamlessly as possible—I can promise that most of this most-beloved space opera will remain canon-correct. It's also is primarily geared for romantic-minded ladies…I'll at least be upfront about that. And you guys will have to help me decide who John Shepard ends up with…for now, I'm doing my best to leave it open. Which ME lady does the Commander go best with?


~ Tasale - Normandy SR-2 ~

"Commander, just letting you know we've arrived in the Crescent Nebula, and it'll be an hour before we hit Illium."

Startling out of a doze, Commander John Shepard glanced around his dimly-lit quarters in search of the voice. Realizing that it had been Joker over the radio, Shepard pulled his booted feet from his desk and touched the glowing communication button on the computer console.

"Thanks, Joker. Go ahead and put us right in Nos Astra."

Shepard rubbed his eyes and fell back in his chair. The bone-deep exhaustion of long, high-risk missions was beginning to take hold of him. Too soon, considering there were still five more dossiers to investigate and whatever strings they came with—all before going through the Omega-4 relay to deal with the Collectors and whatever else they found on the other side.

He touched his left cheek and temple, feeling the deep, warm crevices imprinted in his skin. The extensive scarring the Lazarus project had left didn't bother him as much as the fact that Cerberus had literally brought him back from the dead. These days Shepard hated to be alone—his thoughts had a tendency to catch up with him, especially ones concerning his humanity. People didn't get second chances like the one he'd been given, and so far, his hadn't come cheap or easy. One could argue that being indebted to Cerberus was punishment enough for past sins but…just how much of his soul had remained after the reconstruction?

Shepard swore and forced the thoughts back down the deepest wells of his mind. He didn't have time to sort any of that shit out now. Someday he'd be able to…but until then, the Collector threat was obliterated and freeing himself from the Illusive Man came first.

He hoped that the upcoming recruits came with fewer complications than his latest addition from Korus. Shepard was uncertain as to what to do with Dr. Okeer's genetic tank. The position on his team had originally been intended for the krogan warlord—he had no way of knowing if the creature he created would be capable of filling the position, or even if it could be controlled in the first place. Dr. Okeer had been very specific about his legacy's dark purposes, and unleashing an adolescent krogan that had been engineered for destruction in deep space probably wasn't the safest action to take.

It was a decision that he could at least procrastinate on for a while, as E.D.I had discovered that the specimen could survive inside the tank for at least a year.

The computer chirped musically as the dossiers finished downloading from his email. Shepard opened the console, watching the Illusive Man's latest suggestions filter onto the screen. All three candidates were currently running around somewhere in Nos Astra, an incredible stroke of luck Shepard hadn't expected. The first one detailed the asari Justicar Samara, who possessed extensive biotic and weapon training. The next was Thane Krios, a drell assassin with specialties in quick-kill biotics and sniping.

Shepard paused, raising an eyebrow at the third dossier. Titled "Nightingale," Emma Dunne been trained in espionage and sniping, but her credentials were almost a mockery in comparison to the rest. She'd been an Alliance intelligence officer for three years until she'd been honorably discharged, and had since been living in Nos Astra. There was nothing notable in her biography, other than comments from former mentors and superior officers that she'd shown exceptional promise during her training and work on the Alliance frigate she'd served on.

Showing promise and actual experience were worlds away. The Illusive Man must have been getting a little desperate if he thought a soldier with so little battlefield experience would benefit them in the fight against the Collectors.

Shepard downloaded the files into E.D.I's system, deciding that he would look for Emma first when they arrived in Nos Astra. Based on her file, she would not only be the easiest to find, but the easiest to determine competency and ability.

He got to his feet and stretched, scratching the crawling sensation out of his ribs and thighs. "E.D.I, tell Garrus and Miranda to get themselves ready to go to Nos Astra with me."

"Yes, Commander," the feminine, electronic voice replied.

The holo-clock beside his bed chirped seven p.m hour and he sighed. It was going to be a long night, and he almost regretted the time he'd spent in the engine pits, trying to coax Jack into a civilized conversation. He'd almost succeeded too…but it was exactly as Kelly Chambers had described—the traumas in her past had rendered her incapable of trust and forming relationships. She wrought a deep sadness in him—like a cat arching its back, baring its teeth, hissing, and raising its fur, Jack's tattooing and heartless bravado was an attempt to warn away anyone who approached. A brittle disguise for the deeply rooted pain she was in.

Redirecting his thoughts away from the troubled biotic lurking in the depths of his ship, Shepard walked over to his armor locker to put on his hardsuit, passing the large fish tanks lining the left side of his quarters. Nine fish of varying species and colors darted through the cool, bubbly environment. He was grateful that Kelly had offered to feed them for him—they would have been long dead from starvation otherwise. Illium was reputed to be a trading and shopping hub. Perhaps he'd be able to add a few more species to his modest collection, something red or orange to contrast the white and green specimens drifting through the artificial kelp…


~ Illium, Nos Astra, Sunset ~

The sunsets of the Nos Astra skyline, forever a dazzling golden-red and purple saturation in the atmosphere, always seemed to burn with a mischievous sort of intensity on Friday night. Emma Dunne stood in front of the sink and mirror of her studio apartment's cramped bathroom, basking in the violet-gold light filtering through the wall-like window from her bedroom.

As she pursed her lips and smeared the rose-red color into an even coat, Emma recalled that most of the civilized planets in the galaxy regarded Mondays as the worst day of the week. She muttered a few choice comments about the schedules of entertainers and a desire for a quiet Monday night lounging in front of the television with a throw blanket and a pizza.

Hearing the vibrations and the musical jingle of her omni-tool on her bedside table, Emma gave herself a final glance-over in the mirror and hurried out of the bathroom. Coming to the bedside table, she scooped up the small wrist console and touched the bright orange, holographic button that silenced the alarm.

Pushing the dark gray bracelet open, she fastened it to her right wrist and looked around her apartment. It was in an abysmal state—the bed was unmade and covered with an overflowing laundry basket and half-folded clothes. Shoes and bras littered the pale blue carpet, and the small kitchenette in the corner was covered in dirty dishes. Her bathroom wasn't much better—stockings hung like wilted vines across the shower's glass door, the trashcan was overflowing with used tissues and other feminine garbage.

"Christ, I gotta stop with this shit, only college kids live like this," she muttered, shoving a handful of her sable-brown hair out of her face as she picked up her printed, white leather purse and slung the strap over her shoulder. She stepped across the threshold of the sliding metal door, pausing long enough to type in the lock command on her omni tool. While she waited for the lights to flicker from green to red, she reached into her purse and rummaged for her cigarettes. Locating it as the door locked itself, Emma shifted the engraved silver case and lighter into her right hand and began to make her way down the carpeted, dimly lit corridor.

She was cautious to keep her steps slow and carefully executed, hoping that the elevator was stopped on a nearby floor—the landlady's apartment was only two doors down from it and despite the asari's rumored "old age," she hadn't lost a bit of her hearing…or her looks for that matter. Emma wasn't in a mood to be harassed for rent in her neighbors' stead—somehow the old hag had discovered she worked with Ila and Tuwa, a pair of asari sisters that were frequently late with their rent credits.

She touched the button on the side of the wall, the noise of shifting gears and the rising elevator loud as thunder. Emma heaved a sigh and opened her case, tugging out the four-inch filter and a cigarette from the neat rows. Fitting the cigarette into the gleaming black filter, she heard the pressure release of a nearby door and shut her eyes with a grimace.

"Miss Dunne!"

"Evening, Ms. Niloufar," she replied, smiling pleasantly as a pale-blue skinned asari stepped into the corridor. Dressed in a floor length white dress, Ms. Niloufar ran the Blue Gardens apartment building with an iron grip that matched the fierce golden color of her eyes. A handful of dark blue freckles were spread across her cheeks, and the six, tentacle-like fringes covering the top of her head gleamed with a light silver tint at the crests and tips.

"Ila and Tuwa are behind two weeks on their rent again. You girls got paid today, correct?" she said, folding her arms beneath the low, full swell of her chest and raising a critical eyebrow.

"Yes ma'am..." Emma glanced up at the dial above the elevator and mentally cursing the eight floors the elevator still had to go before arriving.

"Well when you see them tonight you let them know that if I don't get their rent tomorrow they're going to find their shit all over the pavement outside and the locks changed. I'm sick of their dodgy bullshit."

"Yes ma'am," she replied with a light, non-committal tone.

"I'm happy you at least pay your rent on time…by the way, you're lookin' nice tonight," Ms. Niloufar smiled, glancing appreciatively at the knee-length, midnight blue dress Emma was wearing. "Going somewhere after your shift at the club?"

Emma shook her head. "I don't think so, ma'am. I'm in survival mode until Monday."

Ms. Niloufar threw back her head and laughed. "Honey you need to quit that singing and dancing business and find yourself a nice man. You've been here for what, four years? Most human girls I see are gone by now, swept off by some wealthy jackass or down-on-his-luck fixer-upper."

"Really? Which one should I keep an eye out for?" Emma grinned, biting the inside of her cheek as a flare of irritation moved through her chest. Grateful for the cheerful ding of the elevator door, Emma practically threw herself inside it and jammed her knuckle against the ground floor button on the console.

"Down-on-his-luck to be sure. Maybe a turian. You like the brooding, reptile-type don't you?"

Emma chuckled. "Good night, Ms. Niloufar."

"You too, Miss Dunne."

Emma rotated her cigarette and filter around with her thumb and index finger as she leaned against the back wall of the elevator. Beyond cylindrical glass case, the Nos Astra skyline cut a sharp, glowing silhouette against the violet-red sky. Emma could see a transparent image of herself on the polished, clear surface—her thick, brown-black hair hung in its usual waves and layers past her shoulders. Her dress was body-hugging and sleeveless, with a high neckline and keyholes in the back and front that flattered her wide hips and modest bust. She'd purchased it on a whim earlier that day, tired of the tights, tunics, and all-covering, floor length dresses that were currently on the rage.

Arriving on the ground floor, Emma made short work of the lobby and stepped out onto the sidewalk outside the Blue Gardens apartment. It was a small complex in comparison to the skyscrapers that filled the city—only twenty stories high. But it was clean and in a decent neighborhood, mostly populated by the nightclub workers of the more benevolent species that populated Illium.

Puffing life into her cigarette as she started down the sidewalk, Emma shook her head. The landlady's well-meant comments chafed just enough to be a nuisance. She was very aware that her life had taken a turn for the ritualistic and unexciting, despite her job as an entertainer. And she could admit that a regular man in her life would be a welcome addition. But a turian?

Putting aside their towering stature and raptor-like teeth, Emma didn't know a lot about the race. Most turians that turned up at the club were dragged there by human companions for bachelor parties. Ila and Tuwa had commented that the turian's military-oriented society made them stuffy and unsociable…code for their unimpressive tip average. And having once spotted a handful of sex-toys in a shop kiosk that were modeled after turian anatomy—her midsections involuntarily tightened. She understood why it was considered a fetish. While human and turian genetalia matched enough to establish the act, a woman would either have to possess extensive sexual history or a freakishly constructed nether region to accommodate the shape and length.

Or, so her personal hypothesis dictated. Toy manufactures weren't usually the most reputable source to gauge average male sizes.

Pushing the thought from her mind, Emma crossed the street and hurried up a flight of steps that led to the transportation hub, just outside the Nos Astra shipping offices. At seven-thirty in the evening, the courtyard was sparsely populated by clusters of asari, salarians, and humans chatting while they waited for cabs or shopped at the glowing round kiosks in the far left corner. Emma activated her omni-tool and summoned her traditional evening ride for her cross-city commute. When the holographic screen shining out of the miniature projector predicted a ten minute wait, she turned off the device and wandered over to a railing that overlooked the city.

She spent a few minutes admiring the landscape, idly breathing on her cigarette filter as she eavesdropped on a conversation a pair of asari were having, something involving a new drug that apparently caused permanent neural scarring and had a twelve page contract plus waiver attached to it. Within a few exchanges it was apparent that a disagreement was quickly budding, and Emma flicked ash from the tip of her cigarette.

There was a part of her somewhere inside that was starting to warm up to the idea of leaving Illium. She'd come there four years before in the hopes of starting fresh, which she'd been able to accomplish with few complaints, backbreaking effort, and no indentured servitude contracts. She had little to dislike about her life—her responsibilities were easy, and she made just enough money to keep herself comfortable despite the handful of credits that remained of her inheritance. She spent Wednesdays to Sundays entertaining and partying at the Old Nouveau, and wasn't required to take all her clothes off to do it. Yet, she couldn't quite banish the rising unease she supposed the abrupt conclusion of her stint in the Alliance was kindling.

The idea of enlisting again made her stomach churn. How could she go back to the regimented, orders-and-salutes lifestyle after four years of dancing at a nightclub? She supposed she could join up with the Eclipse, but the mercenary profession chafed her sense of propriety, as did being some kind of assassin. And she would sign an indentured service contract before considering returning home to the Earth.

Emma forced herself to rein control of the rising torrent of memories and emotions. Running in circles around her thoughts would do nothing but hinder her night's progress. She checked her omni-tool, annoyed that the cab was now five minutes late. She was about to put another cigarette in the filter when a worn, dark red hover-cab swept into the docking hub and lowered into a parking space close by. The hologram bolted to the craft's roof flickered and cut the words "E. Dunne – Old Nouveau" in bold, electric green letters into the air above the ship. Emma started towards it, digging in her purse for her cigarette case.

"Shepard, there's a security node up ahead."

Emma felt her eardrums burst into flames and icy needles dig into her spine. She halted mid-step and craned her head around, searching for the source of the woman's voice she'd just heard.

"I see it, Miranda. Keep an eye out for me."

She wasn't entirely certain to trust what she was seeing. Emma had heard the occasional, wild rumor that the Spectre legend Commander John Shepard had somehow survived the final days of the Citadel attacks. Naturally she'd dismissed them as conspiracy-tabloid writer fodder. Yet, the commander appeared to be in robust, fine health—if that really was him walking towards the security system located beside the sales kiosks.

He hadn't attired himself for discretion with a blood red, N7 armor hardsuit. The commander looked exactly the way he did in holograms, videos, and posters—cropped, ink black hair, a strong, square shaped jaw, and heavily fringed, ice-blue eyes. Emma's eyebrows crept upwards as she noticed a mild network of scarring that covered the left side of his face, and gave off a faint, orange light. Had the commander been pumped full of cybernetic implants after his ordeal?

The woman the commander had addressed as Miranda was devastatingly beautiful, with shoulder long, rich black hair that was cut in stylish waves and tip tilted, storm-gray eyes. Emma recognized the designer label that had produced her black and white jumpsuit—the brand produced expensive, fashionable, and highly efficient women's battle attire. Emma had purchased one for herself years ago, but hers had never seen the world outside of the parcel it had come in.

The pair approached the security console without any casualty or hesitation. Emma wasn't surprised—nobody in the courtyard would be stupid enough to pick a fight with a pair of heavily armed and suited soldiers. Commander Shepard had brought up the security screen, and his fingers were flying across the holographic projection as he hacked into the system. Curiosity as to what he was up and what he was doing on Illium was burning inside Emma with the power of a star going super-nova, but even if she approached him, she doubted her intrusion would be a welcome one at the moment.

Trailing behind them was a turian, clutching an M-15 Vindicator battle rifle and suited in a traditional, navy-blue hardsuit that had seen better days on the battlefield. Most notably was the deep, blackened split in the wide rim of the shoulder piece. Poor bastard must have been shot at with a very large canon to have put such a noticeable crack in his armor. Like most turians he towered above most everyone around him, and had a holographic visor strapped over his left eye.

Emma blinked, noticing the graft bandage and heavy, dark red and black scarring that covered a good portion of his face. She assumed it was more damage leftover from whatever had blown such a large hole in his armor. It only increased his formidable appearance, coupled with the blue tribal markings on the plates of scale-like flesh of his eyelids, nose, and mandibles.

"Excuse me ma'am! If you're not going to get in that cab I'll take it," a salarian called, the aggravation in his voice hardly masked. Shaking her head, Emma turned her away and hurried over to the cab, quickly stepping below the raised door and taking a seat on the worn, threadbare leather on the passenger side.

"Sorry man, I gotta go to work," she said as she slid into the front passenger seat of the car. An electronic, feminine voice filled the small cabin, advising her to keep her hands, feet, and belongings clear of the doors as they slammed shut.

"E. Dunne…is the Old Nouveau nightclub your final destination?" the voice inquired, flickering with static buildup.

"Yes, go."

Emma looked out of the tinted window, watching Commander Shepard and his two friends rush across the balcony to a communication terminal. She supposed that seeing him was a grim sign—after all, with recent Collector attacks on human colonies, who else was the Alliance supposed to rely on to save them?


AUTHORS NOTES

Any thoughts, negative and positive, are decidedly welcome—I'm one of those assholes that post according to interest displayed. I'm also happy to hear suggestions for what you think should happen next! And if anybody's got an idea for a better title by all means throw it at me. Titling my work always seems to be the hardest thing to do.

See you guys soon.