No one knows what to do with a twice-dead, still-alive war hero who discharges herself from hospital. Her name is more than ironic now: Commander Shepard, lost without her flock.
There were murmurings of award ceremonies and interviews to be broadcast over every possible channel as soon as she was released, but on Hackett's last visit he took one look at her and dismissed all the suggestions. She's been officially retired from active duty, not that she cares. Her brain still rattles in her skull and moving more than one finger at a time seems like an impossible task. Miranda says her coordination will improve, over time.
Earth holds an award ceremony for her anyway, in her absence, but Shepard closes her eyes and sleeps through the international broadcast. Who the hell cares. Let them have their holiday.
She's given a wad of papers to sign, and bland clothing that bears no resemblance to her beloved blue uniform or the battered, cracked armour they cut off her unconscious corpse four or five weeks ago. Most of the doctors want to keep her in longer, unnerved at how quickly her shattered ribs, dislocated and torn shoulder-blade, fractured cheekbones, chipped eye socket and litany of internal injuries have healed. Miranda's renewed dedication along with Hackett's free access to Alliance resources, has paid off.
Miranda leaves that morning with barely a goodbye, having atoned for whatever sin she felt she had to atone for. Chakwas is run off her feet, but manages to drop by while Shepard is clumsily signing paperwork, testing three new fingers. The older woman hugs Shepard, gingerly, and says, "Don't be a stranger. Go home and rest. Learn to sit still again. And don't let those Alliance bigwigs put you back into action for at least six months."
Shepard nods, and smiles because Chakwas needs it. A place for a person to stop and catch her breath. She limps slowly through the still-destroyed hospital corridors, finds her way out the front door. There are stretchers on the floors throughout the hospital, the stench of infection barely held at bay by the determined cleaning and disinfection control team striding around in a haze of exhaustion and soapy fumes. No one pays much attention to the gaunt, shadowed, scarred civilian picking her way across bloodstained floor and piles of rubble to the exit. Shepard carries a bag; some asari nurse gave it to her after the paperwork was complete. She assumes it's clothes. She thinks about dropping it on the floor, leaving it to some hopeful. But it's good to have something in her hand, so she holds on.
The sun is blinding. She cringes away from it, feels her biotic implant throb at the base of her skull momentarily. Weks indoors, under shadowy, unreliable lighting and she can barely see straight. How the hell is she supposed to do anything?
"Hey, Lola."
She drops her hand from her eyes, blinking against the glare of concrete and sunlight. Vega. He's leaning against the stone fence, between the cars. He looks exactly the same as always: same grey shirt, under a leather jacket that is almost too small across the shoulders. New scar on his face, running straight down his forehead above his right eye. If she didn't know better, she'd say he hadn't been through the last sprint toward Harbinger's furious red beams at all.
"You look like shit," he says, and Shepard looks away from the genuine shock in his voice. He pushes off from the wall and walks toward her. She doesn't move, thinking of Miranda's lessons in breathing through the pain.
"Want me to take that?" Vega takes the bag anyway, without her having to say anything. She looks at him, and notices that he has lost his old familiar frank gaze; he shifts under her study. "Chakwas told me you were getting out today. Figured you'd need somewhere to stay. Me and Esteban have a place a few blocks away. Okay to walk?"
They're barely out of the pockmarked hospital car park before she realises Vega is walking ridiculously slowly, waiting for her to catch up. Breathe once deep in, hold, let out. Don't use your ribs: breathe in your stomach. It's going to hurt. A lot. You'll have to get used to that. We don't have enough painkillers to give you more, now you're past the critical stage. I'm sorry, Shepard. Thanks, Miranda.
Her ribs are burning, her lungs crying out for relief and they've just turned down the side street. Vega is deliberately not watching her. To distract herself from the pain, Shepard raises her head and drags her eyes away from her feet, looking around. Earth.
Earth is a bloody disaster.
There's a park behind the hospital – or was. Now it's a Reaper graveyard, surrounded by the jagged teeth of broken walls and crashed ships. Rust-red legs are stretched out like a dead animal. The red eye doesn't glow any more, but still stares straight at Shepard. She stops in her tracks, and looks at it for a long, long time.
Vaguely she's aware of James talking, saying something, but she doesn't hear. She can't hear too well from her right ear. She just stares at what she did, the destruction she's wrought. The pain at the base of her skull flares up. She realises that her hands are clenched, haloed in blue energy. In slow, careful movements, she uncurls each finger and allows the energy to dissipate. The headache crashes down her spine like the richocet of a shotgun.
Vega touches her shoulder: she jumps and jerks her gaze away from the dead Reaper. For a moment they're both caught off-guard and she sees the tiredness and guilt and concern in his eyes. Something painful flickers across his face and he drops his hand. "Esteban is coming to pick us up. It's on his way, he's just finished a supply run. Got use of the shuttle whenever he wants it, lucky bastard ..."
He talks on, while Shepard finds a seat on a pile of concrete and wire, and stares at her feet. She doesn't really listen to Vega, but listens for the words he's carefully not saying. What the hell did they do you what happened on the Citadel Shepard come back you're freaking me out say something Commander, Lola, say something. Are you there? They used to have such snark-filled conversations in the long months while he shadowed her everywhere the inquiry took her.
The sun is still too bright. Her fingers are shaking, so she locks them together, rests them on her knees and watches the outlines of her soft black shoes, counts the stitches on the leather. Someone else wore these shoes once. She used to have a whole cabin to herself. Fish. She never liked fish.
"Lola."
The familiar husky buzz of the UT-47 makes her realise she's probably been staring at her feet for a while. A bitingly familiar blue and white shuttle is parked in front of her. If she'd been in a battlefield they would have killed her five times over by now. Wake up, Shepard. You're not dead yet. Even though you are. Should be.
The door slides open and Cortez steps out. He's thinner, sunburnt, a raw scar poking out from a bandage on his right arm. He still wears an Alliance uniform. The same weariness she's seen on Vega's face is etched deeper in his bright blue eyes. She manages a smile, because that's what you do when you see people again, isn't it? She forgot to smile at Vega earlier.
Last time she saw Steve, he'd just dropped her into the AA guns range and had taken off to avoid air attacks. If she listens closely enough, she can hear the crack and rattle of the guns, the furious roar of the Reaper they were fighting, the nightmare call of the banshee closing in on her prey. Long time ago. Probably wasn't far from this place.
Vega helps her up, tosses her bag into the shuttle. Cortez smiles at her, through the deep concern he's terrible at hiding, and salutes. "Good to see you again, Commander."
Shepard nods, and takes a seat in the shuttle. She closes her eyes against the memories ghosting through the shuttle. Kaidan and Liara, Garrus coughing to get Wrex's attention, EDI experimenting with pain responses in her new body. She's aware of Vega sitting next to her, the bag between them. He and Cortez exchange some words, Vega asking about some communications centre up north, Cortez mentioning the mass relays. Shepard opens her eyes.
"... think that's why they can rebuild so quickly. Liara went back to Mars yesterday. She says they're close to a breakthrough."
"She's said that the last three times," Vega rumbles.
Cortez chuckles, without mirth, and says, "Any hope is better than none."
Shepard closes her eyes. Cortez is wrong. Hope that the Normandy is stranded somewhere, thrown through a mass relay and lost in the explosion, unable to get back ... hope is torture, keeping her inexoriably alive.
Chakwas had broken the news to her, on the third day that Shepard was conscious for more than half an hour. "Jeff and EDI left the battle, and came to find you. They found Kaidan and Javik, and headed to the Citadel, but ... the Citadel blew up. We lost a lot of ships. The Normandy was so close to the Citadel, Hackett tells me they think the Normandy was caught up in it." Chakwas hesitated, then added softly, "The mass relays aren't operational, Shepard. Liara tells me they're intact, just ... not working. There's a project to restart them, and the asari have a lot of information – and with all the fleets here, everyone is keen to rebuild them, to go home – but ..." She made a futile gesture with one hand, and said, "I'm sorry, Shepard. The Normandy is gone."
No reason to hope. No reason to live, yet live she does. She came back to Earth to die. Damned Lazarus. They couldn't let Commander Shepard die, could they? They need to trot her out for memorial services, funerals, make her walk around and inspire people ... didn't she earn a quiet, peaceful death? Come on. Surely she did.
Shepard's fists clench on her knees. Vega and Cortez are still talking. She closes her eyes, and throws her head back against the hard wall of the shuttle, again and again. Fresh pain blossoms against her neck, a nice little contrast from the well-set fire burning down her side, the deeper agony hovering around her biotic implant.
"Hey! Shepard!" On the third bang, her skull crunches against something softer. Vega swears, his hand between the wall and her head. Shepard refuses to open her eyes, but leans forward and buries her face in her hands. Vega swears again, this time in his own language, and his hand drops to her shoulder, rubbing it helplessly.
"We're nearly there," Cortez says, voice strained.