Author's Note: Yes, readers and reviewers, your eyes do not deceive you. This is, in fact, another fanfic. Before you get too alarmed, take a deep breath and don't freak out. I am still on track in terms of writing and finishing The Hero We Deserve and The Hero Who Loved Me.
So why start another fanfic now when I'm so close to finishing my other fanfics? Simple: I had an idea for a Christmas fanfic, or at least one set around Christmas, and I just had to run with it. *shrugs* What can you do?
The following tale takes place after the Battle of Elysium and before the events of Accidental Hero of the Galaxy. Certain parties may want to check out the Timeline entry on the invaluable Mass Effect wiki—specifically, the year 2178.
Certain parties may also note that there are several references to a certain TV show. What can I say: when it was great, it was great.
Viva Buymoria!
Chapter One: Stuck on the Naughty List
It had been a while since I last saw Ellie. Oh, we'd kept in touch through e-mails and the occasional real-time vid-call. It's probably an abuse of authority to use military communication bandwidths—and spec ops bandwidth at that—to talk to your sister. Especially when that 'sister' has no biological relation to you and those conversations have absolutely nothing to do with work. Thankfully, the program McGee had whipped up did a good job of keeping Cyber-Security off my back.
Still, all the e-mails and real-time vid-calls in the galaxy aren't the same as an actual face-to-face get-together. Which I don't get often enough. Time to fix that, I decided. One of the advantages of being a supposed hero and savior: no one questions you when you ask for leave. Especially when you've been too busy getting out of jams and messes and missions that went horribly sideways to actually use any of that accrued leave time.
Case in point: my mom. She was all set to kick back and relax on Eden Prime or some other boring planet. Then she got recalled for a mission. A very important mission: to deliver supplies to outlying Alliance colonies. That's right: Alliance brass was too cheap to actually hire one of the hundreds of private civilian companies to ship Christmas turkeys and all the fixings out to the middle of nowhere. Instead, the bean-counters decided to cancel leave for the men and women of the SSV Kiliminjaro, sending out some big official statement that basically moved up the scheduled shakedown cruise. Never mind that it was the prototype of the Alliance Navy's newest class of dreadnought and deserved a little more attention and fanfare. The crew complied, but not before pooling their funds to buy lumps of coal for the skinflints. Mom organized the fundraising, of course.
I told myself that I wouldn't get stuck like that. If I had leave coming, I was damn well gonna use it! I was gonna have fun. And being a glorified cargo boy is not my idea of fun—Mom would back me up on that. So I put in my request for leave. I wasn't surprised when I got it. To be honest, I was surprised to get it without any personal digits from the admin lady who processed my application—I may have put on a little too much Shepard charm. If an innocent smile can be counted as charm, that is.
Ellie was surprised, though—about the fact that I was visiting her for leave, that is. Never told her about the creepy admin lady—and thrilled. The beaming smile made all the hours spent slogging through administrative crap worth it. Though I could do without the squealing—I swear it took a couple days for my ears to stop ringing.
But I digress.
After several long, long flights, I finally arrived at Arcturus Station. Ellie and Captain Awesome were waiting for me at the airlock. They greeted me the same way as they always did: Ellie yelled out "CHUCK!", ran over and gave me a bone-jarring hug, squealing in my ear the entire time. Awesome said "Dude! It is awesome to see you, man!" and gave me a bone-jarring pat on the back. My mind knew they meant well. My bones were a little less generous. My heart didn't give a damn about my whiny, creaky bones.
Ellie had whipped up a 'Welcome Back Dinner'. Nothing fancy, you understand, just a feast that could feed a whole platoon. SOP for Dr. Ellie Bartowski. We spent the rest of the evening talking, catching up on gossip, laughing and stuffing ourselves silly. The latter was responsible for the very, very, very deep sleep I fell into. The soft, decidedly civvie bed might have helped.
I must've slept right through the beeping associated with the standard alarm clock on my omni-tool. Thankfully, my omni-tool had a snooze function, one that randomly pulled songs from my song list to woke me up. Based on the fact that 'Jingle Bell Rock' came belting out, today's selection had a Christmas flair.
Humming along to Bobby Helms, I dance-shuffled my way out of the guest bedroom and into the bathroom. The first thing I noted was that it was awfully warm. Like steaming: the mirror was all fogged up. I wiped the condensation off just in time to see someone else doing the same thing with the shower windows.
"Ah!" I jumped and whirled around.
"Morning, Chuck!" Devon greeted me. He didn't make the slightest effort to hide himself or cover up.
"Devon?" I sputtered.
"Chuck?"
It was only then that I saw he wasn't alone. His companion, unlike him, was doing her very, very best to hide behind Devon.
"Ellie?"
...
...
...
There was really only one response to this predicament:
"My eyes!" I howled, slapping my hands over my face and bolting from the bathroom. "My eyes! Oh, I'm blind! I'm BLIND!"
There are certain images that tend to stick with you. Batarians torturing and breaking down civilians before selling them on the slave market. The first time you see a target's head disintegrate into a mist of blood and bone. The thought of your spiritual sister and her boyfriend going at it in the shower.
That last part, by the way, was not awesome. Thankfully I only saw Awesome in the buff. Because seeing Ellie nak—eww! Oh God! I had to stop myself before I went blind again. This kinda stuff never came up in Basic! Why didn't it come up in Basic? I thought the whole idea was to prepare you for anything! Gah!
We probably made a very interesting trio at the table. I was mechanically eating breakfast, with what must've been a numb look of stunned horror stamped over my face. Ellie was so embarrassed and mortified that she couldn't even drink her morning coffee—which is saying something considering how badly she needs her morning coffee. And her other morning coffee. And her lunch coffee. And her… well, let's just say that being a doctor carries certain professional hazards.
Awesome, of course, was nonchalantly eating his breakfast granola as if there was nothing wrong with being caught in the act. He'd clearly gotten over the little lecture we'd had back in OCS. The lecture where I'd ambushed him, tied him up, dangled him from the branches of an apple tree and turned several overripe apples into applesauce until he promised to forsake his one-night stands and stay faithful and monogamous to Ellie and Ellie alone. Maybe it was time for a reenactment. Now all I needed was to find another tree and figure out how to disable any nearby vid-cams. And figure out how to bring up the fact that Awesome was being a little too blasé about boink—gah!
I jumped. So did Ellie. Awesome looked at me innocently.
…
…
…
This was probably the point where I should say something.
"Um... well... uh..."
Boy, this was going well.
"...okay, um, first of all… uh, congratulations, Devon, for, you know, whatever God and your parents gave you down there—"
"Thanks, Chuck!" Devon beamed.
I had to pause and suppress a shudder. Ellie just shook her head and finally took her first sip of coffee. "Second: the door was not locked," I continued, "so I'm not a complete pervert."
Just a poor sap with the worst luck in the universe. I must've really pissed someone off in a past life or something.
"Third, and most importantly, maybe you should hang a sock or something so we don't have a repeat performance."
"Sorry, Chuck," Ellie apologized, her face turning beet-red. It would've been funnier had my own face not warmed up at the same time. "Devon and I—"
"Oh God!" I closed my eyes and clapped my hands over my ears. "Ellie, I really don't want to know. Just... just… give me a warning or something, okay? Some kind of heads-up so this doesn't happen again!"
"Sorry, Chuck."
"Ever!"
"I'm really sorry, Chuck."
I opened my eyes and glared at Devon. He looked at me blankly before flinching. Ellie must've kicked him. "Sure thing, Chuck. Sorry 'bout the… you know."
"Okay," I said. "That happened. Moving on. Ellie, you were—"
The doorbell rang at that moment. And by 'rang', I meant it played the chorus of "I Wish You A Merry Christmas." I looked at Ellie. "Change the ring tone?"
"'Tis the season."
I gave her a grin and nod of approval, traumatizing mental images forgotten. "I'm so proud."
"I know," Ellie grinned back, embarrassment and mortification also forgotten.
The doorbell rang again. Awesome shoveled another spoonful of granola into his mouth before getting up and walking to the door. He glanced at the monitor feeds from the vid-cam stationed outside before opening the door.
"Lieutenant Shepard?"
Aw, crap.
Awesome turned around and motioned for me. I slowly put down my spoon and plodded my way over, as if I could delay the inevitable by going as slowly as humanly possible. That little stall tactic bought me an extra ten seconds before meeting two men in Alliance uniforms. "Yeah?" I asked.
"Lieutenant Shepard?" the guy on the left said.
"Yeah," I said slowly. "That's me. Can I help you?"
"We need you to come with us," the guy on the right said.
I knew it. That's the last time I lay on the ol' Shepard charm. Damn admin lady had serious connections!
"Why?" That was Ellie, coming to the door with coffee cup in hand.
"Classified, ma'am," the guy on the right replied.
"Doctor," Ellie corrected.
"Sorry. Classified, doctor," the guy on the right tried again.
"Is he in trouble?" Ellie wanted to know.
"No, ma'am—doctor. Doctor. He—"
"Because whatever it is, he didn't do it. Do you know who this is? This is Lieutenant Shepard."
I think they knew that. They did ask for me by rank and name. I decided to keep my mouth shut, though.
The guy on the left wasn't quite as wise. "Doctor, we—"
"Maybe you've heard of him. Always listening to others, no matter the time of day. Always helping others, on his own time and expense. Like on Elysium. You've heard of Elysium, right? Batarians tried to attack it? Little thing called the Skyllian Blitz? Happened about four years ago? Chuck here stopped them. That's right: Chuck. Your 'Lieutenant Shepard.' And he's done a lot more since then. So whatever you think he's done, I'm sure it can wait a few more weeks. Because he's earned a break. And it's Christmas, after all. Christmas."
"You're being recalled," the guy on the right said, finally getting a word in. Which was quite impressive, really. Once Ellie got wound up, there was no stopping her. I would've admired his mad skills. Really, I would've. But those three words kinda ruined it for me.
"It's Christmas," Ellie pointed out again.
"I know," the guy on the left acknowledged. "He's still being recalled."
"Why?" Ellie asked again.
"Classified," the guy on the right said again.
"It's. Christmas."
"Tidings of comfort and joy," the guy on the left said. "Please come with us."
I automatically clamped a hand on Ellie's shoulder before she forgot the Hippocratic Oath and her need for caffeine. As I gently eased her cup out of her hand, a couple questions popped up in my noggin:
Where did Mom get that coal, anyway?
And, more importantly, did she have any left over?
"Lieutenant Shepard? I'm General Beckman and this is my associate, Admiral Graham. Thank you for agreeing to meet us on such short notice."
I hate it when REMFs say that. As if I had a choice. Because I didn't, thanks to the twin demons known as bureaucratic fine print and military chain of command. Of course, I couldn't say that either. Not to my superiors.
After saying hurried goodbyes to Ellie and Awesome, I had left my half-finished breakfast and followed my new pals through various corridors, up a flight of stairs, around a courtyard, through more corridors, down an elevator, through yet more corridors, up an elevator and—surprise, surprise—down another corridor.
We finally stopped at an office. My bestest buddies stationed themselves at the door as I walked through. Now that they were done being bearers of bad news and cruel escorts, their new task was evidently to ensure the privacy of this meeting with social grace and bedside manner.
The office sported bland walls with a really cheap attempt at artwork, a wilted plant, a faded carpet, one desk, one computer, a handful of chairs and two sour-faced officers. Alliance-standard, in other words.
"Please sit down," General Beckman, the first REMF to greet me, said.
"Yes, let's get this over with," Admiral Graham nodded.
Oh, the things I could say to that. Not that I was stupid enough to indulge that impulse, of course. After the debacle of Elysium, I'd learned that people are always watching. And listening. And judging. Especially the ones who have more stars or stripes than you. So I kept things to a simple "Ma'am. Sir." and planted my ass on the closest chair. Which was rock-hard, by the way.
Beckman and Graham quickly sat down as well—I figured we were sitting to hide the fact that Beckman was as short as a volus and Graham's looming height gave elcor a run for their money—and we got down to business. "You are aware, of course, of the events that occurred on Elysium two years ago," Beckman began.
No, I wasn't. Where was this 'Elysium'? Did it have anything to do with this 'Skyllian Blitz' that everybody kept talking about? "Yes, ma'am."
"Since then, we've been taking steps to address the clear and present danger posed by such criminals and their batarian funders to our colonies in the Skyllian Verge. That includes the recent raid on Torfan."
Ah yes. Torfan. So many interpretations on what happened there. A horrific slaughter of innocent, hard-working folks who were just minding their own business, according to the Batarian Department of Information Control. A justified retaliation for the Skyllian Blitz by clearing out underground pirate bases who'd been plaguing local colonies, according to Alliance officials. A poorly planned mission that led to countless casualties and the resignation of many fine men and women, according to Westerlund News and other tabloid rags.
I decided not to voice any of those opinions. Well above my pay grade, you see. Instead, I played the good, obedient grunt and simply repeated myself: "Yes, ma'am."
Graham took over. "We also intercepted comm traffic suggesting that there was more pirate activity in the Hong system, centred on the planet of Theshaca. To track their movements, we covertly placed surveillance devices on Theshaca's moons to track incoming and outgoing FTL vectors. After six months of data collection and analysis, we've identified no less than eight strongholds."
"I see," I said, deviating from the broken record shtick, but still staying within the realm of short-and-simple.
"The pirates don't know that we know where they are. Even if they did, they wouldn't expect us to attack them now. Not when Christmas is right around the corner."
"Of course not," I said, feeling a sudden sinking feeling in my stomach.
Beckman confirmed it: "We're going to stage simultaneous strikes against all eight strongholds."
"Where are these strongholds, exactly?" I asked, seeing where this was going. The REMFs in front of me were clearly hell-bent on shipping me off to some godforsaken rock to get shot at. Again. The sooner I spoke up, the sooner I could finagle a way to minimize the number of guns pointed in my general direction.
Graham pulled up a map of the Hong system. Sure enough, there were eight strongholds highlighted. Three were on Theshaca itself and another was planted squarely on Theshaca's largest moon. I eliminated those options immediately. Way too close to each other, which meant that they could easily ferry reinforcements back and forth if needed. And if that was where Alliance Intelligence planted their spy-bugs, then they were probably the main bases. Which meant heavily fortified and well-equipped. No thank you.
The remaining four were on Matar, Casbin, Pomal and Treagir. From the looks of things, Treagir was the farthest planet. Not to mention the smallest. Most importantly, it was the most isolated. "What can you tell me about Treagir in general and the stronghold specifically?"
"It's a small ice dwarf," Beckman told me. "Trace atmosphere of xenon and krypton. Surface composed primarily of frozen water and ammonia."
Great. It had been ages since I had a snowball fight.
"Calling the Treagir base a 'stronghold' may be something of an overstatement," Graham shrugged. "To be honest, it's just a small compound. Maybe even an outpost. Relatively exposed and lightly manned—we estimate a complement of ten to twenty pirates."
Perfect.
"Why do you ask?"
"Because I'd like to volunteer for Treagir, sir. Ma'am." In for a penny... "A small squad under my command could easily storm the outpost, freeing larger units and much-needed resources to hit other targets that are, no doubt, much more fortified."
"We appreciate your enthusiasm and initiative," Graham approved.
I slowly felt my stomach stop sinking.
"And we agree with your proposal," Beckman added.
My stomach settled to a comfortable halt.
"With one modification."
My stomach started plummeting again.
"Which is?"
"As you pointed out, our available resources are limited and there are several other targets that present a far greater challenge. That is why the Treagir assignment will be a solo operation."
Solo.
Aw, crap.
"With all due respect," I protested, trying not to grind my teeth or clench my fists in frustration, "the likelihood of success would be significantly increased if this was a group operation. Even an extra soldier or two could—"
"Overruled," Graham said curtly.
I'd like to think that my eye didn't twitch.
Beckman intervened before I got myself court-martialed for assaulting a superior officer or running from the office screaming at the top of my lungs. "Lieutenant, rest assured that we do not make this decision lightly. We are aware of the risks associated with a solo operation."
Oh good. Here I was thinking that I was the only one.
"However—"
Right. There's always a 'however.'
"—there is a reason why you are a N7 operative. You have demonstrated time and time again your resourcefulness and tactical prowess on countless missions. Your accomplishments on Elysium are nothing short of exemplary."
I know. Believe me, I know. That's why I hate being allowed—and expected—to sport that damn N7 logo on my hardsuit like a walking advertisement. Believe it or not, it's not a chick magnet—unless you count the bimbos who've memorized the latest celebrity gossip but don't know the Alliance classification system. It's more like a "stay away 'cuz I'm not worthy to talk to the hero" sign… or a giant freaking bulls-eye planted firmly on my back.
"That is why we want you to hit the Treagir compound."
Now it was a 'compound' again. Yippee.
"No one but a N7 operative with your skill set and service record could pull it off."
Because no good deed goes unpunished, I guess. "What's the plan for insertion?" I asked, giving in to the inevitable.
Graham leaned forward. "Tracing the pirates' movements has revealed one other detail: regular monthly traffic between Bekenstein and the Hong system."
That raised an eyebrow. "That's an awfully long journey to make. Not to mention an expensive one. The fuel costs alone would be enormous."
"Agreed. We believe that the pirates move their illicit proceeds to Bekenstein to sell on the grey market, then pick up supplies on the return trip. And the first stop the cargo ship makes upon entering the Hong system is Treagir."
"So if I can go to Bekenstein and slip aboard the cargo ship, I get a free ride to my target," I concluded.
"Exactly," Beckman nodded. "To be frank, it's safer and more efficient than dropping you off in a Mako and having you drive to the base. Not to mention the maintenance costs will be considerably lower."
Sheesh. Flip one Mako over and get it jammed upside down in a crevasse, and they never let you forget it.
"There is, however, a catch."
Like the whole 'you can do it solo' bit. Great. As if this assignment wasn't FUBAR enough already.
"The pirates randomize the cargo ship used each month. Once you arrive at Bekenstein, you'll have to identify the ship yourself."
In other words, I get to play 'Pin the Needle on the Donkey' before playing 'Tag' with a bunch of armed goons. Wonderful. Someone out there must really, really love me. "I assume I'll have time to say goodbye?"
"You leave in one hour."
An hour. Wow. I remember the days when I'd go straight from the briefing room to the shuttle, with nothing but a five minute vid-call on the way to say "See ya later." My, how things have changed.
"Understood," I nodded, fixing Hero Smile #1 (Humanity's Best, Bravest and Brightest) firmly in place.
What else could I say?
Okay. I had two stops to make before getting on the shuttle and only one hour. Packing would eat up quite a bit of time unless… tapping on my omni-tool, I pulled up a number and opened the comm channel. "Come on," I urged as I got out of the elevator and started speed-walking down the corridor. "Pick up. Pick up, pick up, pick up—"
"Hello? Chuck?"
"Ellie, I'm sorry but…"
"I finished packing some clothes and essentials for you and Devon's grabbing leftovers for you to eat on the shuttle. We'll meet you at Echo Park."
"How…"
"How did I know you'd be going away on some top-secret mission on short notice and could use some help in grabbing your gear? Please."
Once again, Ellie went above and beyond. Now I could concentrate on making just one stop. Now where was it again... "No, silly," I laughed, doubling back to the last intersection and taking a left. "I was going to say 'how did you pack so fast?'"
"Let's just say all those times we spent playing camp as kids paid off."
"And yet you take days to pack for a weekend trip," I teased, taking a hard right. If memory served...
"No making fun of your sis or I'm taking out the cheesecake."
Not the cheesecake. Anything but Ellie's Famous Cheesecake. "Shutting up now. You're the best, Ellie."
"And you're the…" Ellie broke off as a muffled voice said something in the background. "Okay, honey! Chuck: Devon says he's done. We're—oof, that's heavy—we're heading out now. Honey, can you give me a hand here?"
"Okay," I responded. "See you later." Turning off the comm, I rounded the corner and—there it was. The spec-ops armoury. Just where I remembered it. Heck, it looked exactly the same—right down to the dent caused by the skycar that I was absolutely not driving. Honest.
"Chuck?"
Aside from Ellie—and Devon—there was only one other guy who called me 'Chuck' instead of 'Lieutenant' or 'Shepard.' "Morgan?"
Sure enough, it was Morgan Grimes. The shortest guy to ever make it through Basic. Still toting the beard. And the infectious grin. "How's it going, man? What's it been—five years? Six?"
"At least," I grinned, taking the hand he extended towards me and pulling him into a hug.
Morgan broke off the hug first to slap me on the shoulder. "Hey, Ellie told me the good news: you finally finished N-School! How's it feel to be a certified N7?"
The Interplanetary Combat Academy, colloquially known as 'N-School' or 'the villa' offered courses in special operations, combat expertise and leadership. Very, very, very tough courses. Just qualifying for an N1 course gave an officer a great deal of respect. Surviving the N1 course—by leading hungry, sleep-deprived squads through 20-hour training 'sessions' in Rio de Janiero—was one of the hardest things I've ever done. But I did learn a lot. And I learned even more stuff—from advanced zero-G combat to combat instruction to frontline trauma for humans and aliens—during
the N2 through N6 courses. Shame I never learned anything about removing the suicide mission magnet that got jammed up my ass. When I think of the times it screwed me over... "You know the rule about N-School," I said quickly, before I got bogged down in Memory Lane.
"Yeah, yeah: 'You don't talk about N-School.'"
"Exactly." I put a stern look on my face. That little act only lasted a couple seconds. "You're looking good," I complimented Morgan, patting him on the back.
"Yeah, well," he shrugged. "Can't complain. It's hard work perfecting the fine art of slacking off. Gotta keep the razor's edge nice and sharp."
"So you still haven't applied for OCS yet?" I guessed.
Morgan shuddered. "Uh, no. Being an officer means less time for video games. Can't have that. Besides, I kinda like it where I am. Got a good thing going here."
That was true. When he wasn't playing extranet video games or talking about playing extranet video games, he was exercising 'mad skills' in procurement. The guy had a knack for finding everything from basic essentials to exotic foods to top-of-the-line weapons. He knew his levo-foods from his dextro and his shotguns from his pistols. At least, he did back in the day. I hoped he hadn't gotten rusty: thanks to OCS and N-School, I'd kinda lost touch with the little bearded man. "Speaking of which, you still on duty?"
"Actually… my shift just ended," Morgan winced. "Sorry, man. Got a couple N7 Code of Honour games lined up and—"
"I'm going on a mission," I interrupted.
"Top secret?"
"Beyond."
"Leading a platoon into combat, right?"
"I wish."
"At least tell me you've got a squad on your six."
"I'm going solo, Morgan."
"You're going so—games can wait," Morgan said, doing an about-face. "Come on."
I followed him, grateful at first. That gratitude quickly turned to confusion. And not just because he'd volunteered to put off gaming. "Morgan?"
"Yeah?"
"Why are we going through the side door?"
"If my boss finds out I'm still working, he'll make me put in for overtime. Which means sitting down and filling out tons of forms in triplicate. While he stands over me and complains about it between bites of donuts. It's like getting drenched in dandruff."
"Ah. And ick."
"Besides, I assume you want something other than the stock crap from Hahne-Kedar?"
"Oh God, yes," I said fervently. "Anything's better than Hahne-Kedar. Still can't believe we're stuck going into combat with their gear."
"That's what happens when the Systems Alliance gets locked into a twenty-year supply contract," Morgan shrugged, entering his security code. "Great for discounts, lousy for actually hurting or killing your targets. Anyway, if the boss sees me working, he'll make me foist Hahne-Kedar weapons on you. Even if you tell him you're going on a one-way trip to the Terminus Systems."
"Even if I break the first rule of N-School and pull out the N7 card?"
"That gets you the Mark V goods from Hahne-Kedar," Morgan laughed. "Very shiny, very expensive, but still a load of crap. Trust me: you're better off sneaking in with me."
Running into Morgan was paying off already. We went down yet another corridor and into a dimly lit room. Must've been the storage facility, judging by all the shelves and crates.
"Okay, let's see," Morgan said, more to himself than me. I sat down on a chair, after wiping off the dust, and watched the master work his magic. "We'll begin with a Mark IV Raikou pistol from Ariake Technologies—pretty damn good from a company that started off dealing in omni-tools. Moving on to… now where did I put the Haliat stuff?"
"Haliat?" I asked. "As in Haliat Armoury? The turian weapons manufacturers?"
"Yep," he confirmed, getting on his knees and rifling through crates.
"Since when did you get access to turian weapons?"
"Since Haliat made too many weapons and the Hierarchy gave them the okay to sell the surplus on the galactic market."
"'Surplus?' You mean the turians actually made too many weapons?"
"I know. Weird, right? Anyway, I managed to get a couple shipments of—ah! Here we go!" He stood up and turned around. "Voila: Mark III Thunder assault rifle," he said, lifting up his left hand. "And a Mark III Tornado shotgun."
"Great," I approved. "Now what do you have in the way of—"
"Sniper rifles?" Morgan finished. "Right over here." He led me to a crate that was covered in dust and an active datapad showing… "Morgan? What's this?"
"Blueprints of the Supermax compound level for N7 Code of Honour. My squad—"
"Your 'squad'?" I interrupted.
"Yes, 'my squad.' Anyway, we kinda got trashed in our last match with a bunch of total douches, so I got to thinking on how we could take them all out. Wanna take a look?"
"I really shouldn't—"
"Great." Morgan tapped a command into the datapad. "Here are the specs—are you ready? Twenty-three Vanguards, sixteen Infiltrators, seven Soldiers, four Adepts and enough ammunition to send a clan of krogan into orbit."
Wow.
"Fifty gamers, one call, all ready for battle. With this squad assembled, and my plan, victory is ours."
"Morgan, you're my new hero," I said sincerely.
"Thanks, man. Now for the good stuff." He tossed the datapad aside—I winced as it clattered on the floor—opened up the crate and pulled out the weirdest sniper rifle I'd ever seen. I mean, the thing had curves where it should have had straight lines. "What is this?"
"Mark III Pulse rifle, courtesy of the geth."
"The geth?"
"The geth."
"Synthetics, flashlight heads—those geth?"
"Yep."
"Where… how…"
"No idea. I mean, no one's seen the geth in almost two hundred years. But they're out there, somewhere in the Perseus Veil, doing who knows what."
I picked up the rifle and peering through the scope. "Apparently one of those things involves making weapons."
"Not just weapons," Morgan corrected me. "Good weapons. This Mark III will put most Mark IV's to shame. I was saving it for a rainy day when I got in hot water with the boss. You know: 'Sorry, boss! I know I shouldn't have been playing Galaxy of Fantasy during my shift, but look what I got! A hot, sexy geth weapon! Can you believe I scored this baby off of some schmuck for a song?'"
"Did you really score it for a song?" I wanted to know.
"Hell yeah," Morgan laughed. "It's a long story, though. No time for the usual after-action report."
"Skip the full AAR and give me the gist, then," I urged. My curiosity was getting the better of me. Again.
"Okay, so some efficiency expert douchebag came in last month and went on a rampage. Totally made a mess of things. No overlapping shifts. No scheduled replacements when someone called in sick—even the legit cases. That sort of thing. So, you know, we might've been a little pissed."
"Okay," I nodded. "With you so far."
"Might've gotten ugly if he hadn't offered to host a poker game. You know, to make up for all our 'hard work and cooperation during this transition period.'"
"And that was how you got the sniper rifle?" I guessed.
"Yep. Mr. Efficiency lost all his chips and put it up as collateral."
"Nice."
Morgan held up his hands to slow me down. "Hold on, buddy. That's not all."
"There's more? Don't tell me you guys played strip poker."
"With the sausage fest around the poker table? Hell, no!"
"Then what?"
"Mr. Efficiency got drunk. Totally wasted. On—get this—a couple of wine coolers!"
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
"Lightweight," I snorted.
"I know," Morgan howled. "And the best part is that we recorded it all!"
I gave him a high-five. "Well done, soldier. I assume that helped accomplish the mission objective."
"Yes, sir. In exchange for our silence, Mr. Efficiency took back every idiotic change he made and peace returned to the Arcturus Station Armoury."
"Very poetic."
"I thought so."
"And after all your hard work, you're handing this over."
"Well, yeah," Morgan shrugged. "I have my unofficial break times and my unofficial gaming hour back. Even if I didn't, you need this more than I do."
"You're a lifesaver, Morgan," I said sincerely, packing up my newfound goodies.
"No problem, Chuck."
"Thanks again. Catch you later."
"Yeah, man. Later."
I met Ellie and Awesome in Echo Park as we'd arranged. Place still looked exactly the same, right down to the dinky little fountain. Naturally, Awesome was holding the hardsuit case, the duffle bag full of fatigues and undies and other essentials, and the microwavable lunch container—all without breaking a sweat. That left Ellie to give me another Bartowski hug.
"This sucks," she said at last, her voice muffled by the fact that her head was buried in my shoulder.
"I know," I managed, my voice slightly higher in pitch than normal thanks to the krogan vice Ellie had me wrapped in.
"We haven't seen each other in ages."
"I know."
"You could get shot."
"I know. Don't ask me how, but I must've gotten myself stuck on Santa's naughty list."
Ellie laughed ruefully. "I doubt that."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence. Listen, sis: there's a good chance that I won't be back—"
"Don't say that!" Ellie said frantically.
"—in time for Christmas," I finished.
"Oh. That's better. Still, I don't care," Ellie said firmly. "Just promise me something."
"Fine: I won't threaten Awesome at gunpoint for this morning's debacle."
"Okay, promise me something else."
"Shoot."
"Chuck."
"Sorry, poor choice of words. What is it?"
Ellie reached up and cupped my face in her hands. "Promise me that you'll be careful and that you'll come home. Alive. I don't care if you're late for Christmas. Just promise me that."
"I can't," I groaned. "It doesn't work that way. You know that. But I'll do my best."
"Fine," Ellie huffed. "I guess that'll have to do."
"Okay."
"Okay."
A beep broke the silence. **Lieutenant Shepard? We leave in ten minutes.**
"Copy that," I replied. "Gotta go, sis. Devon?"
"Right." Devon walked over and handed me my gear. And, more importantly, my food. Carefully balancing everything—it would really suck if I started this solo suicide mission off with a twisted ankle—I slowly headed out of Echo Park and towards the designated docking bay.
"Chuck?"
I turned around. "Yeah?"
Ellie gave me a thumbs up. "Aces, Charles. You're aces."
It took everything I had not to tear up. "A Dad quote. I'm impressed."
"Love you."
"Love you too."
"Be safe."
"I'll try."
"Do or do not."
"Roger that."