This used to mean something to me, thought the veteran as he fingered the six points of the slim piece of metal lying in the bowl of his palm. His thumb passed over the embossed words in the bronze. They said, 'Cmdr. Shepard', in neat little block letters. He tried to recall that feeling, the pride, the way the praise of his men had uplifted him. Nothing. Not even an echo.

The Star of Terra twinkled in his hand and it might as well be some trash bit of tin he'd picked up off the street for all he actually cared.

"Captain, we're docking at the Citadel now." Joker's voice, devoid of the humor that had so defined the pilot in Shepard's memory.

"Good. I'm coming down." Shepard opened the drawer of his nightstand and tossed the Star back in there with all the other tokens of esteem, some invented just for him after the Reapers fell. He stood and strode to his locker, strapping on the familiar care-worn armor, holstering his favored M-7 Lancer.

Then, he made his way down to the forward airlock, where Garrus, similarly attired, waited. The turian gave him a thumbs-up and leaned back to yell to Joker, "Open her up."

The outer doors hissed open, buffeting Shepard with the strange and heady brew that was the atmosphere on the giant space station. As he ran along with Garrus in his wake, he wondered for the nth time, what exactly flavored the air. Alien sweat? Surely the CO2-scrubbers would take care of that. Almost spicy, with a faint ozone undertone.

The duo plopped into a cab. Shepard spoke to the automated aircar, "Presidium. Council chamber."

The vehicle rose and flew toward the big tower in the center of the station. Garrus fidgeted in the seat next to him, finally breaking the tense silence, "John, listen, I-"

"I hope the Council has a better job for us this time. I'm getting tired of snuffing drug runners." Shepard fought down a bubble of something like panic as he interrupted whatever Garrus had been about to say. He threw an engaging grin the turian's way.

Garrus sighed in resignation and drawled, "Yeah. They run like pyjaks when they see you coming. I'm surprised their shoes don't squeak from the bladder-releasing terror."

Shepard forced a laugh out of a grin that felt increasingly unnatural, more like a grimace as it pulled at his skin. "We'll get some real action this time, I just know it." Then he turned to face the window, shutting down the conversation to keep it from circling back to whatever his most trusted friend had wanted to talk to him about. He heard Garrus sigh again and settle back into his own seat.

He left Garrus to mingle downstairs as he headed up to see the new council. The door of the elevator opened and there stood Fleet Admiral Hackett, his craggy features looking especially haggard now there was no war on to occupy him. One corner of his lips drew up, puckering his scars. "Shepard."

"Admiral." Shepard stepped out of the lift. The two men stood shoulder to shoulder and gazed around the rebuilt seat of all galactic power. Shepard looked for differences and found few.

"Still fighting the good fight?"

"Still fighting." Shepard shrugged.

"So I hear. You've done little else since getting yourself released from recovery." The admiral scratched the stubble on his cheek and eyed Shepard askance. "A recovery that should have gone on for at least two more years, followed by a psych eval."

"You know me, I'm not happy unless I'm doing something."

"Still, your authority as a Spectre shouldn't be used like that."

"What good is authority if you don't use it once in a while." Shepard frowned and felt a wisp of anger curl in his guts. He turned to Hackett.

Who couldn't seem to shut his ever-loving mouth. "You owe it to your crew t-"

"No disrespect meant, admiral, but what I do with my authority isn't under Alliance jurisdiction or oversight." Threat, not overt, laced his words. "The Normandy and her crew are part of the joint military fleet now."

Taken aback, Hackett leaned away from him. Shepard watched a thousand angry retorts float around in the man's eyes before the admiral replied, in a calm voice, "You're right. Council authority supercedes mine. Take a little advice, Captain Shepard. Step back and take a breath. Before you look in the mirror one day and see a man you can't live with."

Bitterness filled Shepard as they parted ways. Perhaps he shouldn't have gone back to the Alliance after the Collector Base. Maybe he should have let them all twist in the breeze. He entertained thoughts of what might have happened then as he strode up the gangplank to meet the galaxy's newest batch of idiot leaders.

Five of them now. The classic three, plus a human and a krogan. The human councilor, Braca, a man who might be shorter and a bit fatter, but still somehow came off as 'Udina'-shaped, turned to meet him. An oily smile lit his porcine features. "Ah. Here he is now. Hero of the hour."

Tevos bowed to him in deep respect, as did Sparatus. The salarian councilor only nodded, reflecting the disapproval his race still harbored toward the Spectre for curing the genophage. Pakrag, the krogan, grinned at him, a wide leer that could mean 'Hey, buddy, pal, old friend o'mine' or 'You wanna take this outside?'

Shepard bowed at the waist to all of them and then met every eye as he straightened. "Excellencies, you summoned me?"

Sparatus cleared his throat and said, "Yes. As you well know, in the aftermath of the Reaper War, pirates took over all the shipping lanes and many colonies seceded with the help of mercenary armies-"

"What? Pirates? Again?" Disappointment displaced the earlier bitterness at his core.

"Let me finish, Spectre," The turian grumbled, "As I was saying, mercs and pirates which we've finally gotten down to manageable numbers thanks to you and your efforts. Then, when six crime syndicates rose up and tried to take over all the drug trade out in the Attican Traverse, we had you go in there guns blazing to show them we wouldn't tolerate it."

Get to the fucking point, you long-winded fuck, thought Shepard, grinding his teeth to keep from showing any of it on his face.

"You're boring the shit out of him, Sparatus. And me. Hurry it up." Pakrag growled, with a little twirling gesture of one thick finger.

The turian councilor shot him a glare full of venom. "Do not undermine my authority in this place, Pak-rag!"

"How many times am I gonna hafta say it? It's Puh-KRAG!" The krogan shouted it, so it rebounded off all the synth-steel walls around them. Pakrag looked around in proud satisfaction. "I'm never gonna get tired of that."

Tevos, stepping in before it became a fistfight, gestured for silence. "Shepard, after your long service to the galaxy, it is our pleasure to inform you that we finally have peace. A thing we did not believe would happen in our lifetimes."

Shepard's jaw dropped and he stuttered, "A-are you saying . . . what I think you're saying?"

The salarian smiled a wide and indulgent smile with the tiniest hint of cruelty in it. "We are saying that you are free to retire with full honors."

"Retire?" There was that panic again. It never strayed far from his wakened mind. His jaw snapped shut on voicing it. Instead, he engaged them as a tactician would when presented with a stubborn dilemma. "You said 'free to', you're not forcing me to retire? Did you bring me all the way here to fire me?"

They sputtered and backpedaled. Tevos' hands flittered as she replied, "No, no, we would never think to-"

"Not as such. Not someone as honored-" Sparatus huffed.

"It would be the worst PR-" finished Braca, with a genuflecting wave and frozen grin of panic.

Shepard's voice rolled out of him, low and cold, "Give me a job. Any job."

The councilors looked around at each other in puzzlement.

John sighed in exasperation. "There has to be something. There's always something."

"Only minor matters. Nothing we don't already have other agents taking care of," Nyort, now he recalled the new salarian councilor's name, said.

Braca, the snide bastard, cleared his throat. Every eye turned to him. "Well, there is one thing."

"What?" Shepard didn't even bother with an honorific.

"We've been meaning to send a goodwill delegation to all the council worlds. Embassadors. Diplomats. For a meet and greet. Lots of handshaking and parades and official dinners . . .."

With every word, his guts sunk just a little lower, as did his spirit. Shepard swallowed to try to moisten a suddenly parched throat. "Of-official dinners . . .."

"Yes and it would be perfect to have Captain Shepard there. The universally loved first human Spectre. The savior of the gala-"

He couldn't bear to hear any more, not without drawing and firing on all of these 'august' and 'wise' leaders. He stalled the words with a raised hand. "It doesn't sound like something I'm qualified for. Look at me. I'm a soldier. Always have been."

"A soldier in a time where there is no great war." Sparatus spread his hands wide. "Needs must. It's either this or retirement. Do you accept this assignment?"

At that pronouncement, which hit him between the eyes like a death sentence, Shepard closed his eyes and shrunk in on himself. After a long moment, he nodded. Smiles all around met his acceptance. All except for Pakrag, who only shook his head with something like pity.

A trophy. They wanted a trophy to parade around. He could picture it already. All shiny braid and useless ceremonial armor, if any. He rasped, "And the Normandy?"

"We'll find a new commander for her, don't you worry. We'll take good care of her." Nyort said.

Shepard never felt so . . . beaten. Not even when he'd been shown the truth on the Crucible. That to stop a war, he had to lose a battle just as important.