Admiral Steven Hackett considered himself a pragmatic man. It was because of this he avoided both being blinded by false hope and drowning in the deepest throes of despair. This approach had shaped his military career, from his time as a cadet until this fateful day. And yet it was only now, as he watched Earth smoulder, thick plumes of smoke and ash lifting into the atmosphere, that he truly appreciated his ability to stare down the almighty and remain calm.
The battle was won, they kept telling each other, together with desperate smiles and hearty pats on the back, but as he looked out upon that victory from Alliance HQ – what was left of it, at least – he realised the terrible price they had paid. And knowing that he would pay it again, and do so gladly, did not help lift that quiet and yet decidedly deep melancholy from his heart. A period of mourning, even if unacknowledged, was necessary in order to heal. That started now, a process he imagined would take every bit as long as the brick by brick rebuild of the Earth and the Galaxy in which it lived.
It was as he watched the streets fill up with humans and aliens alike that he was reminded of the alliances forged in the fires of war, and the old grudges now buried under Reaper husks. The Alliance had done everything in its power to prepare and his own efforts had been tireless, and yet he was humbled still by the endeavour of Commander William Shepard, a man who worked himself to the bone, who bled and bled again for humanity, and who sacrificed everything just to give them hope enough to go on fighting.
Shepard's fate remained unknown but he had lived long enough to fire the catalyst, activate the Crucible and, by means far beyond Hackett's comprehension, destroy the Reapers. This was not the only consequence, however. The Mass Relays had been rendered non-functional, the Geth had likewise fallen silent, and there were reports from throughout fleet of malfunctioning VIs. They would need their alliances now more than ever as they faced the bleak uncertainty that lay ahead.
As the Sun set over London the crowd below continued to swell, recognisable by the faint glow surrounding them, a combination of torches, candlelight and omni-tool. They were strangers, erstwhile adversaries in some cases, but they were united. And not merely by their shared suffering, or by having faced down their own imminent demise and lived to tell the tale, but by a man who had long lived in the shadows, watching over them like a silent guardian, and only now, in their hour of need, had he come forward as the saviour they longed for and delivered them from evil.
When the crowd began to chant Shepard's name, Hackett felt both immensely proud, coming close to tears, and sickened by the idea that the young man who had embodied hope for so long would be left by fate to perish at the conclusion of a war that he, as much as any other being, had helped win. He felt then suddenly weak, as if months and months of living on the run, of sleep-deprivation and malnutrition, had in one fell swoop caught up to him. He pressed a steadying hand against the glass and then his forehead too, looking down upon the people of the Galaxy with a sorrowful stare.
Though he acknowledged it was not his fault, and indeed that in any case he had little power over the way in which events had transpired, he nevertheless needed to say the word, even if only to himself.
Sorry.
This lingering guilt was, in Hackett's experience, common amongst high-ranking military personnel. It was not a bad thing, but rather proof of a conscience. It was exorcised indirectly, by sharing word of a soldier's passing to his next of kin and, failing that, his loved ones. Yet not only was this private confession made difficult by the thousands of people below chanting the man's name, but Hackett had watched the Normandy retreat – directed it to do so, in fact – and any chance to tell Shepard's closest friends of the honour it was to serve alongside such a brave and selfless man had tragically disappeared with them.
In a somewhat symbolic gesture, Hackett had shut off his omni-tool. Not since he first heard the word Reaper had he allowed himself such a respite, and he thought perhaps that while he mourned, and while his mind was troubled, he might finally find sleep at the end of the long, dark tunnel.
It was then that he heard footsteps thundering down the hall, causing him to start and for his hand to move across his body, stopping just short of his weapon. Old habits. Hackett turned and saw a young man sprinting along the corridor in his direction. He was breathless and what's more he was bruised and battered, but the devil snapping at his heels couldn't have found a more steely resolve.
The cadet stopped barely a metre in front of him and immediately bent over in exhaustion, his hands on his knees as desperately tried to force air into his lungs. When this failed to achieve any immediate return he continued anyway, attempting to speak but only managing to force out yet more gasps for air. This lasted a moment, Hackett's brow furrowing as he wondered what on Earth had possessed the young man, when suddenly the cadet stood up straight, punched a command into his omni-tool and watched in a sort of awed silence as a video-feed was projected before their eyes.
There was a body in the rubble wrapped in a broken and charred suit of armour. Evidentially it was a military man on account of the dog tags around his neck, but it was only as the camera panned higher that realisation finally dawned and Hackett's mouth seemed to fall open, his eyes growing wide, as he looked upon a face he thought he would perhaps never see again. Only, this was the limit of Hackett's reaction and there was no epiphany to be found in his stunned silence. It was not until the truly miraculous occurred, and from beneath that pile of burning rubble a feeble and solitary breath filled Shepard's lungs, that he found his reaction.
Hackett's gaze lifted suddenly as he met the eyes of the young cadet. He wanted to say something, anything, to make this moment seem real, but the young man, previously mute, beat him to the punch.
"He's alive."