A/N: This is a little – okay, not so little – story that I've been crafting for a few weeks now. I have about another 15,000 words waiting on my hard drive, but due to my inescapable habit of not finishing longer stories, I tried to get at least halfway before posting anything. This chapter is pretty straightforward, but I'm going to be experimenting with structure overall – please, let me know what works and what doesn't. Enjoy!
Prologue: The Circus in Three Rings
James Vega stands at ease behind Captain – no, wait, sorry – Admiral Anderson at the docking bay waiting for the Normandy to arrive. Beyond security, he can see the miniature flashbangs of press cameras, hear the clutter of voices and the pounding of fists against the unbreakable glass. Behind him, four marines stand to attention, each casting baleful looks in the direction of the swarming press. They're all thinking the same thing as James – namely, what a fucking shit show.
He doesn't envy Shepard. In his books, the woman's a goddamned hero. You gotta respect a soldier who pulled herself up from nothing to make something of herself. Hell, before she became Savior of the Citadel or whatever she was called now following the relay incident, the vids had talked about her miraculous survival on Akuze. Miraculous, that's what they called it. James would bet his left ball it was something closer to fierce determination. He was still in basic when it happened, when he looked up in the mess to see the unholy mess that was Shepard's face for the first time on the vid screen.
When he got his first facial scar – the real bad one – he thought of her, wearing that blue and black tie-dye face. If Shepard could rock it, so could he.
The Normandy drops from the sky, hovering down to the docking bay. She was soft spoken and curved in all the right places, and while James had a natural affinity for dreadnoughts – their size, their firing capabilities, you know, the basics – he had to admit that the Normandy was one damn sexy ship.
"You remember the run-through?" Anderson asks without looking over his shoulder.
"Yes, sir," replies James with a nod. Those butterflies are waggling their little wings on his insides, and he can't help but be annoyed. A grown man, a commissioned officer, a mean left hook in a bar fight, and he's acting like he's waiting for his prom date. He shakes his head slightly to try and regain his mental balance, hoping that Anderson doesn't notice. There's a slight smile on the Admiral's face that says his hope is in vain.
The airlock hisses open, and there she is. Leigh Shepard emerges with her hands held high. Her blue eyes are bright in the paleness of her face, but there's something about her that makes James think she'd tan up real nice if she just spent some time in the sun. She's wearing the same research smock he's seen on scientists, and though James isn't complaining at the way it hugs her body close. Throughout her career, it was shaved close – a by-product of special missions groundside, he suspects. Now it's curled into a bun at the base of her neck and dark the way he likes, if, you know, he thought of Commander Shepard that way, which he definitely doesn't. But if, hypothetically speaking, he did think of her like that, he'd have to admit she's kind of a babe.
As she moves forward, she inclines her head at Anderson.
"Admiral," she says. Though she's giving the universal signal of surrender, James can't help but think he's never seen anyone look less frazzled than the Commander does right now.
Anderson crosses his arms, tilting his head at Shepard. "Commander," he says, looking her up and down. "Can't remember the last time I saw you out of fatigues."
Shepard looks herself over. "Well, these happened to be the only thing in my quarters not stamped with the Cerberus logo, so." She shrugs. "Black and gold were never really my colours."
"Really?" drawls Anderson, inclining his head towards the giant Cerberus symbol painted on the side of the ship.
Shepard follows his gaze and scowls. "Yeah, well, unfortunately, I had to put my credits towards upgrading the ship instead of redecorating. Thannix cannons and Silaris heavy ship armor are not cheap, I'm telling you." She sniffs and scratches her nose. "Surviving the Omega-4 relay seemed a little bit important than the Normandy's tramp stamp."
Right then is when James decides this prison warden gig might not be so bad after all.
He jumps at Anderson's bark of laughter all the same, though the Admiral squashes it down as soon as he's able, visibly trying to force his expression into one of disappointment instead of amusement. He and Shepard stare each other down, and it's like they're having this whole conversation that neither James nor the other marines are privy to. James wonders, not for the first time, exactly what the relationship is between the Admiral and the Commander. There's been scuttlebutt for years that the two were somehow involved – romantically or sexually or both – but James doesn't think that's it, and not just because these two aren't stupid enough to pull that sort of thing.
Let the rumour mill say what it wants, but James has spent enough time with Anderson these past few weeks to know that whatever the Admiral feels for Shepard, it's not romantic in nature. From what little he's seen of Shepard, he wouldn't be surprised to see her bleed Alliance blue. Anderson too, for that matter.
Shepard's expression battens down, and she holds out her wrists. "Let's get this over with, then."
With one gesture from Anderson, James moves forward, pulling the cuffs from his belt. He snaps them on her wrists, and can't help but notice how thin they are under her gloves. Shepard raises one eyebrow at him, and glances past him to Anderson, who watches the whole scene with perfect neutrality.
"And you are?" she asks.
Those butterflies are doing kamikaze runs at the sides of his belly when he says, "Lieutenant James Vega, ma'am."
Her mouth pulls to one side. "They hoping to intimidate me with a big strong marine, Lieutenant?"
The back of his neck grows slick. "I really couldn't say, ma'am. You'll have to ask the Admiral over there."
The airlock hisses open again, and a man hobbles out. Flight Lieutenant Jeff Moreau, thinks James, recognizing the man from Shepard's dossier. She glances back at the Normandy, and James can't interpret her expression. Moreau stands as tall as he's able and gives the Commander a salute. "Good luck out there, Commander."
Shepard tries to return the gesture, but what with her hands being cuffed together, it's a bit of a pointless exercise. "Take care of yourself, Joker," she says, and then adds with a meaningful glance, "and our girl too, got it?"
Moreau – Joker? - snorts. "Like you even have to ask, Commander." He twists his body to see beyond, a dark humour settling on his features. "Anderson, hey! Long time no see!"
"Joker," says Anderson, like he's tasted something sour. James wonders what the deal is there, but wisely keeps his mouth shut. "Alliance personnel will be by shortly to take you for processing."
"Well, isn't that ominous sounding. All, did you know solyent green is made of people?" At Anderson's expression, Moreau holds up his hands. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. Damn, there goes my clever plan to, you know, run to safety with my well-defined parkour skills."
Shepard lets out an amused sigh but turns and marches towards Anderson. Startled, James follows after her, gripping the top of one of her arms so he can at least look like he's doing his job. She glances to his hand, to his face, and then with what seems to be an invisible shrug, continues on as though she can't feel him at all. James feels like a dick for even laying hands on her – she's a goddamned hero – but it's not going to do anybody any favours if it seems like she's getting off easy.
"Now, Shepard," says Anderson, "We have to parade your ass through that press storm outside."
"Great," says Shepard with not an ounce of enthusiasm. "Have I mentioned I'm not great with reporters?"
James snorts before he can stop himself, earning nearly identical expressions from both Shepard and Anderson. He opens his mouth to apologize, but they've both already moved on, Shepard looking up into the face of her mentor. She's smaller than he thought, the top of her head reaching about his chin. They walk brusquely towards the terminal, the marines following in formation behind.
"Why are you here, anyways?" she asks Anderson. "Aren't you supposed to be hobnobbing with the bigwigs, or something?"
"Or something," says Anderson, dryly. "When I heard how imminent the Reaper attack was, I thought I could do more good back here. They've promoted me to Admiral."
"Congratulations," says Shepard, her voice softening in a way it never did in the vids. A beat passes, then, as her silence grows more concerned. "So, then, who's on the Council?"
"Udina."
Shepard stops short, and James almost runs into her. She barely notices. "You left the prince of the three year olds as humanity's representative just before the Reaper invasion?" Boy, does she sound angry.
"I didn't leave anything," says Anderson firmly. "He was elected by the Alliance parliament."
"Just proves politicians are idiots," says Shepard, resuming her pace. "He's never going to get anything accomplished between all his whining and arm waving."
Anderson says nothing, but there's a distinctly blank expression that says he agrees with Shepard. James knows it isn't his place, knows that he understands fuck all when it comes to politics in general, but he would sure feel a hell of a lot better if someone like Anderson were still on the Council. Politicians always make him uncomfortable, and call him crazy, but if a race of evil sentient machines are coming for them all, he'd like to think that there was someone in charge who knew what war was all about. From what little he's seen of Udina, well, the guy's no soldier.
The press push against them like a tidal wave when they pass through security, each attempting to shout Shepard's name louder than the other in the hopes of getting noticed. A few call out Anderson's name too, but whereas Anderson has mastered the art of looking at no one while wading through the crowd of people, Shepard does the opposite. She meets their faces, their cameras, with full-on stares in a battle of wills. James has to acknowledge that the woman's got balls – uh, figuratively speaking.
They make it to the shuttle, herding Shepard inside first where James has the unfortunate task of shackling her handcuffs to the shuttle wall. When he finishes, she levels that stare on him too, as if daring him to comment. He wants to tell her that even if he wanted to, he couldn't. It's not right, he'd say, but he can't – not with Anderson there, counting on him, and certainly not with the other marines. At least, in the long run, he's going to be sympathetic towards Shepard.
Which is exactly why Anderson chose him.
The shuttle takes off and sitting across from her, James can't help but notice how flat-out dangerous Shepard seems. With her hands cuffed, surrounded by marines with assault rifles, she should seem completely cowed. Instead, she regarded them all quietly, carefully, as if waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And if the tales were anything to go by, James had no doubt that she could do exactly that and probably take out most of them. Not him or Anderson, though. Shepard would never lay a hand on Anderson, and as for himself, well, there was more than one reason the Admiral came all the way to Omega to get him.
That didn't stop the marines from fidgeting nervously. James didn't know if it was hero worship or fear or what, but Hamilton in particular look like he'd been bitch slapped across the face. Poor kid. Probably still all hung up on idealism and shit. He'd learn.
"So how is this going to go?" asks Shepard, finally.
Anderson looked up from his datapad. "You're going to be taken to a detention facility pending the trial. Once that's decided, well." He frowned down at his pad.
"Okay, great," said Shepard, leaning forward as best she was able with her hands cuffed to the wall. "And what about the Reapers?"
James is sure he's not the only one shifting uncomfortably in his seat. There was a heat behind Shepard's eyes that he couldn't remember seeing on anyone else, except maybe his old XO just before that Collector attack. It's like she's going to burn up from the inside out with the weight of her hatred for these Reapers, her conviction that they're coming. Shepard, he decides, is the definition of a bad ass, and one he would not like to cross in a dark alley.
"I'm afraid that's classified, Shepard," says Anderson, with not a little regret. "But I promise you that I will do everything in my power to make sure we're ready."
Shepard sighed and leaned back, her eyes fluttering closed. "You better. I'd really hate to have an I told you so moment as the planet's being harvested."
There's really nothing to say to that. She's right. James wasn't on the Citadel when it was attacked by Sovereign – hell, he's never even been close to the Citadel, spending his time in the ass end of space – but he saw the vids after. Everyone saw the vids after, and that ship – that Reaper – well, it was a beast in the worst sort of way. Imagining a thousand of those fuckers dropping down on Earth should be enough to give anyone some military initiative, but so far the suits are a little too comfortable on those leather seats of theirs.
When they finally dock at Alliance HQ, James unlocks Shepard from the shuttle and, her arm in hand, helps her out. The brass are all standing up there in the wings, looking down on her, probably feeling pretty powerful right now. Unlike with the reporters, Shepard doesn't match their gazes. She keeps her head planted firmly forward, and James wonders what brought about this change. He doesn't believe for a second that she's admitting they're better than her.
She pauses when she realizes that Anderson isn't following. From inside the shuttle, the Admiral shakes his head. "I wish I could come with you, Shepard, really. Know that I've got your back but -"
"But for the sake of doing what needs to be done, you need to distance yourself," finishes Shepard, voice flat. "I get it." She squares her shoulders and makes as if to move on, but can't help swinging around one last time. A piece of hair has come loose from her bun and James wants to brush it away, the sight of it making his own forehead itchy, but he doesn't because he's her jailer not her friend. Shepard says, "Make it count, Anderson."
James leads her away, he wonders what that's supposed to mean. It could refer to anything – to Anderson's efforts, to her willing surrender of freedom, to their fleet's defensive. As they pass by a batarian dignitary though, his four eyes flashing angrily and mouth just barely baring those creepy long teeth they have, Shepard averts her eyes to the ground and James, well, he thinks he knows.