Vega rests his bloodied head against a torn-out Mako tyre and listens. The first euphoric wave of joy has washed over London in the wake of the blinding red light that cast the Reapers down, and now the city is silent. Around James, the dazed remainders of the Hammer team are picking themselves up, counting the dead before the living because that's how they've survived these past desperate months. The absence of the white beam of light disorients everyone: where are they meant to be now? It is still so dark.
James leans against the tyre and throws his useless helmet away. The war is over. He blinks against a trickle of blood dripping into his eye. Is that Scars? Looks like the turian hardass made it. Garrus is limping across the battlefield, using his sniper rifle as a walking stick. James thinks about lifting a hand or calling out, but finds he doesn't have the energy. The turian sees him, though, and picks his way over, skirting the blasted remains of a Cannibal and three dead husks. There's an explosion somewhere high above them. Probably a half-destroyed ship finally succumbing to internal damage. In the flash of orange, Garrus' face is lit up, highlighting the loss of one mandible, ripped off his face and pulsing blue blood down his neck. The two look at each other, then Garrus crouches down and says, "Fuck."
Vega nods. "Yeah."
"Can't believe she pulled it off."
Vega blinks again and lifts his gaze to the sky above. The remains of the Citadel float above them, grievious asteroids, a planet-wide announcement that Shepard did it, she saved the galaxy. Losing her hasn't hit Vega yet: he doesn't think it's hit Garrus either. If anyone survived from the Citadel, it'll be a miracle.
Garrus exhales, dropping his head to rest on one forearm. "Can't raise the Normandy."
Vega swallows a mouthful of blood and says, his voice cracked and raw, "I know."
They sit in silence for a minute or two longer, then Garrus stands. "Better find the Primarch. Have to – have to keep going. You okay?"
"Not dead," Vega says. "That'll do for now." His eyes still burn with Harbinger's deadly blast, his bones aching with the roaring doom that - what, half an hour ago? – destroyed Hammer's hopes. How Shepard got through, he doesn't have a fucking clue. But she did. The Normandy is gone, and he thinks Alenko and the Prothean and T'Soni too. Who knows. He and Garrus are all that's left, right? So he'd better keep going. For Shepard, if nothing else.
Garrus flicks a weary salute to Vega; surprised, James manages to lift his own hand in reponse. The turian moves away, favouring one leg, head tilted to protect his torn mandible. James closes his eyes, and does another check of toes, fingers, bones, organs. Seems he was lucky. Escaped the worst of it. Damn, Lola sure knows ... knew ... how to pick a battle.
The driving urgency of the need to defeat the Reapers still hasn't released him, even though the Reapers lie in mammoth piles of dead synthetic tissue everywhere he looks. If his damned head would just stop spinning and if he could get this insidious smoke out of his lungs without choking, he could get up and – Esteban.
Vega opens his eyes. He coughs, tasting blood and bile, and casts around for his assault rifle. He doesn't remember dropping it, but it's sitting beside his knee, a spent heatsink still smoking inside. He picks it up, flicks the heatsink out, reloads out of sheer habit. Last ammo pack. He can still see Steve's shuttle spinning, smoke and flames flaring into life as it went down under a hail of banshee screams. Could only have been a few hours ago. Feels like a century. No radio contact. Lost Shepard. Lost the Normandy. Haven't lost the war. Damned if he'll lose Esteban too.
Cortez is tough. No way would he let a shuttle crash take him out.
Vega struggles to his feet. Perhaps he wasn't so lucky after all. One knee is on fire, fractured bone and nerves shrieking at him to sit down again. His shoulder doesn't want to move, right arm hanging uselessly at his side. At least the numb end-of-everything shock that has settled into his gut is helping block out the pain. James turns his back on the absence of light and stumbles into the darkness, assault rifle hanging from his useless arm.
The entire city is a disaster, echoes of the war's end ricocheting across the streets. James has to think, think hard. They were somewhere to the west of here when the Kodiak went down. He tests his radio, not allowing himself the hope that it would be that easy to raise Cortez. No. All the comms are down, useless. Okay. He'll to do it the hard way.
He passes Major Coates, bloodied but grimly satisfied, surrounded by the remainder of the London strike force, tucked under a blown-out building that provides some shelter from the falling ash, warm and poisonous.
"Lieutenant," Coates calls out. "We need every able body for stretcher runs."
Vega shakes his head, not caring about the chain of command or the shrill, fractured screams of a wounded woman being tended by one of the exhausted medics at Coates' feet. "Search and rescue, sir," he calls out, and walks on.
Two hours later, despair is fighting determination. He has no idea where the shuttle went down, where Steve is, and the cold London night air is wrapping itself around his bones with persistent fingers. Shit, he just wants to sit down and sleep, even in his heavy armour, dried sweat and blood itching all the way down his spine. But he won't. Damned if he'll give up now. Couldn't stop even if he tried. One foot in front of the other. Find Steve. Find Steve. If Esteban is dead, then ... Vega straightens himself, throwing his good shoulder back, a sharp movement that has his ears ringing. He stumbles, straightens again, and looks around. It's almost dawn.
There's an odd reflection on the gaping, blown-out wall opposite, spreading to light the entire block as he watches. He squints, staring at the patch of light. Where's it coming from? Vega looks over his shoulder, up into the black-and-silver sky. One of the Citadel's arms floats serenely above London, its white surface reflecting the rising sun down onto the city. A false dawn leading the planet into the new day. "Nice work, Commander," he mutters, and limps on.
The dead are everywhere; banshees and husks intermingled with humans and turians; krogan and asari tangled with rachni and brutes. No survivors here. Not one. London is an exhausted collection of dead. He passes no living people, no signs that Shepard's sacrifice was worth it. Vega keeps going.
By the ninth downed shuttle Vega has a system: wait for his heart rate to calm, then approach with care, check the regristration numbers wtih his small torch; look for the familiar scars and modifications Esteban worked into the little Kodiak's frame so patiently. None of them are the right one. Vega sets his jaw against the pain and walks on. Damned if he'll let fear take over now, after the end of all things.
Does every shuttle on the entire planet have to be a damned UT-47? He's standing in the middle of a broad road that must have been one of London's main highways. Now it's a distracted mess of dead bodies and downed ships, torn houses and half a dead Reaper crashed in a crater the size of the Normandy. This is hopeless. The city is too damned big. There are too many downed shuttles. He should go back to the command centre and get a proper search and rescue team together ... James snorts, coughs and spits out a mouthful blood, and leans on his assault rifle for a moment. There won't be any search and rescue for days, maybe even weeks. The planet is barely breathing. No way is he letting Esteban stew that long.
He turns to plod toward the downed Reaper, and stops. The building to his left, outlined by the pale grey dawnlight behind it, is the wrong shape. The mountain of rough rubble is accented by a smooth line of blue and white metal. Vega's heart thumps; he squints, blinks. Counts once. Counts twice. The numbering is right.
Halfway up the pile of rubble, Vega drops his assault rifle, hauling himself up by one hand and one foot. His injured knee bangs against a piece of twisted metal; he grunts, shakes the mind-blurring pain off, keeps climbing. No breath to call out. The shuttle rests on the top of the rubble, nose down on the other side, propped against a blackened concrete wall behind it. The thrusters have been torn away, smoke still curling from the battered engine. Vega reaches it, puts one hand out to touch the metal, proves it's not just another hallucination.
Two banshees lie dead at the shuttle door, blood and synthetics spread around them in an freakish halo against the rubble. Vega eyes them, notes the angle of bullets. Hope rises. Esteban is tough. He skids down the side of the shuttle, swearing as his knee twists again. The shuttle door is open, but he can't see inside; too dark.
Vega licks his lips and tries to speak; nothing. He coughs, clinging to the shuttle wall, trying to avoid stepping on the banshees as he clambers awkwardly down to the door.
"Steve."
Nothing.
"Steve!"
James peers into the shuttle, leaning against the outside wall. In the shuttle's dark interior, he can hear shallow, broken breathing.
"Esteban."
Steve's voice replies, "Vega?"
The relief is so profound James has to hold on to the door for a moment. "Shit, Esteban. Thought you were dead."
Steve chuckles weakly, his familiar voice thin in the darkness. "Thought you were too. Mr Vega. How the hell did you find me?"
"Followed the smoke." James crawls into the shuttle, navigating the tilted floor without grace. He feels his way to the pilot deck. "Didn't feel like dying today. Had a feeling you thought the same."
He fumbles for his torch, flicking it on. Steve is still in the pilot chair, one hand pressed to his stomach. In the glaring white torch-light his blue eyes stand out starkly against his skin. Vega edges closer; the shuttle groans, twitches in its grave.
"We gotta get you out of here, Esteban. Think this thing is going down."
"She's safe enough for now." Steve gestures to the console. "There's still power. Just switched it off to play dead. Think I must've passed out."
Vega leans over Steve to urge the shuttle back to life; lights flicker, the familiar orange haze of the screen shuddering into existence. He switches his torch off and sits down in the co-pilot seat. For a silent moment, he and Cortez look at each other, blinking in the sudden brightness.
"You look like hell," Steve says.
"So do you. You take out those banshees?"
"Yeah." Steve coughs again, and grimaces. "Thought I was gone when they showed up."
James doesn't comment, but forces himself to stand up again. The medpack has to be in the back seat. He moves carefully up the near-horizontal floor. He can't feel anything down his right arm now. Probably better than pain, though. "Where's the medpack?"
"Should be under the seat," Steve says. James rummages around, ignoring the bone-deep exhaustion that threatens to take over every time he stops moving even for a second. Got it. The medpack is, thankfully, untouched.
"Okay." James shuffles back to Steve and sits down again. "Gotta get you patched, then we can get out of here. Where'd they hit you?"
Steve points to his left side. "Didn't want to move in case I bled out." He pauses. "Guess I was just delaying the inevitable, until you showed up."
James squeezes himself into the narrow gap between the console and Steve's chair and inspects the injury. Blood soaks Steve's uniform, from the middle of his ribs down to his hip. Steve's hand is pressed over the wound; when he takes it away, James sucks in a breath and forgets to be cheerful.
Fuck. That's not good.
Steve is shivering, deep shudders from cold and shock and blood-loss. Stop the bleeding first.
"Can you take my glove off?" James asks, holding out his left hand.
Steve glances down at James' right hand, hanging at his side, and does so, slowly. "How's your arm?"
"Eh, still attached." James opens the medpack and pulls out a fresh tube of medigel. He applies it clumsily to Steve's side, coating the whole area with the healing gel. The injury is ugly, a whole chunk of flesh ripped out of Steve's side; banshee clawmarks burn through the skin.
Steve hisses in pain as the cold gel hits the gaping wound.
"Sorry," James says, but Steve shakes his head, one little movement.
"S'alright. Better than dying."
"So, you make a habit of taking on two banshees with an umodded Predator II?" James nods to an unfamiliar heavy pistol, abandoned on the floor beside the seat.
"Didn't have anything else to do," Steve says, teeth chattering against the words.
James frowns and hauls himself to his feet. What he wouldn't give for the chance to get out of this armour, take a shower, sit still for five minutes and just ... think. Let it sink in. The war is won. But he can't, because Steve is still close to bleeding out or going into total shock and they're at least an hour's march from medical support. He limps back into the main passenger deck, hunts under the seat for more supplies: aha! A blanket.
One-handed, James shakes it out and drapes it over the injured pilot. Steve manages a grin, resting his head back against the seat. "Thanks." He already looks slightly better, the medigel working its magic on the injury. "I should be alright now. It's not too serious."
James snorts at that. He's seen serious and he's seen not-too-serious, and Steve's injury is too close to the first for comfort. But the medigel should hold off anything worse until they get better help. He drops into the co-pilot seat again and injects another tube of medigel into his own suit's automatic dispenser. A few seconds later he feels the first tingling sensations around his shattered knee. The release from pain is blissful. He follows Steve's example and leans back against the seat, eyes falling shut of their own accord.
"We won?" It's barely a question. They both know if the war hadn't been won, James wouldn't be here and Steve would be bleeding out alone in the cold, dark shuttle.
"Hell yeah," James says, voice rough. "Dead Reapers everywhere you look. Don't know how. Or what Shepard did. But she got through."
"Did we lose anyone?" The 'else' is unspoken, hanging between them for a moment.
James sighs. "The Normandy. With the rest of the crew. When that ... red light came through, I think we lost a lot of ships. Don't know what exactly happened. They just disappeared. Comm chatter cut in half. Hackett is still around, though."
"But the Reapers are dead?"
It's hard to wrap his own head around. "Yeah. Yeah, they're dead."
Steve is silent for so long that James looks over, staring at his throat until he sees a pulse still working. "Lost the Normandy," the pilot says at last, softly. "I hope they're okay."
"Garrus is with Coates," James adds, as if that is any consolation. It isn't. They fall into silence. Vega's ears are still ringing. He tests his right arm; nothing.
"So what do we do now?"
"No idea." James forces his eyes open. "But if I sit here any longer I'm going to pass out. We need to get you back to the medical centre. Can this bird fly at all?"
"Not a chance," Steve says, "But try the comms."
James does so, left hand awkward on the controls. "Everything was down when I left."
To his relief, the comm hisses and crackles into life. There's a rush of voices, everyone talking at once - medivac needed immediately, two clicks south of the beam, Hammer still collecting itself, anyone know what the hell just happened? Mayday mayday urgent assistance required. All survivors, make your way to Hammer HQ, report to Major Coates.
They listen for a few moments, listen to the solid signs of life, then Steve says, "Switch to 104."
James does so. A turian voice fills the shuttle. "Vakarian to all survivors. Vakarian to all survivors. Turian wing Darak standing by for medivac, all London area. Report locations on this frequency."
James laughs. "Scars lost the other half of his face and he's still talking."
"Turians always had steel bones," Steve replies.
James flicks the comm open. "Normandy shuttle to Vakarian, requesting medivac."
There's a pause. "Copy that, Normandy shuttle. You found Cortez, Vega?"
"Affirmative."
"Damned if I know how," Steve says. "We're crashed in, uh, Waterloo. Sending locator signal now." He pauses to take a breath, and James eyes him. The pilot still looks like he's going to pass out any moment.
"Got it. Darak wing is on its way. Stay alive."
"You too, Scars," James says, and flicks the comm off.
They sit in silence for a moment, staring at the orange display. There are red warnings across the board. Shepard is gone; the Normandy is too; and the Reapers are dead. James tries to make it reality, but it seems so far-fetched.
All of a sudden he can't stand sitting in the cold shuttle. He turns to Steve. "Want to get out of here?"
"Yeah." Steve takes a deep breath, then leans forward, slowly. His jaw clenches; James stands and helps Steve stand in tiny, patient movements. Steve probably shouldn't be moving at all, but the dead shuttle is growing too morbid, too cold.
Somehow they get out of the shuttle, James holding on to Steve's arm, Steve's hand wrapped around James' shoulder. The sun has risen by the time they step over the dead banshees to reach the top of the rubble hill. They lean against each other and stare down at the smoky, dazed ruins of one of Earth's finest cities.
"So no more jokes about me crashing the shuttle, Esteban."
Steve chuckles. He's got the blanket pressed against his side, and is pale in the weak sunlight. James hopes the turians arrive soon. He shakes the thought off. Today is a day for life. Shepard took the Reapers down in the middle of the night and there's no way he's letting Esteban die now, with London baptised in the first dawn of a new era. Shit, he can't believe they actually pulled it off.
"Still can't believe you took down two banshees with that piece of crap pistol," James says, flexing his right hand. No response from his fingers. He helps Steve sit down on a chunk of concrete that seems stable enough, and takes a seat beside the pilot on the remains of a fridge.
Steve doesn't say anything for a moment, then, "Still can't believe you actually found me."
James shrugs his good shoulder, and some of the ugly urgency that has dominated his life since that first mad flight from Earth only a few months ago, at Commander Shepard's shoulder, disappears. "What, you thought I'd leave you out here alone, Esteban? I'm hurt."
"Wouldn't dream of it, Mr Vega. Just assumed you were either killing Reapers single-handedly or, well, dead."
"Had to leave something for Shepard to do." The joke strikes too close to home; James falls silent. Above them the sky is littered with the broken, dead remains of Reapers and Alliance vessels, like false clouds protecting the city.
"Thanks for finding me, James." Steve's voice is quiet.
"Just don't die on me, mm?"
"Doing my best not to."
The sun rises above them, a remorseless progression into the new day, and James breathes deeply. Came back to Earth. Stayed alive. Helped Shepard defeat the Reapers. Found Steve.
"Hey Esteban."
"Yeah?"
"What do we do now we've saved the galaxy?"
Steve smiles, a real smile, and says, "We live, James. We live."
The familiar roar of a turian fighter breaks the morning silence. James nods, and sighs. "Guess we can do that."