A Hero By Any Other Name

Editorial Note

Readers have often asked me what happened to Commander Shepard after the Reaper War. What harrowing mission did he go on next? What battle did he wage next? That sort of thing. Few were excited to hear that he had to recover—physically and emotionally—from the terrible, terrible ordeal he had endured during that horrific time.

On the one hand, I find this disappointing. Do readers really need their heroes to constantly go off on some grand adventure? Is it not enough to know that they were there when they were needed most?

But then, I suppose it is understandable. It is natural to have an interest in other people, particularly one who you admire. To look for some way in which you share common ground. To take heart in their accomplishments. To draw inspiration from their words, their deeds, their actions.

So perhaps I should be pleased to report that Shepard's recovery was not completely uneventful—though he would undoubtedly have it otherwise. After some work, I have edited a new collection of personal logs detailing his time on the Citadel after completing his physical therapy. Readers with the necessary security clearance may be interested in perusing this material, considering there is little on the public record that covers Shepard's activities during this period of time.

As always, I have confined my revisions to restructuring the logs into chapters for easier readings, along with occasional footnotes for the purposes of offering explanations and observations where needed. The bulk of what follows, however, is Shepard's account of those events in his unique and idiosyncratic fashion.

Sincerely,
Dr. Liara T'Soni


Chapter 1: Home Away From Home

"I got the blues, Miranda," I declared. "The sittin'-in-the-jailhouse-blues."

Miranda rolled her eyes. "I hardly think a hospital qualifies as a jail, Shepard."

"I've been poked and prodded every day. Went through round after round of sadistic torture. And the shrink won't leave me alone. Trust me: if you had to go through all that, you'd be singing a different tune."

She rolled her eyes again. "Baby," she muttered under her breath.

Okay, I had to admit she had a point. I was over-dramatizing things just a bit. Let's face it: after going through a never-ending series of suicide missions and laughing in the face of certain death time and time again, the odds finally caught up with me. The injuries I sustained during my last frantic mission to end what was now known as the Reaper War would have killed any other man. (1) I was damn lucky to make it out alive. Thanks to a shit-ton of life-threatening injuries sustained in the very last hours of the Reaper War, I had been perilously close to death's door. Apparently, I had spent the first month or so aboard one of the Alliance's medical frigates, going in and out of the operating room. (2) It's no exaggeration to say I owe my life to every doctor, nurse, technologist and laboratory assistant who gave me such exemplary care. My squad may have done a great deal to make sure I got through the war, but it was the medical professionals who kept me alive afterwards.

As for the torture sessions—officially known as Physical Therapy—there's no denying that it. Sucked. And yes, this is coming from a guy who went through Basic and N7 training, endured round after round of suicide missions, regularly found myself outnumbered and outgunned and had to do a lot of the heavy lifting during the Reaper War. I went from doing that without batting an eye to being drenched in my own sweat after attempting to move from one side of the bed to the other. Again: it sucked. I haven't felt that useless and helpless in a long, long time. I don't know how the physiotherapists handled all my whining and bitching, though I suspect a lot of alcohol was involved. (3)

As for going through the mandatory therapysessions… well, I'd seen a lot of things over the last few years, things that no one should ever have to experience. Ever. I'd had the overwhelming pressure of trying to wake the galaxy up to the threat of the Reapers despite the fact that most of them were militantly determined to embrace ignorance and denial, followed by the equally overwhelming pressure of trying to figure out how to stop the Reapers once they finally arrived. And my overactive imagination had this horrible tendency of reviewing the worst moments of my life—that, or whipping up new stuff—when I was sleeping.

It was… a relief, in a way, to have some kind of sounding board. Sure letting someone into my innermost thoughts wasn't a picnic. But it was better than letting all those nightmares drive me mad. Or force me into drowning out the horrors with alcohol or drugs—which, given my enhanced metabolism, would probably bankrupt me long before my liver gave out. Besides, all I really had to do was attend my scheduled appointments and do what I do best: open my big mouth and talk. Let's face it: I had it lucky. Real lucky. The fact that I was still around with my body in one piece—cybernetic bits notwithstanding—and my sanity intact—such as it is—was testament to that.

Bottom line: the care I'd received at Huerta Memorial Hospital was the best available anywhere in the galaxy. A lot of people—far too many, if you ask me—didn't have access to the kind of medical care at all. Most men, women and children would never benefit from the team of highly respected and galaxy-renowned medical professionals who gave such exemplary care—hell, they were lucky if they could even make it on the waiting list. If the price of all that was a couple scans, probes, exercises and chats, so be it—even if they seemed to do them each and every freaking day.

Still, I reserved the right to crack the occasional joke. Especially since I was starting to go a little stir-crazy. "Hey, I'm still waiting for those smokes."

"Cigarettes are a filthy, unhealthy and archaic habit," Miranda sniffed. "And not conducive to your recovery."

Neither of us mentioned TIMmy, though he had a penchant for cigars. Elitist snob. "They're also currency on the inside," I said instead.

"Again: this is not a prison."

That was when Anderson came in. "Who wants outta jail?" he sang.

"I do, I do!" I burst out.

"You're encouraging him," Miranda scowled.

"I'm only saying that now, when he's about to be discharged," he chuckled. "Trust me, I felt the same way."

Anderson had gotten discharged way before I did. Apparently his injuries weren't as serious, given that he'd only been shot. I, on the other hand, had been shot, bludgeoned, concussed and suffered bruised—if not ruptured—organs. Not that I'm keeping track or anything.

"He hasn't been discharged yet, thank you very much," a voice declared from outside the room. Dr. Gurira, my primary physician, swept in and fixed me with a pointed look. "We still have to go over your test results."

"Final test results, I hope. So what's the verdict, doc? Clean bill of health, or close enough?"

She pulled up my chart on her omni-tool and skimmed through the results. "Close enough," she eventually declared. As much as I'd like to keep you in for another night of observation, I can't deny that you've made remarkable progress in your recovery. And you've been a model patient—which I find surprising, considering the medical notes your doctor provided."

"I'll tell Dr. Chakwas that it's never too late to turn over a new leaf," I said in mock-seriousness. "So? I can go?"

She handed over a datapad. "As soon as you sign these forms. And remember. You have—"

"Scheduled appointments to finish my PT and a few more sessions with my psychologist. All of which are on my omni-tool's calendar," I finished.

"And mine," Miranda added.

"Well, then I can safely say farewell, knowing you're in good hands. Now hurry up and get out of here, Commander. It's a beautiful day, and someone needs that bed you're sitting in."


Miranda said her goodbyes once we left Huerta Memorial. Alliance brass wanted to grill her on Cerberus encryption techniques—never mind that she'd given a full report before the Reaper War began and had already been through six similar interviews since. She had my sympathies: I had a long series of debriefings lined up myself. The only reason I hadn't been bogged down in meeting after meeting where clueless REMFs nit-picked my every move was that my doctors had made it very clear that being subjected to such aggressive and stressful questioning could impede my recovery—yet another reason why I wasn't serious about calling my hospital time a prison sentence. But now that I was out in the real world…

…well, I could worry about that later. My first debriefing wouldn't be for another five days. "How're you holding up, Anderson?"

"Day by day, Shepard. You know how it is."

"Yeah."

"Hey, you got any plans?"

"Not really," I shrugged. "I was going to greet the Normandy when she docked, but Miranda told me they arrived a day early. Something about the life support systems?"

"Reports indicate their last combat encounter in the Attican Traverse caused quite a bit of damage," Anderson confirmed. "The number of plasma relays that blew was bad enough, but the fact that the resulting cascade failure took out the primary life support system was the tipping point. Thankfully, there were no casualties. Besides, the Normandy was already due for retrofits, anyway."

"True," I agreed. "Crew's already on shore leave. So I guess my schedule's wide open."

"Then why don't you come over to my place?" Anderson invited. "I don't think you've been there before."

That was news. "I didn't know you had a home on the Citadel."

"I needed somewhere to stay when I was with the Council, so I bought an apartment. Come on: I'll show you."

We walked across the street to the rapid transit terminal, which was conveniently situated outside the hospital. For once, we didn't have to wait forever before the next train arrived. Even better, we found a pair of seats. As we sat down, Anderson brought me up to speed on everything I'd missed while I'd been cooped up.

The mass relays were more or less functional. Kinda. They were a bit more prone to shutting down after an initial activation, unfortunately. More important was the amount of drift encountered after an average mass transit. Before the Reaper War, a drift of several thousand kilometres from the intended position was not unheard of. Nowadays, you were lucky if your ship was only ten or twenty thousand kilometres off the mark. The worst part, though, were when the corridor between mass relays would abruptly collapse mid-transit. There were only three documented cases thus far, but that was three too many. Just ask the Normandy. (4) As a result, use of the mass relays were restricted to essential traffic only—such as diplomatic couriers, military vessels and freighters/transports bearing cargo shipments.

That was why the Normandy was pretty much rushed back into service while I was convalescing. By all rights, she should have had extensive maintenance, if not a full-blown retrofit. But the requirement for military vessels was just too great. So after a basic and very hurried repair, she was rushed back into service to do everything from keeping the peace to laying down comm buoys to shipping emergency medical supplies. It's a testament to the skill and dedication of my crew that the Normandy didn't fall apart months ago.

Make no mistake: the Normandy was desperately needed. Virtually every major populated planet was still trying to clean up the mess left in the wake of the Reapers. The majority of the population were either in temporary housing or squatting in refugee camps. Just about every necessity of life was in critically short supply. You couldn't go a single hour without being inundated with stories detailing how people were impoverished, suffering and were generally desperate. Needless to say, business was very, very good for smugglers, organized crime and anyone with ties to the gray market.

Sadly, the same could not be said with the rest of the galaxy. You'd think people would be working together to recover and rebuild, as they were forced to do during the war. Sadly, without the external, non-discriminating and overwhelming threat of the Reapers, people were falling back into old habits and older hatreds. Everywhere you looked; people were either trying to hoard their resources or doing their damndest to score a sweet deal at the expense of someone else. On Thessia, some asari matriarch had made a name for herself by spouting an incomprehensible stream of inflammatory rhetoric, contradicting statements and bald-faced lies—but the general gist was that the current plight of the asari stemmed from the fact that they had done too much for the galaxy without getting anything in return. Over on Sur'Kesh, Dalatrass Crankypants was spearheading efforts to persuade, cajole and blackmail every other party into following the salarians' lead—which made her very popular amongst her own people and definitely unpopular with everyone else. (5) Earth wasn't much better. There were a lot of humans who believed that dealing with aliens was the root of all their suffering, citing the Reaper War as the latest example. As a result, they had far too much sympathy for the likes of Terra Firma or Homeward Sol. (6)

The worst of it was that you'd never know it judging by the way things stood on the Citadel. Money and political power went a long way towards to cleaning it up after Cerberus's attempted coup and the Reapers relocated it to Earth orbit. The Presidium looked as clean and pristine as it did when I first arrived at the Citadel, back when I had just been recruited as a Spectre. I could easily see a lot of people here—most of whom were the elite of the elite—doing their best to ignore how desperate things were out in the galaxy. Ignorance is bliss, after all.

I was spending so much time thinking about how bad things were that I didn't realize we had left the Presidium. In fact, I barely remembered our trip from Huerta Memorial to the rapid transit terminal. "Where are we heading?" I asked.

"The Wards," Anderson replied. "Silversun Strip, to be exact."

"Wanted to keep it real, did we?" I grinned.

"Maintaining a sense of humility and realism did seem easier when you weren't rubbing elbows with politicians on a regular basis," he agreed. "Plus, it was a lot cheaper."

That I could see.

"Now approaching Silversun Strip," the VI helpfully announced.

We got up, along with several other people, and got off the train. I looked around and took in the Silversun Strip for the first time. (7)

The Strip, as it was colloquially known as, was touted as a bustling commercial and recreation district. From what I could tell, it certainly lived up to its reputation. There were lots of people milling about from just about every species you could think of, all bathed in bright neon from all the shops and businesses. It was like someone took the best elements of Vegas, New York and Illium and put it all together.

From the rapid transit terminal, we could go left—which would eventually lead us to Armax Arsenal Arena according to the giant sign—straight ahead or right. Following Anderson's lead, we went right. Eventually we wound up at a large apartment complex called Tiberius Towers. A large luxury apartment complex, I realized as I looker closer. "Cheaper, huh?" I said.

"Believe it or not," he shrugged.

We walked up the limestone steps and were greeted warmly by the turian doorman. Well, Anderson was. My greeting was more polite and professional. After a bit of chit-chat, we went through the glass doors and into an enormous lobby that wouldn't have looked out of place on the Presidium. Marble floor, gold and crystal fixtures, polished wood desks and furniture—the former topped with marble, the latter wrapped in leather—Technicolor holograms, the works. Anderson stopped briefly to chat with the asari concierge, who seemed as pleased to see him as the doorman. Made sense: all joking aside, Anderson was very empathetic and down-to-earth—just some of the reasons why it was a pleasure and a privilege to know him. (8)

Eventually we made it to the elevator and took it up to the eighth floor. Turned out Anderson had a corner apartment. We walked down a corridor whose floor-to-ceiling windows offered a stunning view of the Strip. Just before we reached the door, Anderson's omni-tool chimed. He glanced at it and made a face. "Sorry, I have to take this," he said, leaning over and keying a pass code into the door console. "Go on in. Take a look around."

Nodding, I stepped through and took my first look at Anderson's apartment. At which point I said goodbye to any misconceptions I still had about it being a moldy dump, just because it was located in the Wards.

The front part of the apartment was all in white. White floor, white walls. Large windows—again, floor-to-ceiling—that filtered neon light through the blinds. Over on my left, a few steps led to some large, very expensive looking sofas sitting in front of an isolated wall with an inset fireplace. Immediately to my right, a row of plants stood behind a glass wall fixture. Up above on my right, a second level sported some kind of modern art sculpture and a couple paintings.

Seeing how Anderson did invite me to wander around, I decided to do just that. Starting with the near left corner and the piano that was sitting there. Almost missed it in my initial sweep. It was a real piano, with physical keys and everything. I hadn't seen one since Mom made me take lessons as a kid—we were at Arcturus Station at the time and one of the facilities included a music room complete with pianos and other instruments. I didn't realize Anderson played. Or maybe it came with the place. Who knew?

There was a datapad sitting on top of the piano. Picking it up and turning it on, I noticed that there was an audio file already cued up. Naturally I opened it.

"Ahem. Okay. So… tombstone data. Admiral David Edward Anderson. Not sure why anyone would be interested, but thanks for asking. I was born in London on June 8th, 2137, the last of three children born to Ursula and Paul Anderson—a nurse and a flight mechanic, respectively. That's a little dry. Someone's going to spice this up, right? Never been much for the spotlight. Anyway… where was I?

It was a second marriage for my parents. They were almost fifty by the time they had me. My mother worked shifts, so my father would often take me to the base. While he worked, I watched transport ships and fighters take off. Worked his whole life around space travel, my father, but he never left Earth, not for a day. He was a good man. But that's just a side note. Don't put that in.

"Who is it, Kahlee? Yes, I need to take that. Sorry, I have to go. I hope this is what you're after. I'll get to the more interesting N7 stuff next time."

What the heck? If it was an introduction, it was a strangely formal one. Or it would have been, were it not for the personal details. Clearly it was intended for someone else to add to a larger body of work, one including 'more interesting N7 stuff'. If I had to guess, I'd say Anderson was working on his memoirs.

I could have sat down to tickle the ivories, but I hadn't even started to look at the rest of the apartment. (9) I went over to check out the fireplace. A small shelf sat above the fireplace, filled with books. Real books, I should add. Not stacks of datapads. Books. Hardcover, soft cover, in a variety of shapes and sizes. It's rare to see real physical books these days. Maybe they were just for show. Maybe they came with the place. But I had a feeling some, if not most, of them were ones that Anderson had bought and read himself.

I could have spent some more time perusing the books, but I had to check out that datapad. So I did. Just like the first one, it held a single audio file. So I sat down on the sofa, in front of the fire, and hit the Play button.

"What was... what was I talking about? Early days, right. People ask why I joined the military. Everyone talks about honour, duty, sure. But that's never the whole truth. It's a hundred little things that add up to commitment. I joined because of a dog. Yeah, a dog. This patchy, mean, son of a bitch that used to bark at me every day on my way to school. It'd snarl, and I'd start running. Scared the hell out of me. I was just a kid. I remember being in a bad mood one morning. Angry. I can't recall why. When that dog started in on me, I snapped. Started barking right back. We both kept at it until we had nothing left. Dog never bothered me again. Why'd I join the military? Sometimes, you just gotta howl to make things right."

Now that was a story worth hearing, if only to hammer home how everyone's story was different. Everyone had a different reason for enlisting. My reason? My mom was Alliance. I grew up on Alliance ships and Alliance stations, following my mom from one duty assignment to another. Oh, I did think about applying myself a little more. Maybe go into academia. Get a degree or two under my belt. But I soon discovered that that path wasn't for me. Deep down, I guess I always imagined myself serving in the Alliance, fighting the good fight. I couldn't really picture doing anything else with my life. I certainly never imagined a lifetime of constantly being shot at, always being outnumbered and generally lurching from one disaster to another like a drunken sailor.

So Anderson signed up because of a dog, huh? It was an amusing story, in and of itself. But I couldn't help thinking there was a hidden meaning underneath. How many times had Anderson butted heads with his superiors? Stood his ground and held true to his principles, no matter the cost to his reputation and career? Why would he do that? Why would anyone? Because sometimes, if you saw something that was so obviously, painfully wrong you had to make a stand and kick up a fuss in order to enact any real, meaningful change. God knows I had to do that once or twice.

I stood back up and went around the fireplace, where I found another sofa, facing a large wall-mounted screen. And a couple chairs. And a bar. Not just a cupboard stocked with drinks, mind you. An honest-to-gosh, fully-equipped bar whose dark-stained wood shelves and grey stone backsplash offered a colourful and complimentary contrast to the light wood flooring.

I discovered another datapad when I was discovering just how fully-equipped the bar was—the answer, if you must know, was very. Naturally I picked it up and turned it on, where I found another audio file:

"No, no. It's fine. I've got a few minutes. First Contact War? Yeah, I was there. My first real combat. First for a lot of us.

"I remember one night, early in the war, strapped to my seat as our transport approached the LZ. Everyone was dead silent. Just the sound of breathing. Good men. I'd trained with all of them. We were always joking and horsing around. But not this time. Just the rattle of the shuttle… and that heavy breathing. Everyone was thinking the same thing: we're off to fight alien invaders. Aliens! Think about that. We all grew up wondering what was out there, if we were alone in the universe. Now we knew. We weren't alone. And we were in trouble.

"So there we were, about to face an enemy as different and unknown as we could imagine. I knew I had to say something, keep the men relaxed. So I turned to the soldier beside me, Hendricks I think, and asked him how his mother was doing. 'Fine,' he said. 'Why?'

"'Cause I heard your momma's so ugly the marines thought she was a turian... almost shot her.' That got a few smiles.

"Then Hendricks turned to me and said 'Hell Anderson, I heard it was a picture of your momma that started this goddamn war in the first place. Scared the turians shitless.' Everyone had a good laugh at that. And the boys fought great that night.

"Sometimes, that's all it takes. A joke. A pat on the back. Just a little reminder that everything's gonna be okay."

Well. I knew Anderson had served during the First Contact War. I never pressed for details—that sort of thing just wasn't done unless there was a good reason—so this was the first I heard of this particular story. What stuck with me was the idea of humour. How it could be used as a coping mechanism, a way to relieve tension, to help the morale of your colleagues and troops. There were some commanders out there who liked to keep their men and women constantly on the razor's edge, wound up so tight they couldn't breathe. I knew that for a fact, because I'd seen some of them. Served under some of them. And hated every moment of it. Working under constant fear was the best way to burn out your best and brightest, I felt. You needed the freedom to innovate. To improvise. To laugh. Clearly Anderson felt the same.

Moving forward, I headed towards a fair-sized kitchen marked by gray floor tiling—possibly granite, though I couldn't say for sure. Based on what I'd seen of the layout, I determined that this was the centre of the ground floor. Stainless steel appliances, pale countertops—granite or yet more marble—with pale wood finishing. In the middle of a kitchen stood a small cooking island attached to a breakfast bar, complete with a couple stools. Generic modern chic, but the kind that would appeal to even discerning tastes.

What appealed to my taste was the datapad. It was sitting on a small table, underneath a small vid-screen next to the coffee maker.

"Embarrassing moments? I got more of those than anyone will ever know. Only way to learn something. But if I had to pick one to share... hmm. I had just gotten promoted to N7. Full of myself. King of the castle. Found myself buying drinks for undesirables in some run-down bar in the Wards. They toasted my recent promotion. Hell, they would've toasted batarian slavers if it got them more drinks. About the time my money ran out, my new friends turned on me.

"I was outnumbered. Things didn't look good. My plan to get out of there involved lots of punching. Well, that worked for a while. Then a table hit me... or I fell down. When I came to, I saw a salarian putting the rest of the troublemakers down. A salarian! Moved like a damn cat, I swear. When everybody was out cold—or running—he walked over and helped me up. 'N7?' he asked. 'Yes, sir,' I replied. He looked over my collection of unconscious friends, nodding. 'Not bad, human,' he said. Then he walked away. I had met my first Spectre.

"Learned an important lesson that day. No matter how good you think you are, there's always somebody quicker, faster and a helluva lot smarter than you just around the corner. That little lesson's kept me alive more than once since then."

Ha! I never would have imagined Anderson to be such a naïve, cocksure man with more confidence than common sense. He was already the calm, seasoned man the galaxy now knew when I first met him, back when I was on the verge of graduating from OCS. I'd like to think I managed to avoid a few of those pitfalls, thanks to his guidance. I also noted that his talking seemed to be a bit smoother than some of the earlier recordings. No doubt he was starting to become accustomed to the unfamiliar idea of talking about himself.

Beyond that, I could see a larger table, illuminated by a chandelier that was definitely modern in its artistic design. In the centre stood a small scale model of the Normandy. Not the one I currently served on. The original SR-1. My first command. More artwork adorned the wall. I didn't know if all these paintings came with the place or whether Anderson had good taste.

Walking through an open door, I came across a corridor lined with gravel and more plants. To my left, the corridor led to a staircase and the corner of the ground floor with the sofa, screen and bar. To my right, the corridor opened up into a small living room. A smaller bar stood close to the entrance, facing a few chairs, a window seat and another large painting—this one a cityscape portrait of the Citadel from one of the Wards. Farther in the room, another modern light fixture shone down on a gambling table. Between the bar and the gambling table was a large bookshelf that was filled with more books. Clearly Anderson was an avid reader.

A nearby wall sported another inset fireplace. Yes, another fireplace. Which was notable in and of itself—most buildings don't bother installing a fireplace, or even an ersatz simulation of one. To see more than one in a single apartment was unheard of. For me, anyway. Maybe I need to get out more.

Or maybe I should investigate the datapad sitting on the window seat. I veered over to pick it up, absently noting the small terminal tucked into the far corner:

"The turians? Hmm. I might not always see eye to eye with the politics and the individuals, but I have great respect for the turian military. Any Alliance soldier lucky enough to take part in their training programs will certainly be better for it. Their precision, skill and discipline come together in a way that's second to none.

"Not that I'm faulting our own people or training. It's just that, after fighting turians in the First Contact War, years later I had the opportunity to observe and train on Palaven. It was a turning point for me, and I would encourage any soldier to try it.

"It's a unique experience to put yourself in the squad of a turian commander. My commander was an uncompromising bastard named Bartus Aurix. If you can find him, just ask how the platoon I commanded was trounced in his strategy games. Humbling, but I've used what I learned that day many times. The xenophobes will have their say, but I think it's vital that we do more of this kind of cross-species training.

"There you go. Heh. And if you do find General Aurix, let me know—I owe him money."

Wow. I'd heard about the turians offering cross-species training programs. The Citadel had a few things like that as well. But I never knew Anderson had the chance to participate in such a program himself. Now I was really envious. He'd had the privilege of doing something that I'd never done. And learned a lot, by all accounts. I made a mental note to see if any such programs were still available. Probably not, with the current disorganized and chaotic state the galaxy was in. But you never knew.

I was about to leave when I spotted another datapad. It was tucked into one of the bookshelves near the gambling table. When I turned it on, Anderson's voice sounded… quieter. More solemn. As I listened, I soon learned why:

"You never asked me about this, but… my wife just called. My ex-wife. Nobody likes to talk about the toll that long months apart can have on military relationships. She wasn't military. She couldn't handle it… no, that's not true. It's not about military and non-military, damn it. It's… space flight. Space flight! Finding the mass relays—miracles of engineering. Human imagination rising to meet our desires. We pay a price for that curiosity, that drive. Our relationships suffer. People we love suffer. But that's reality and it's worth the cost. I must have thought it was… I guess I still do. In the end, you just hope you made the right choices."

There was no denying that military life could be hard. Long periods of separation, constantly moving around rather than having a chance to establish roots, the ever-present uncertainty and dread… civvies often had some difficulty dealing with it. But as Anderson had said, any boyfriend/girlfriend/partner/spouse would face the same challenge, regardless of military or non-military status. Some people—like Ellie and Awesome—found a way to make it work. Some people—like Anderson and his ex—could not. It was a situation that most people weren't really aware of or fully appreciated… until they had to face it themselves.

And now I was with Miranda. We'd started out under the most bizarre circumstances possible—seriously, how many people can say they first met their boyfriend when they were asked to retrieve said boyfriend's corpse from an information broker and bring him back from the dead? We found ourselves fighting together against impossible odds and, somehow, falling in love. Then we were separated when I turned myself in to face a court martial over the destruction of the Bahak system. Then we were reunited during the war. What would we do, now that the war was over? We hadn't really discussed it. And we still didn't have to… for now. But sooner or later, we would have to sit down and figure out what we were going to do.

Leaving the living room, I passed through the kitchen to check out the other side. I found another flight of stairs, a washroom and a guest bedroom. After briefly checking to see whether there were any datapads in the washroom—hey, you never know—I entered the bedroom. My eyes scanned over the walk-in closet, the pull-up bar, the punching bag in the corner, the bed, the bookshelves lined with another varied assortment of reading material… and settled on a datapad. Aha!

"The Normandy? A brand new ship. My ship. You don't forget that moment."

Damn straight.

"The first time you're standing there, the whole crew looking to you for direction? Unforgettable. I'd led men and women before that. Seen a lot of combat already. Always managed to find my way home in one piece. Do that a few times, you begin to think you know better than the next guy. Maybe you do. I don't know. But if you're luckyreally lucky—you find yourself on a good ship, in front of a good crew. A crew you can trust with your life. Gifted, disciplined, brave. All of them eager to set sail into the endless black ocean. I still remember my XO asking what my orders were. 'Shepard,' I said, 'let's see what we can find.'"

Funny how everyone looks back at the past from different perspectives. When I was first standing on the Normandy, I thought I'd finally found an escape. Finally escaped a revolving door of never-ending, increasingly hazardous, death-defying missions. Finally got out of being constantly being praised and complimented and lauded as a hero, when so many other people who deserved such accolades more than I did wound up dead or unrecognized. And then I found out I'd been tapped to become a Spectre. And wound up having Prothean data rammed into my brain. And wound up facing even more hazardous, death-defying missions—including an actual suicide mission. And then I fought—and almost died in—the Reaper War.

But if it wasn't for that, I could have wound up in a much darker, seedier, morally compromising lifestyle. I never would have gained my own command and experienced what Anderson so brilliantly described for myself. Never would have met so many wonderful people, some of whom became brothers and sisters in blood. Some of which became my closest friends. One of whom became my girlfriend. It was a crazy, terrifying, heartbreaking ride but, looking back, maybe it was worth it. In the end.

"Sorry about that," Anderson apologized, gesturing to his omni-tool. "I've been organizing a series of fundraisers, including one in Whistler this weekend. Unfortunately, my caterer bowed out at the last minute and I have to find a replacement. But that's not your concern. So: what do you think?"

"It's amazing," I said honestly. "You have a great place here."

"Glad you think so. Because I was wondering if you'd be willing to house-sit for me."

It takes some doing to leave me at a loss for words. Anderson had succeeded. "Are you serious?" I managed.

"Most of those fundraisers are going to be on Earth, so I'll be spending the majority of my time down there in the near future. I need someone to keep an eye on things while I'm planetside. Besides, you need a place to live—and I'm not talking about your cabin on the Normandy. Somewhere to recuperate, recharge, clear your head."

I honestly didn't know what to say. So I changed the subject. "How long have you lived here?"

"Bought it while I was still on the Citadel Council. When Kahlee and I got back together, I showed it to her. She had the same reaction you did. In fact, she wanted us to settle down here."

"So I'm just holding down the fort until you and Kahlee can come back?" I asked.

"Probably. Maybe. I don't know." Anderson sighed. "Truth is, I spent the entirety of the war fighting up and down the streets of Earth, frantically trying to save as many people as I could. Desperately doing what I could to leave another day. Now, after all the time I spent there… it's hard to bring myself to leave. Everything I told you about—the destruction, the homeless refugees, the suffering—Earth has all of that and more. As much as I'd like to move back to the Citadel… I don't know if I can. Not when I know how much rebuilding and healing has to be done. That'll take years, Shepard. Decades, even. I need to be there, in the thick of things.

"In the meantime, someone has to keep an eye on this place. Truth be told, you'd be doing me a favour."

"That's… very generous."

"It's practical," he said simply. "We need you in the best shape possible. Rested. Focused. Mentally as well as physically. God knows you've earned it."

"If you say so."

"I say so. What do you say?"

There was only one thing I could say: "You got yourself a deal. And, well, thank you."

"You're welcome. And I'm glad you said yes. Been meaning to do this for a while now. Feels good to finally check it off the list, so to speak. Here are all the passwords you'll need," he added, handing me an OSD. "I'll let the concierge know you've agreed to stay here and arrange to have your belongings shipped over here. In the meantime, make yourself at home, damn it. It's yours now."

"I'm sure I can manage," I said wryly. "Just one question?"

"Yeah?"

"Any reason why you have excerpts of your memoirs on individual datapads scattered all over your apartment? Wouldn't it make more sense to keep them all together—either physically on a single datapad or linked together over some extranet cloud network?"

"Maybe. But then you wouldn't have as much fun finding them. I know you've been through a lot, Shepard, and I wanted to ease you back into familiar territory, so to speak. If you really did look in every nook and cranny to discover those datapads, well, I know you're back to your old self."

So there was a method to his madness after all. Huh.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to find out if there are any caterers who can make it to Earth and whip up enough food to satisfy six thousand humans and non-humans. Never thought I'd miss the damn Reapers."


Well. That was… unexpected.

For the time being, this place was now… mine. Even more reason to see what it had to offer.

Having seen all there was to see on the ground floor, I went upstairs. As I ascended the stairs, I noted the vines and plants adorning some of the walls like artwork. Living artwork, that is. When I reached the next floor, I saw an actual tree growing out of a small patch of gravel and soil. I wondered if it was real and, if so, wondered what kind of precautions were in place to prevent all the flora from ruining the undeniably beautiful apartment.

The tree faced another small seating area, set between two more bookshelves. It boasted two sofas, facing each other across a coffee table, all set within a clearly marked square of dark granite tiles. A large portrait completed the stylish arrangement.

Turning around, I spotted a large bedroom. It seemed spacious, but empty. The only things in it were another piece of artwork, a bed and a desk. Looking around, I found another walk-in closet and an ensuite bathroom, but that was it. Guess Anderson hadn't had the chance to bring some more stuff in to personalize it. I wasn't surprised to find another datapad with another audio file. I was, however, pleasantly surprised at what the file contained:

"You asked me to talk about the SSV Normandy—the Normandy SR-1. As commander of the Tokyo, I was consulted on the Normandy's design and on board for her initial training exercises. The average person probably doesn't know that the Normandy was a joint project with the turians. It was a controversial venture at the time. Tensions were high. And the acting CO, Elli Zander, was a better special ops soldier than a diplomat. She ran out of patience with turian posturing and politicking during the Normandy's construction. The chief architect of the drive core, Octavio Tatum, and his team of turian engineers, were in the CIC for final training exercises. Tempers flared when Zander pushed the limits of the stealth system, waiting to vent the IES well past what Tatum was comfortable with. I tried to calm the situation, but it still ended with the turian engineers in shackles and a human/turian fistfight in Chora's Den later.

"Funny now… when I first laid eyes on the Normandy, she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I still had that thought in mind the day after that training run, when Admiral Wright found me on the bridge. 'She's yours,' he said. 'Can't trust her to Zander. 'Send me a list of crew from the Tokyo you'd like and prep for your first mission.' Short command, thanks to Saren. Still. One of the highlights of a long career."

This day was just full of insights into Anderson's past. I knew he'd been involved with the SR-1's construction long before I came aboard, but this was another story that I had never heard of before. He had always been vague on the circumstances surrounding the change in command. Even now, in this biography, he took care to be respectful rather than critical. Learning the real story, the whole story, just made me respect him that much more.

After checking out the bathroom for any more datapads—hey, you never know—I wandered back outside. Down the hall was the master bedroom. This one was just as spacious, and almost just as empty. I say almost because it had a few things the other bedrooms didn't. First, it had a separate room holding an armour locker—for storing and modifying hardsuits—and a workbench for modding out weapons—because some people want to optimize the shit out of their guns and others find that kind of tweaking to be therapeutic. The ensuite master bathroom was the largest in the apartment, mainly because it held an actual hot tub instead of the shower that was installed in the other bathrooms. Why the hot tub was filled to the brim and bubbling away was beyond me, unless Anderson had turned it on before leaving the apartment and coming over to Huerta Memorial. Seemed like an uncharacteristic waste of energy, but what did I know? This whole day was turning out to be full of surprises.

Coming out of the master bedroom, I saw a flight of stairs that led back down. Over on my left, there was the small art gallery I'd spotted earlier, overlooking the main seating area. The paintings were colourful enough, but I don't think I was sophisticated enough to appreciate all the deep meanings and hidden messages. I certainly wasn't sophisticated enough to appreciate the metal sculpture, other than the possibility that it looked like some post-post-post modernist interpretation of a rachni. I soon retreated to the seating area on the second floor, where I soon discovered a datapad tucked into one of the bookshelves, again holding an audio file.

"Sure, I can talk about Commander Shepard."

Um… what? Me? Really?

"Big topic. There's been a lot written about the commander, but most of it isn't true."

Amen, brother.

"People are quick to judge. They don't know the whole story. I don't even know the whole story. But I know the man. Met him early in his career. Followed him as he rose through the ranks. Worked with him, fought with him. Learned I could trust him with my life and never, ever, had cause to question that. Shepard's had some rough patches. Who of us hasn't? He's been forced to fight a lot of battles alone. Faced impossible odds and situations that no amount of training could prepare anyone for. Made to shoulder burdens that no one should ever have to bear. God only knows how he got out of some of that in one piece. Makes your head spin just to think about it.

"Thing is, you never heard a complaint. Never once got 'No, sir. I can't do that.' He never hesitated to do his duty. Often went above and beyond what anyone could reasonably expect. Few people know what Shepard's been through. I'd like to think I come pretty close. And I worry sometimes he forgets: there's a whole bunch of people who lose sleep over him getting back home. I worry he forgets that he's not alone. Maybe it doesn't need to be said. Maybe we're too dumb to say it.

"Soldiers like the commander are rare. Men like Shepard… even more rare."

I had to stumble over to the closest sofa and sit down. I was… I couldn't… I was just so… amazed. Grateful. Not for his praise, though that meant everything to me. But that he acknowledged what I had gone through, sympathized for the non-stop shit show I had endured and told me that people were actually worried about me. Me. I couldn't possibly express how grateful I was, how desperate I was to hear his words. To hear I wasn't alone.

It took a while for me to recover, which was why several minutes passed before I realized there was another datapad sitting on the coffee table in front of me. The last one, as it turned out:

"Okay. I have your new questions here. 'As a leader, do I ever feel that the ends justify the means? Spirit of law over word of law?' I'm not going to touch that with a ten-foot pole, but I think I know what you're after. You're referring to the way I, uh, 'arranged' to have the Normandy released to Commander Shepard before the Battle of the Citadel."

If by 'arranged,' you meant break into Udina's office, punch his lights out and hack his computer to override the system lockout on the Normandy. Which I still enjoyed, by the way.

"I'm not sure how valuable hindsight is to the military. Obviously, it worked out for the best. Without the Normandy and Commander Shepard free to do what they needed to do—what we needed them to do—Saren might have taken the Citadel. I think it's clear now what a different galaxy this would be if that had happened.

"I did what I had to. If I had been wrong, I would've gladly accepted the repercussions. The real trick is… never being wrong. Ha. If you're looking for more action and less philosophy in these notes, let me know."

Once again, Anderson had my sympathies. I'd danced the razor's edge far too often in my career. Granted, there were times where I casually, even gleefully, disregarded all those pesky rules and regulations. But there were times where I did so while knowing all too well that the laws were there for a reason, and I was bending—or breaking—them because it was the only way to do what I had to do. During those times, I knew that I would have to own up and assume responsibility if anything went wrong. Because that was the cost of having all that power and authority and freedom. Ultimately, that's why I turned myself in after Bahak.

Well, that was enough walking down memory lane. Time to live in the present. And that meant catching up on current events in the galaxy. Always interesting—though sometimes depressing—to read or watch the news.

When I turned on the news, though, I got something slightly different. Different, but no less interesting. Fumbling around, I found the remote control and turned up the volume, as Alliance News Network reporter Khalisah al-Jilani began to speak.

"A few years ago, I had a chance to sit down with one of Earth's most decorated soldiers, Admiral David Anderson," al-Jilani said. (10) He was kind enough to answer my questions and talk about his career. It was intended to be the first in a mini-series that would take a more personal look at life in the Alliance military in general, and Admiral Anderson's life in particular. Sadly, it wasn't finished when the Reapers invaded. Tonight's show is dedicated to all the soldiers out there: the ones who gave their lives to keep us safe during the Reaper War… and the ones who fight to keep us safe while we build towards a brighter tomorrow."

The screen switched to a well-lit room. Anderson sat in a chair, facing Khalisah. "Admiral Anderson," al-Jilani said, "today marks the thirtieth anniversary of the N7 program. Can you describe your first day of training in this now-famous program?"

"The Interplanetary Combatives Training program is all business from day one," Anderson began.

"How so?"

"We're given basic gear, then separated and stranded on an asteroid with no nav data. The test ends when the last person runs out of oxygen."

"Sounds daunting."

If she only knew. I used to have nightmares about that day… before the universe started taking an interest in my misery.

"What happens to the ones who run out of air first?" Khalisah asked.

"Out of the program. The best N7s can survive alone, but work together to survive even longer."

"That's very impressive, Admiral. Deep space survival training. That has to be… so difficult. All of it would take such strength of character, just plain strength. But then, you seem like a strong person."

Well this was an interesting surprise: most of my past experiences with Khalisah were… rather antagonistic, if I was honest. She tended to lead with loaded questions, trying to put a slant or spin to support a predetermined and decidedly sensationalist story. But all these compliments, bordering on gushing adoration… if you asked me, Khalisah was smitten. Anderson may have felt the same, though he was too polite to say so. "I'm sorry, is there a question in there?" he asked instead.

"Well, does the program make the man, or do you think you were born for this?"

"It's a bit of both, I suppose. Every soldier reaches a point in their career, sometimes more than once, when they are asked to give more than they ever thought they could. That moment is the test. I've seen men and women, almost sure to fail, persevere long past the point of breaking. That experience changes them."

Amen.

"Others, with all the gifts and abilities, fail in that moment. Sometimes, they pick themselves up and carry on. Sometimes, they're just done."

"What about you? What was your moment?"

"I've had a few. None of which I'd like to share. But… I think the toughest tests are still ahead of me."

"What makes you say that?"

"Call it a hunch."

Or the foreknowledge that the Reapers were coming and no one wanted to do anything about it. Not that I'm bitter or anything.

"Soldier's intuition?"

"Something like that."

"Do you trust your intuition? I mean, do you follow your heart over your mind?"

"Well, huh, it depends on the day," Anderson joked. Then he seemed to give the question some second thought.

"No… I suppose if I were to be honest, I do trust my instincts," he said. "The problem is… war isn't orderly. And the enemy is never predictable. Even the most experienced veteran is going to find themselves in situations they haven't trained for. In those instances, and there's more than I'd like to admit, your instincts are the only thing keeping you alive. That, and the men and women you're fighting beside."

"But soldiers are only as good as their leader, isn't that true?"

"Yeah. A good leader can make an okay squad great. A bad leader… well, war tends to make examples of them."

"What makes a good leader, then?"

Anderson considered that question carefully. "Hmm… A good leader is someone who values the lives of his or her soldiers over the success of the mission, but understands that, sometimes, the cost of failing a mission is higher than the cost of losing those soldiers."

"That's a terrible line to have to walk."

"Yes, it is," he nodded soberly. "But war is a terrible thing."

"Thank you for your time, Admiral."

"Thank you."

The screen switched back to a close-up of Khalisah. "Admiral Anderson's words proved prophetic, as the Reapers launched their galactic invasion a month later. Today, the Admiral is on Earth, leading efforts to rebuild our home after their devastating onslaught and their horrific occupation.

"I'm Khalisah al-Jilani. Thank you for watching."

Most people would probably find this interview quite educational about military life in general and the N7 program in particular. For my part, I was more interested in Khalisah. She was not as confrontational as I expected. Her line of questions, her overall demeanour… it all added up to a more thoughtful and insightful interview, rather than the yellow journalism I had come to expect. (11) Maybe her apparent 'girl-crush' on Anderson persuaded her to soften her approach. Or maybe she was finally starting to change the way in which she pursued her profession. Certainly our last encounter, in the early days of the Reaper War, had ended on a more respectful note. So perhaps there was hope after all.

The chime of my omni-tool interrupted my introspection. Seemed like I'd gotten a new e-mail. I knew I should've muted the damn thing. Oh well. Accessing my e-mail, I began wading through the newest entries in my inbox. Spam. PT appointment reminder. Spam. Notification that my hearing got pushed back to a few days—what a terrible shame that was. More spam. Message from Joker. Wait, what?

Subject: Dinner at sushi place on me!

Hey Shepard,

I've got a few things I wanted to go over with you. With the Normandy in dry dock, I figured we could meet up at that Ryuusei sushi place down in the Wards. I hear it's the best.

Joker

I hadn't had any sushi, much less good sushi, in years. Now was as good a time as any to change that. Especially with the scuttlebutt and reviews I'd heard about Ryuusei. I fired off a quick acknowledgement before turning off the lights and leaving the apartment, one question burning in my mind:

How fresh was the sashimi?


(1): The term 'Reaper War' was coined by Future Content Corporation News. It was first used in an editorial article published with their last issue of 2186.

(2): Alliance medical staff declined to provide specifics, citing patient confidentiality. Miranda confirmed that Shepard did undergo several procedures, but was reluctant to provide specifics-something that was unusual for anyone who knew her.

(3): I highly doubt that, though I admit I am relying on my knowledge of Shepard's particular brand of humour than any hard data.

(4): The Normandy encountered such a collapse when attempting to leave the Sol system and crash-landed on a previously uncharted planet. Her crew was declared Missing In Action until they were able to re-establish contact with the Alliance, though it took even more time to affect the necessary repairs and return to Citadel space.

(5): Shepard developed a habit of assigning disparaging nicknames to individuals he disapproved of, though he generally kept their use confined to his own thoughts and his personal log.

(6): Both political parties with xenophobic and radical views. Terra Firma, as the older and more established party, opposed humanity's interaction with nonhuman cultures and its integration with the galactic community. Homeward Sol, a more fringe and extremist party, opposed human expansion beyond the Sol system itself and had been officially charged with counts of espionage, sabotage and domestic terrorism.

(7): While Shepard had visited the Citadel several times up to this point, he usually confined his movements to a small subset of locations. As a result, he was not familiar with the vast majority of the Citadel.

(8): At the risk of sounding cynical, I think it's also likely that the staff greeted Anderson because that was part of their job.

(9): A human idiom meaning to play the piano, a human acoustic stringed musical instrument. They function by pressing physical keys, which cause a padded hammer to strike the strings. That impact causes a vibration, which are transmitted through a bridge to a soundboard that amplifies the sound. When the key is released, a damper stops the vibration, thus ending the sound. The keys can be either black or white, the latter of which used to be made out of ivory.

(10): This interview was actually repeated several times over the course of the week. It was simply a matter of coincidence that one of its viewings aired while Shepard viewed the apartment. For his part, Admiral Anderson found it somewhat embarrassing.

(11): A human term for a form of journalism that relies less on legitimate, well-researched news and more on exaggerations, sensationalism, scandal-mongering and unprofessional and unethical practices.