These are very small fills.
This one was written for a prompt regarding how a VanguardShep might wake up in ME2 and discover how to Charge...
The klaxons were damn annoying. His body ached. He was thirsty. None of it made any damned sense. But mostly he just wanted a drink of water. The voice in his ear again, telling him to move, that the facility was under attack. They'd called Diego Shepard a lot of names over the years, but they'd never called him slow, and they'd never called him stupid. He moved. The armor fitted him like a second skin, he felt naked without it sometimes. He wasn't sure why'd woken up on some hospital table- wait, was it a hospital? Didn't seem like any damn hospital he'd been in before. There'd been a gun in the cupboard. What kind of hospital kept guns in the cupboard? And couldn't they have at least made sure it was a shotgun? He flared his biotics, and blue light wreathed him and a nearby chair flew across the room he crossed. Good. That still worked. The feet still worked and hands still worked and brain still worked. Hoped his dick still worked. He'd have to check that later. He wasn't sure why it still all worked, given that the last thing he remembered was free-falling into a planetary atmosphere with leaks out of his damaged suit. Was this hell? Naw. It was annoying, but it wasn't that annoying. Besides, surely the saviour of the galaxy didn't get to enjoy Satan's torments. He passed dead bodies, obviously shot up. Fires raged in other rooms. Whatever this was, it was serious.
The klaxons didn't let up. At least the voice in his gave him some warning about the first mech. A couple of headshots took it down without much trouble. The old reflexes, honed to a sharp edge on Elysium, refined further against the geth, the krogan, Cerberus and whatever else had stood in his path. They came back to him without thought, another part of himself that he could always rely on. He missed his shotgun though. Missed charging forward with Wrex by his side, creating carnage. The rest of his crew had to have made it. He'd put Joker in that damn pod himself, and Ash would have got the others out. Surely. He'd have to find out. Soon.
The next room more mechs. These new-fangled thermal clips were interrupting his rhythm. He'd liked the old way better. Had its advantages though. No need for a gun to cool down, keep firing, reload, move on. Running out ammo wasn't a problem, these mechs seemed to carry plenty. He still wanted his shotgun. Wanted to hit something. Needed to hit something.
Crouched behind cover, Shepard paused. Thought. Leaned out, looked at the last mech, standing there gormlessly, spouting its platitudes at him. He'd shot it a few times already and it looked like one good hit would put it out of commission. Perfect. He just needed to make sure he ran fast. Looked at it again, visualised himself there, right in front of it, putting a fist throught its head. Visualised it again. Crouched, ready to sprint. Clenched his fists, narrowed his eyes and moved.
It happened in a split-second. One second he was behind cover, the next a sensation of blurring through space and objects and then he was smashing into the mech. He'd skipped the running. What the fuck. The mech had been driven by his impact into the opposite wall and lay in pieces around him. A blue aura faded. Had that been his biotics? Had he simply teleported? Could he do it again? He looked at the pieces of the mech around his feet. Had felt good. Yeah, he definitely needed to try that again. With a shotgun. He really wanted a shotgun. And water. And answers. But mostly a shotgun.