Alone in a ravaged city I stood, surrounded by rubble and ruin and blood. Bodies- human, turian, asari, salarian, even quarian- lay strewn about the terrain broken and contorted in images of pain and suffering.

Dark clouds roiled overhead, glowing with silent red lightning that arced across their undersides.

Acrid smoke blew across the field, growing thicker until it formed a veil that hid the horrific sights from me. I could only smell burning flesh, only see oily blackness. Sound drained from the world as the city's pall drew closer around me.

Primal terror stirred in the back of my mind, born of the sensory deprivation and that which I would have experienced with my senses. The specter of some vast evil seemed to live within the smoke, and my effort to draw my sidearm was futile- the weapon was gone.

Something held my hand in place though. To my horror a bloodied hand reached from the dark and grasped my wrist, cold and infinitely strong. Another pushed through the dirt and closed around my calf like a vice. A brick shifted and the slender blue fingers of an asari twisted about my other ankle, and when my off hand tried to pry them apart the three-taloned hand of a turian lashed out and grabbed it.

Immobilized, I struggled to free myself until something grabbed the back of my helmet and wrenched my head upward. The momentary pain I encountered melted away as I saw the clouds split and reveal the sky, where the thousands of eyes of the fallen glared down at me unblinking.

"Commander Shepard!"

I jolted, blinking in the low lights. A figure stood over me, someone in uniform. I slowly regained the details of where I was. Normandy, space, in a bunk. I'd surrendered the XO quarters to Captain Anderson, who had in turn sacrificed his quarters to the Spectre Nihlus Kryik. There was no ruined city, no whirling black smoke, no disembodied hands.

It took only a moment to realize I was drenched in sweat, my hair matted to my shoulders and neck. Corporal Jenkins stood over me, concern coloring his features. "Are you alright, Commander? We heard you yell."

"I'm alright," I replied, pushing myself to a sitting position and inhaling sharply. "It was a bad dream."

Jenkins offered one of his trademark grins, that toothy boyish smile we all knew too well. "Must have been a hell of a bad dream."

"You could say that."

I didn't bother to mention that the dream had recurred to me for the past week, that those feelings of helplessness and loneliness had been riding my subconscious into the waking hours since I'd boarded the SSV Normandy. Something about this posting felt different, and being aboard with a Spectre heightened that suspicion. I felt alone.

That wasn't entirely true, though. Jenkins stepped aside as I got to my feet, my bare skin touching the cold metal and waking me up a bit more. "Do you plan to watch me get dressed too, corporal?"

"No, ma'am," Jenkins replied, offering a lazy salute and another grin before turning on his heel and stepping through the door. I waited for the door to close before exhaling and opening the footlocker I'd borrowed. My belongings, few as they were, sat neatly at the bottom. A few changes of clothes, folded as I'd been taught since joining up with the Alliance Navy. A personal datapad with startlingly little personal information on it set in the middle, glowing dully. An actual physical photograph of myself and my parents at my departure for my first post aboard the SSV Philadelphia, the last time I remember the three of us being in one place. Three books: The Alliance Navy Marine's Companion, Infanterie Greift An (an English translation), and War as I Knew It.

I grabbed a change of clothes and left the sleeping area, walking through the mess to the showers. I hated sweat, I hated feeling sweaty. The sodden sleepwear formed a heap at the far end of the room and I hit the water, cleansing myself physically and mentally. Still, I looked up and saw those eyes again, the starlike pinpoints of light that jammed the sky in my dream. From some things there would be no escape in the shower. I felt rivulets of hot water running from head to toe but still felt the cold grip of those hands on my arms and legs.

Twenty minutes later I arrived on the command deck of the SSV Normandy SR-1, weaving between crewmen as they went about their work. Captain Anderson and Nihlus stood to the side, watching the crew work.

Anderson was an N7 like myself, among the most notable graduates of the program. I respected the man greatly, he was the shining example of what an Alliance Navy officer should be: just, firm when needed, open-minded, and flexible. I tried to live up to his example every day.

I stepped before him and saluted. "Captain."

"Shepard," Anderson replied, returning the salute. "At ease."

"Your captain received our orders," Nihlus said, his beady eyes falling on me. I wouldn't say I was ever intimidated by turians, but their appearance was undoubtedly unsettling. A turian face was a collection of bony plates, their mouth flanked by long angular mandibles. Their eyes were deep-set and dark, their face plates tattooed with clan markings. Nihlus wore red and white paint, and as he spoke I watched the mandibles flick with each word. "We will be going to the human colony of Eden Prime."

"What for?" I asked, looking from the Spectre to the captain.

Anderson replied without hesitation. "It's a shakedown run; we're testing the Normandy's engines and stealth systems against Alliance units stationed above Eden Prime."

I grew suspicious rather quickly. Spectres didn't do something as mundane as testing a ship's systems out. Instead of mentioning this I replied with a simple, "Yes, sir."

"See to it that Joker gets us where we're going," Anderson said. "I'll brief you further when we're underway."

"Understood," I replied, saluting again and marching off when Anderson returned it. I turned up the long hall to the bridge, passing several banks of haptic input stations and the airlock door before stopping behind our helmsman's chair.

"Commander?" Joker asked, looking over his shoulder. I didn't know Joker to care much about regulations, and the beard he sported shouted that quite loudly. Flight Lieutenant Jeff "Joker" Moreau was an exceptional pilot, using the ship as an extension of his brittle-boned body. I'd never seen anything like it. We forgave a lot of his transgressions in exchange, I think.

"Joker, we've got our orders," I announced. "Eden Prime."

"Eden Prime?" Joker asked, disappointment seeping into his voice. "I figured with a Spectre on board we'd go somewhere interesting. Omega, maybe, or some far-flung turian colony in the Terminus systems. Are you sure there isn't another Eden Prime?"

"The Eden Prime," I confirmed.

Joker sighed, a little theatrically I thought. "Alright. We'll go."

I couldn't help but crack a little grin. My inner malaise lightened up a bit and I breathed my own sigh, though it was in no way an act. "Thanks, Joker. Let me know when we're through the relay. I've got to go talk to the Captain and our Spectre."

Joker brought up a few orange inputs and slid them into place in front of him with a flick of his wrist. "Good luck talking to him. I tried to introduce myself when he came aboard and I thought the look he gave me would send me to Dr. Chakwas, let alone whatever he'd do to back it up. I know most turians have something worked up their ass, but he's got two of whatever it is."

"A stick, I would think," I replied. "That's what it is normally."

"Do they have those on Palaven?" Joker asked, tapping at the screens laid out in front of him.

I shrugged, turning around and speaking over my shoulder. "Everyone's got sticks."

"If you say so, Commander."