Right, so I'm actually doing a bit more with this story. I'm kind of surprised. It's going to be a bitch to do considering how I set this thing up, since I'll need to reorder the chapters. Lovely.

First things first – this story is not a standard 'Let me play Mass Effect and serialize what happened.' There will be significant deviation from not only the plot, but also the characters. The broad strokes will remain the same, but much of the minutiae will be different. There will be divergences in design as well – you'll notice this immediately in this chapter. As a practical telling of the story of Shepard, I am taking creative liberty to unfuck some of the design decisions in favor of more practical (and believable) designs. For a quick example, as you'll see in this chapter, the Normandy no longer has an elevator between the crew deck and the cargo deck, because that is ludicrous on a ship that tiny. The functional reason for the elevator (it being a loading screen due to engine and hardware limitations) does not exist in 'real life' and thus it is removed. Expect similar adaptations from video game necessary decisions. Should I ever reach the events of 2185 (Mass Effect 2), expect DRASTIC departures from the established setting design. About as drastic, as, say, the difference in aesthetic between the first and second game was.

As a more functionally realistic take on the story of Mass Effect, the Normandy will also run much more like an actual warship under the aegis of a military branch. It's a Navy vessel, and it really doesn't act like it in the game. Now, I'm not Navy myself, nor is my family (Army), so obviously I'll probably be hilariously wrong on a lot of things, so please forgive me, real life sailors, for being a civilian who can only do research on his spare time online. That being said, I've reorganized the entire layout of the Normandy's crew into what I hope is semi-accurate departments that make logical sense based on their duties. I'm basing this off of research into how the USN operates it's Littoral combat vessels, since those are of comparable crew size, though not operational purpose.

But seriously, the Normandy is horribly designed. Whomever secured the contract to build that ship ought be fired and never work in aerospace engineering ever ever again.

"She's tall."

It was the first thing Anderson said when she walked up the gangway, toward the Normandy's airlock. He was back with Admiral Hackett, perhaps a dozen meters from the docked frigate.

"You knew that already."

"There's a difference between reading a number and seeing a person, sir."

"That's fair, Captain," Hackett agreed. Shepard had a good half a head of height on most of the sailors embarking. She was in her dress blues, weighted down with medals, completely impeccable.

That was part of why her name had rocketed to the top of the list of candidates. There were a lot of undeniably good soldiers that may have made the cut. But Shepard made it look easy. Made it look natural, like that uniform was a second skin.

"This will be an interesting run, considering we haven't told her anything."

"Still not happy about it, David?"

"I don't try to keep my crew in the dark if I can help it, Admiral." This too, Hackett agreed with. It was only at the request of the Spectre that they'd acceded and simply told the crew the basic 'cover' story. The turian had said he wanted to see Shepard react on her feet, and while yes, that could be something worth investigating: in Hackett's opinion, she had thought very quickly indeed on Torfan, on Akuze, on her dozens of critical assignments.

But they were marching to the Council's tune on this, not the SA's. Though it grated on him, Udina was insistent they let the Council lead.

"After you hit the relay, you have my personal permission to let her known anything she wants. At that point, the ball's already in the court." The captain shrugged.

"Then I'll see you on the other side of all this, Admiral." Anderson offered a hand, and Hackett shook it, eschewing the usual salute. This time, it was two old friends, not superior and subordinate.

But then the handshake ended, and Anderson saluted. Hackett returned it with a nod, and the sailor was off, along the dock toward his command.

"Godspeed, David."

Shepard stowed her gear in the provided lockers, and glanced at the sleeping tubes. Yep, sure enough, the new standard issue pods. Which meant cramped nights for her. The ships she'd previously served on had usually had actual bunks, which, while stacked like cordwood, at least were more forgiving for someone of her height. These stupid pods the Navy was starting to play with were the bane of her existence. Half standing, half reclining, she always woke up with a crick in her neck and tension all down her back from being wedged in.

"Commander." She turned, seeing a marine at attention, rigid as a board. She casually returned the salute, and he didn't relax a bit. He looked up, expression a mix of eagerness and nervousness.

"Commander Shepard? It's an honor ma'am. Private Jenkins."

"Locker's right there, Jenkins." She motioned toward one two spaces from hers, and he nodded like his head was going to wobble off.

"Of course ma'am." Jenkins fumbled with the lock, all thumbs and agitated energy.

Fresh out of boot, she could practically smell it.

"Take it easy, Jenkins." She said, by way of parting. He stammered something, but Shepard was already gone, angling for the stairs. Armory on the bottom deck, as always, and she wanted to be in armor ASAP. Always felt more comfortable that way, with a half an inch of polysteel and plastics encasing her. The doors at the top and bottom of the stairwell whisked open on silent hydraulics, and while the effect was nice and crisp, the analytical part of her that was always keyed up and looking for escape routes noted that since they were electrical, not mechanical, all it took was a power failure (or a lockdown) and the doors would be jammed shut. Other ships she'd served on had the old-fashioned wheel-lock bulkhead doors, and those, while sometimes needing a bit of elbow grease to get into motion could be trusted to always be accessible.

She was disliking this ship already. It wasn't just the lines of it, which would probably made for a real nice plastic model to sell to kids in gift shops in a decade or two once it was declassified, it was the intention of the ship.

It was trying to be the future, and it was trying too hard.

Really, when the SA already had a dozen planets under their belts, the wonder of engineering that was Arcturus Station and a fleet that was quickly coming to parity with the galactic heavyweights, she was of the opinion that everything was quite modern and futuristic enough, thank you. That was classic government though – dump money into developing solutions to problems that didn't exist. Like the sleeper pods that probably came with a lot of fluffy adjectives attached to them like 'ergonomic' and 'compact' and 'scientifically proven' but actually were, in practice, a source of loathing from servicemen and women subjected to their cramped, awkward confines. A standard double or triple bunk, be it bare metal bolted to the bulkhead or inset in little cubbies like on the newer vessels was maybe a little old-fashioned, but it was comfortable and more importantly – it gave sailors a place that was their own. Not these encapsulated torture devices.

And now the doors. Someone in the drawing room had gotten a hair up their ass to be more like turn of the century sci-fi and decided that a spaceship wasn't a spaceship without doors that went whoosh. Really, she wondered, it was only a question of how many sailors would die due to some flashy new age door trapping them in a venting compartment because the power lines got cut, or some similar catastrophe, before the Navy decided to go back to the tried-and-true.

If this ship was an experiment, the experiment must've been 'how much money can we waste on a hazardous death trap'.

Like the motor pool/armory. She glanced around as she tapped in her personal code to her armor locker, taking in the shockingly open design of it all. There was the ubiquitous Mako, of course, but what as the most shocking was how the armory was just…sitting in the same bay as the motor pool. It wasn't in its own compartment, all the armor lockers were lined up neat and tidy along the side wall of the cavernous bay.

So what exactly were people supposed to do if this room lost pressure, and the only hardsuits on the ship were in here?

She tugged out the armor plates, piling them up on the corrugated decking, and wondered if this assignment was actually an extremely expensive and convoluted plot by the Navy to finally do her in.

Once she wiggled her fingers into the gauntlets and her omnitool confirmed all seals active and in the green, she clamped the helmet onto her hip and took a last look around.

Deathtrap, all of it.