You know those stories that begin with 'it's hard growing up on the streets,' and then they tell you their sob story and the hardships they've gone through to prove it—how their dad didn't love them and they had to steal things from their run-down corner store just to eat one meal a day—you've heard it before. So I'm not going to tell you that story.

I'm going to tell you the truth.

I never had a dad. Never had a mom either, but I made do. I always had other people to fill in for those roles, from gangs, to the military, to the crew that serves under me now. I've never been a sister, never been a daughter, or a wife.

But nothing ever begins at the end and heroes aren't created from having an easy life. All heroes are born from strife.

Here's my truth:

"Shepard. Shepard! Damn it, where are you?"

I only heard my name yelled like that when the cops who knew me thought I'd swiped credits from some stuck-up Volus, but this reeked of desperation so much that it made the hairs on my neck stand straight up.

"Shepard!"

The second time he yelled started my heart pounding and adrenaline tingling over my senses—he never yelled like that. This was bad. I tore my attention away from the guts of the small speeder I was trying to fix and pushed myself up with enough force to start myself into a sprint. The smell of rotting metal pushed itself into my lungs as I wound through the ruined halls of our gang's section in the slums, dodging piles of garbage as fast as my eyes registered they were there, following his voice amidst the noise from machines and beings going about daily life here on Earth—

I started slowing down, enough so that I got a solid grip on a corner wall to swing myself around and screech myself to a stop right in front of Tharun, close enough that I could trace the tattoo on his face that was common to most Turians. He nearly collided with me he but had quicker reflexes than I did; he was turned around and towing me along behind him almost before my feet had stopped. I knew better than to protest being dragged along. When Tharun was this worked up I knew we had problems.

I breathed steady and even so I could keep up with him without running out of steam. His legs were so much longer than mine with our age difference that I found it hard to keep up. Talking at the same time burned air, but I had to know what was going on. "Unless you've some Asari dancer waiting for you at the end of this run, I don't see why we have to go this fast."

I was trying to calm him down, but by the way his hand tightened quickly on my arm made me escalate how serious this was. Someone in our group must have gotten nabbed for doing something seriously stupid or had picked on the wrong gang, and I had to come in and moderate—either delicately or with force. I was known for either.

Tharun turned his head so that he could talk without turning his eyes from where he was running. "It's Fa'lan. You know how he was working on that problem? For his Pilgrimage?"

It had something to do with a couple of disappearances in this sector. I didn't know all the details; Fa'lan kept most of his thoughts to himself. I nodded that I understood and Tharun must have felt it because we kept on running.

"Well, he found what he was looking for. The disappearances weren't random and they weren't just killings between gangs. They're slavers."

I almost stumbled when he said it. It was Tharun's grip on my arm that kept me going. It wasn't really the thought of slavers that got to me, it was what I knew Tharun was going to say next that made me want to run faster and yet stop dead in my tracks at the same time.

"They've got him, Shepard. They've got Fa'lan, and I don't think they're interested in letting him run off."

It was at this point I should have asked myself how Tharun knew all this, but when you're young and in crisis mode, when all you hear is blood thumping in your ears, you don't take a moment to question something that your friend says about another friend, especially not a friend you'd known for so long and through so much.

As we ran, various beings jumped out of our way, figuring we were either running away from trouble or towards it—wanting to be a part of neither. I didn't blame them for thinking it. Most of the time it was true.

It didn't take long for us to get to where he had left Fa'lan: everything was so tight-packed on Earth, especially in the slums, that you could stand on rooftops and jump from one to another without a second thought, so Tharun started slowing down before I had to take gulping breaths. This was the second hint I got but missed: Tharun slowed down enough that he was starting to fall behind me, his grip tightening on my arm instead of loosening, and by time I stopped as the door slid open in front of me to reveal a group of Batarians and a Krogan lounging on some crates Tharun's grip was so hard that he had locked my arm behind my back. I understood too late.

I dug in my heels before my feet could unwillingly carry me across the threshold, but Tharun kept his ground, making me arch my back painfully so my arm wouldn't wrench out of its socket. The Krogan was rising, toting an impressive rifle, one of the Batarians with a particularly nice scar across the top of his skull pushed himself away from the wall he had been leaning against and gestured at Tharun.

"This the one?"

Tharun hesitated enough for me to notice but answered all the same. "Yeah."

The Batarian looked me over, a casual thing at first, but I noticed where he lingered and what he was looking for. "She's good. Usually the rats down here are too starved for a good sell. Looks like we have a deal then."

I gulped in a breath to give my lungs something to work with. I wasn't just breathless from the run, and I was too angry to be scared. I was pissed. "A deal?"

One of the Batarians moved behind me to take Tharun's place as the lead Batarian flipped his gun at someone out of my sight. I was too busy watching Tharun's eyes refuse to meet mine to notice how the Batarian was yanking my arm so hard that something was grinding in my shoulder, and that there was the sound of a cold click of a pistol warming up as it was pressed against my back. I heard a shuffle and a sharp intake of breath on my left and Fa'lan stumbled to the ground from the second newly-opened door, his suit visor making a dangerous cracking sound as his face connected with the floor plating. The human who had pushed him in brought up the rear and pressed his heel into Fa'lan's neck to keep him down. I could hear Fa'lan sobbing.

I felt sick, and it only made it worse when Tharun finally met my eyes. I could read him and he knew it. He knew what he was doing, who he was selling me to, and he could look at me…and dare offer an excuse.

"I'm sorry, Shepard," he whispered. And almost managed to sound like he meant it. I guess those years of friendship managed to make him feel somewhat guilty. "They offered me a chance to get off-world. I get a ride in their ship to wherever they travel, a pile of credits—a chance to get out of this slum. They promised me a life, Shepard."

That's when he looked back at Fa'lan, the Quarian's neck being crushed by the human's boot, and actually flinched before turning back to me. "How could I say no?"

He was actually asking me, like there was another reasonable answer besides that he was being the most selfish, despicable trash I had ever known in my life. And I lived with garbage.

I ground my teeth, looked him straight and hard so he couldn't ignore me, and I gave him my answer. "I'll give you another promise, Tharun." Then I stared straight into the Batarian's eyes, the ones that had already rated and tagged me for sale. "I promise you that he lied."

Tharun was turned towards me so he couldn't see the Batarian smile. It was a smile meant for a spider that had something caught in its trap, a blackmailer who knew your every grimy secret. The hate I held for Tharun evaporated and rekindled as a nova around that smile.

The Batarian knelt beside Fa'lan, his gaze steady on me. "I can sell you, but this one," he tapped on Fa'lan's helmet, "isn't what I'm after." He put a finger on the clasps on the Quarian's visor. "You ever seen what happens when you take the helmet off a Quarian?" He wasn't even talking to Tharun anymore: he'd already won that battle. The pain from my shoulder was finally starting to leak into my awareness, making my sight a little blurry. I didn't respond. Fa'lan must've known what was coming because I could hear him start begging—actually begging—for mercy.

That smile was steady underneath his sets of eyes as the Batarian said, "Me neither. But I can guess."

Then the helmet was off.

I've never heard a Quarian scream like that before and I never want to again. Fa'lan knew he was dead the moment his helmet lost the airtight seal—he knew there was nothing he could do about it—he knew he was going to die slowly as viruses ravaged his immune system until his body couldn't take any more. Tharun didn't watch. I did. I wasn't about to pretend that this wasn't happening, that there might've been a chance, however slim, that I could have stopped this and saved my friend's life. I watched so I'd remember. The Batarian let him thrash and scream, taking his time to stare at me all the while, watching to see how much it hurt me to watch my friend die. Then the Batarian spat on Fa'lan.

Apparently Tharun didn't have the guts to face what he'd done. He took one look at my face which sent his eyes plummeting straight down to the floor, turned, and walked away. He walked away from me, in the arms of a slaver, from his friend in the arms of death. Then the Batarian wasn't enjoying Fa'lan scream if Tharun wasn't there to listen so his pistol was out and a flash of light burned through Fa'lan's skull, stopping the sound so quick the scream echoed in my ears. It was in that moment, when the echo was dying, the lead Batarian just holstering his blaster, and the Batarian that held my arm was distracted long enough that I had a chance to move. I don't know how it all worked or how I moved that fast. All I remember when I look back is that the butt of the pistol was close enough to the hand pinned to my back that I could grab it, that it caused the guard to lose his grip and I got a shot off through his chest, the Krogan was too slow with that huge gun to stop the bolt that went through his cranium and the human lunged at me instead of drawing his pistol, allowing me to pivot and get a shot at his stomach with hardly any effort. This also kept the lead Batarian from getting a shot at me as the human had blocked his line of fire.

It was luck. It was fate. It was truth.

I shoved the dying human backward at the Batarian, causing that smile to turn upside down, causing him to stumble as he shoved the dead weight off of him and his gun hand to stall long enough for me to get mine under his chin. My shoulder was blazing with pain but it just made it harder for me to keep from pulling the trigger. His eyes were pinched—a little bit of fear, hate, and admiration keeping them bright.

It was when he could hear the pistol winding up for a shot that his courage broke, and I heard the tiniest whisper of 'mercy' escape from the mouth that had been smiling not moments ago. It was that word from his mouth that set me off.

"Mercy? You're asking for mercy?"

The air from Fa'lan's suit still hissed in the air, the human made slight moaning sounds as he died—the Krogan and other Batarian were long gone. I didn't care that I'd just killed them. I pressed the pistol into the soft tissue at the bottom of his neck, the cold steel cutting into his skin, and I watched those eyes sink somewhere dark and feral as he realized he was going to die.

"Did you give Fa'lan mercy? All those slaves you've bought and sold, did you give them mercy? And you think you deserve…" I couldn't finish the sentence. My throat was swelled shut, I could hardly breathe, my finger ached on the trigger, and I wanted to watch this Batarian die.

"I'm not going to give you mercy," I whispered. I thought of Fa'lan and what he deserved, and I thought of Tharun…and what he deserved.

I slowly backed away until my pistol was aimed right over his forehead, his glittering eyes watching the pistol's path anchor for a killing shot.

Then I brought my arm back.

And swung hard.

The butt of the pistol cracked against his skull, sending him to the floor, unconscious. I didn't know why I didn't shoot him then, when he was laying there helpless just as Fa'lan had been, and I didn't know why I didn't go hunt down Tharun as soon as that pistol hit my hand. I did hunt down a security official, who wasn't hard to find in a place like this, and brought him back to the pile of dead bodies and an unconscious Batarian. The guy didn't bat an eye, didn't ask what happened. I think he could guess.

I get now, looking back, why I didn't shoot. I didn't want revenge, I wanted justice. Revenge would satisfy me once. Justice would satisfy Fa'lan. It would satisfy me. It would satisfy the countless slaves bartered and sold. The only thing it wouldn't satisfy was Tharun. Was it enough that he had watched his friend suffer and die? Was it enough that he thought he had sold me and had to live with that for the rest of his life?

Or maybe I would see if he had made his way back to the home that we shared with a couple members of our gang…Maybe I could meet him there—see what excuses he had then.

Maybe.

And maybe that's what made me think about the rest of this galaxy, that shaped me into what I am today, although I would never label myself with the word that seems to haunt me wherever I go.

It just needs to be done, and I seem to be the only one willing to do it. And maybe I tracked Tharun down later that day and maybe I met him years later in a spaceport on some dead planet. It doesn't matter. It doesn't change anything. That's my truth.

Strife creates either villains or heroes.

Down in the slums I learned that the hard way.