AN/N: So, an N7 mission for the N7 day. I've been planning this story for soooo long, and now I am finally delivering :-)
The references to the events of Akuze, Shepard's friends and Anderson's involvement are from my Akuze story Long Days, Long Nights. The post-Akuze debriefing is a stand-alone chapter 4 of a collection of Shepard-Anderson interactions Between the Past and the Future; the shoreleave with friends is told in detail in chapter 3 of Unmemorabilia.
Rising from a monitoring station half-buried in sand, the shuttle flashes against the yellow sky of Edolus as it turns westward, returning to the research base from its usual round of collecting data and checking on the automatic stations. Its shadow, flying across the ochre sands and rock formations, is the only sign of life on the surface, shaped by erosion and sandstorms.
The life on Edolus is hidden underneath.
The shuttle, piloted by a steady hand in the rising wind, is flying over a round depression among the rocks, about a hundred metres in diameter. The soft sand is ploughed with furrows and craters there: some already smoothed by wind, others with clearly recognisable outlines.
It is a place of death: one that the shuttle's pilot has seen many a time but it never ceases to fascinate him. He never misses a chance to fly over, at a safe height, and slow down to watch for the signs.
He almost makes it to the other side when a coded short-distance message reaches a hidden receiver on the shuttle's board and activates the malware.
For an instant, the shuttle shakes in the air as its engines fail. Then it falls down from the sky, a heap of metal and dead electronics.
Its pilot's scream sounds all the way down, down, down.
The approaching footsteps give away no uncertainty or hesitation, and neither does Anderson; seated in his chair, he takes care not to show his trainee that the next N6 assignment is any different from the previous ones. Yet, there is a first time to everything and in his mind's eye, Anderson can still see the younger Connor Shepard on the verge of a breakdown while the current version of a model soldier gives him a crisp salute.
How long will the composure last, though?
He watches Shepard closely while reciting the details of a seemingly banal rescue operation: Artemis Tau, Sparta system, Edolus. A member of an Aliance research team had an accident and due to malfunction of the team's other shuttle he couldn't be retrieved before a sandstorm started to rage. They need someone to get him out ASAP.
As usually, Shepard doesn't waste the time to state the obvious. He looks up from the schematics and surface scans on the screen. "So, what's the hook, sir?"
With a single tap of his finger, Anderson projects another scan, his eyes never leaving Shepard.
The facial scarring obtains a shade of deeper red, a movement of the hand is checked as it half-raises to the left cheek. Silence.
Anderson lets it linger for a while. "So, this is the hook, Shepard. About fifty metres of it. The doctor's shuttle went down just at the edge of its nest. Land vehicles are not an option and a shuttle cannot be deployed due to the weather. The sandstorm will rage for days; doctor Fronsard doesn't have so much time."
"Provided that he still lives." The voice sounds tense.
"Provided that he still lives," Anderson agrees. "He was still alive before the storm, though, before the contact was lost."
No response.
"The brass are convinced that a well-prepared and trained ground team should be able to take out one half-sized thresher, so they endorsed a rescue operation. Someone probably got the feeling that it's time to settle the score for Akuze, and our ship happened to be nearby."
He sees the movement of Shepard's throat as the man swallows hard.
Anderson somewhat lowers his voice, setting a less strict, softer tone. "Of course, you don't have to take the commission. You've come very far even so. There is no shame in knowing one's limits." When there is still no response, he adds: "I'll step in if you don't feel up to it, Shepard. Just say the word."
His trainee finally averts his eyes from the coils on the screen. "But I won't get the N7 designation if I don't do the mission."
No, you won't. An N7 must not shun from anything.
And he must not fall for false self-confidence, either. Anderson lets his voice harden again. "If you're considering this only to prove something to yourself, Shepard, I'll relieve you of command."
The bait is not taken. Shepard jerks his head towards the screen. "It can be done. With two Makos to cover each other, we should be able to handle, and there is a rock formation to retreat on if we get in too much trouble."
Anderson doesn't smile proudly even though he wants to. "Then carry on."
In the cargo bay, the preparations are under way, spiced with Hirsch's colourful comments on the brass, the mission, the scientists, the thresher, the hapless doctor Fronsard and even the Mako that Hirsch and Sanjiro are currently checking for any signs of damage or material wear. It is such a familiar scene that no-one bothers to reply.
Finally, Hirsch crawls from under the vehicle. "The baby is as good as new but if you do again what you did the last time, I'll have your balls."
Sanjiro replies with an obscene gesture; having the Mako climb a steep cliffside is a crime that everyone on the team has committed at least once, Shepard himself included.
"If you two are done boosting your egos, I could use some help down here." Brezinova's voice sounds a bit muffled from under the other Mako where she is struggling with damaged plating.
"Anything for you, Zorka, when you're on your back," Hirsch grins but gets down to perform as requested.
"The only time you get to see a woman on her back, Alfie" she replies, absent-mindedly. "Besides, me and my cannon have more balls than you do, anyway."
"I'd love to check your cannon one day."
"And I have no intention checking yours."
No-one even chuckles; that scene is old, as well.
The chitchat buzzing in his ears, Shepard has to bite his tongue not to yell at everyone to shut it. Normally, he would happily quip in; normally, everyone wouldn't be busy looking elsewhere avoiding to indulge him in the conversation.
Seated next to Shepard as both of them are checking and reassembling the grenade launchers, O'Neill doesn't speak, either, seemingly focused on his work, but every now and then, his blue eyes flicker in his dark face towards Shepard, with the same questions that everyone is careful not to poise: Are you alright, Shepard? Can you do it, Shepard? Do you have it in you? Shepard?
Stubbornly, Shepard refuses to meet his eyes. His own hands work as steadily as O'Neill's, performing the movements with the precision and efficiency learned the hard way during the N trainings – both his hands, the right as well as the left. Shepard wears short sleeves, just like everyone else; the scars on the top of the left hand run along the forearm, up the elbow, re-emerge on the side of his neck, reach up to the left temple. He used to do his best to hide them under the clothing when they were fresh but it has been long since, a long way. It's only now that they burn like a reminder of what is ahead.
The last time, you couldn't do it, Shepard. Can you now? Will you?
O'Neill's concern is like a blade twisting in the wound. Shepard knows that he can only blame himself: he should have played along, should have shown that he can keep his cool, thresher or not, but the memories of Akuze are flooding him mercilessly, along with the old guilt, gnawing inside.
Everyone but you, Shepard. Everyone. Can you do better this time, Shepard?
The banter is getting edgy as Kazimir 'Red' Kaminski, working along with Claire Johnson on the bait, starts his usual tirades. As snipers, neither he nor Johnson have been picked for the ground team but he is the only one pouting and venting his frustration by lashing out. "...yeah, so smart. If plan A doesn't work, you engage it on foot – a fifty-metre beast, sure -"
"Bullshit," Brezinova cuts him off in an unusually cold tone. "Plan A is to get it down with a couple of good cannon shots. The babe you're working on is plan B, because of that sandstorm. Plan C..."
"Plan C is to feed the fucker one chatterbox of a redhead, that should kill it alright," O'Neill mutters loud enough for everyone to hear and Kaminski turns red like a turkey before he opens his mouth for a scathing reply.
Enough. Suck it up, Shepard. Do your job.
"Plan C is to talk it to death, apparently." Putting aside the launcher, Shepard rises from the bench. "You done with your work, Kaminski? I didn't know that screwdriver is used for waving it around." For a brief moment, Kaminski's eyes narrow and steer to Shepard's left but then his common sense finally gets the better of him, realizing that Shepard has a say in recommendations for further N trainings and that challenging his authority openly wouldn't do... or perhaps it is a sense of self-preservation. All of the team know that Akuze Is Not To Be Talked. Ever.
Turning away, Shepard catches Brezinova's eyes and she smiles briefly. With her stocky figure, she is far from a classical beauty, but she has wonderful eyes, so dark brown that they are almost black, and her movements are fluid like water. She occupies Shepard's thoughts a lot, in between the missions.
To avoid a currently undesirably distraction, he calls: "Hey, Gupta! You sleeping in there?"
The last member of the ground team emerges from inside the Mako. "I was worried that the negative vibrations might affect the tuning of the systems," he states with a perfect poker face. "I was taking precautions." Sanjiro snorts at that – it is well known that if Gupta cannot drive or spar, he invariable snoozes off. Since he excels at the first two disciplines, the third one is usually forgiven. None of them can stand more than two rounds out of three against the scrawny bastard, not even on the best of days. Shepard's one attempt at three out of three was ended pre-timely as it resulted in five broken ribs, a dislocated arm, a bruised testicle and two broken noses, not to mention one royally pissed Anderson.
Gupta's cool finishes the trick. Kaminski gets back to work, the team move over to checking their gear. Brezinova stays behind to smile at Shepard once again. "Glad you have stepped in, Shep, my hand just itched."
Not the first time, Shepard considers asking her out, after the mission, and as if reading his mind, she holds his eyes a little longer than necessary.
First things first, though. There is the mission... and the thresher.
Ever so slowly, the two Makos caterpillar through the sandstorm, towards the coordinates of the crash.
Fucking storm.
O'Neill's Mako is a ghastly green blur on the tactical displays and visuals are even worse. Even at this short distance, communication is failing due to the statics of the flying sand.
Not that there is any need to talk. All is said and done... we just have to wait it out.
Wait.
No-one speaks. Gupta drives the Mako with calm steady hands, Brezinova watches her own tactical displays in the turret. She never said a word when it became clear that with such poor visuals, they can only wave bye-bye to plan A.
It has been plan B all the time along, anyway. A was just a desperate hope to avoid...
Shepard focuses on his breath to calm the medical readings of his hardsuit. If it weren't for the membranes and filters of the inmost layer, he would be bathing in sweat. He wishes for some action, some activity, that would take his mind off the last time when the plan was to give the thresher a bait and target it with all they have, on a green plain under the rising sun, with all that remained from his unit. They died, and he lived, through a nightmare.
Focus, Shepard. Focus. Mission first.
He shakes his head. The statistics is merciless: he is not the best driver on the team, nor the second best. A hundredth of a second's difference in his reactions could kill them all.
Besides, he is the fucking CO. The brain. Can't get distracted by having fun behind the controls or in the turret even though he is the best shot, by a close margin.
The comm cracks with O'Neill's voice. "Some weird... ngs on our... peat, three o'c...you copy?"
"Copy, three o'clock. But I don't see -"
The display showing so far only the small blot of O'Neill's vehicle suddenly bleeps and forms a large red mass of upcoming vibrations.
For an instant, the world freezes. Shepard's heart skips a beat and swells in his chest, paralysing, suffocating –
Then the moment is over. "Oncoming, on three o'clock! Get ready!"
The Mako dances chaotically on the cratered ground, jumping with its thrusters, speeding up and slowing down in an unpredictable pattern, turning randomly at sharp angles.
- 'random turns and never stop. Try to get it in crossfire -'
Loud thuds of Brezinova's rocket launcher, the snapping of the machine gun, the stones bouncing off the hull.
- the snapping of the gunmachine, the dull thuds of rockets -
Alerts flickering wildly with amber light. "Rear plating damaged," Gupta comments matter-of-factly. "All systems running so far."
- 'Warning: the hull is compromised. Danger of explosion. Leave the vehicle immediately. Warning…' -
- the taste of blood on his tongue -
Shepard's fingers grip tighter the grenade launcher. For some reason, the thresher is ignoring the vibrations of the booby-trapped bait; incessantly, it follows the vibrations of the Mako it first targeted.
- the rise of soil moves towards him, as if in a sort of poetic justice, to bring down the author of the plan-
Shepard doesn't know what history's beef with him might be but he never expected a repetition of -
No.
The situation is not repeating itself; they are still holding on, and if not for the sandstorm, Shepard assumes that they might have taken the thresher out by now. Brezinova has scored some solid hits and so has Hirsch but in the clouds of whirling sand, there is no telling how badly it is hurt. So far, it hasn't weakened or slowed down and the deathdance may yet take long while the acid is burning through the Mako's plating and it is just a matter of time before it hits something vital.
- screams, cursing, howling of alerts, roaring flames; a shrill, panicked voice praying to God until it is cut off abruptly, and the comm goes silent with a sound of one last explosion -
- Sayonara. Sayonara. -
A single mistake, and we're all dead. The position of the bait glows with a single yellow cross on the display. "Gupta, get us as close to the bait as you can and slow down so that the bastard can catch up. Then, on my mark, hit the thrusters at full. O'Neill, you get out."
"..ye aye," comes the reply with that short hesitation signalling that O'Neill is not too happy with the plan, but perhaps it is just the statics.
- if I don't make it, tell mom – tell my mother what needs be told -
It is a cold consolation that if the plan doesn't work, this time he won't be around to bear the guilt.
- 'I'll kiss you all, guys, once we kick its ass.' -
- Yelochka, dyevochka, so sorry -"
Outlining a chaotic trajectory, the Mako's green dot reaches the yellow cross while the red mass follows, catching up, charging -
"Now! Aside!"
The thrusters lunge the Mako several metres in the air; another burn changes its direction in mid-air and its wheels barely touch the ground before it leaps again.
The yellow cross disappears.
"Brace for -"
The pressure wave hits the Mako in the air. The harness holds them steady in their seats and Gupta's hands rush over the control panel to get the vehicle back on the wheels while the red mass on the screens jerks and pulses in fury. The Mako is hit with the force of a pneumatic hammer and sent flying. Damage alerts howl, the ground shakes and explodes – but the thresher's violent moves are uncoordinated, never following the Mako racing away at full speed.
"Shep...pard! … you... py?"
"Copy. Retreat to a safe distance."
When the two Makos stop, the red blot of the thresher remains at the far end of the tactical display. Seconds, minutes pass. Silence. Just the humming engines, the cracking of the statics. The damage alerts keep flickering as the acid is gnawing its way inside but no bleep announces the death approaching amongst the rumble of shaking ground. The red blot is reducing and losing intensity.
We did it, a small voice states in Shepard's head, giddy with disbelief. He releases his clenched hands, aware of the expectant air in the Mako. "We need to verify that the objective is fulfilled," he croaks, only now realizing how parched his throat is.
- the heat, heat of the blazing sun, his tongue a parched swollen thing, no shelter, no escape, just grass from horizon to horizon, in the blaze -
The air-conditioning and filters of his hardsuit are running at top performance to remove the sweat; his heart is racing. "But first we must get rid of that acid. Stay alert, I'll see to it."
Removing the harness, his hands feel as if belonging to someone else, and his legs are wobbly when he fetches the canister with the neutralizing agent. For an eternity, he struggles with the hatchet.
When he finally gets out, he sinks against the Mako, ignoring the wind and the flying sand. He ejects the waterlink and gulps uncontrolledly until he finally manages to recompose.
The shadow of Akuze hadn't gripped him so hard in years. During the hell of the basic N-training, he sweated it out in the humid Brazilian jungle, cleansed his insides of it after the endless rolling in the mud, and as he struggled and starved and thirsted, its weight eventually ceased to drag him down. Instead, it urged him forward, faster and higher, giving him the strength to overcome, because he knew he already had.
In the Villa, his life started a new count, and the focus on the task brought what no psychological trick could. The first night of undisturbed sleep, the first real laugh... the first success, the first mission. In a time, those firsts became a steady flow – the first fight, the first loss, the first party, the first sex, the first space flight, the first ride in a Mako, on and on, until they became yet another.
Shepard straghtens and takes a deep breath. And here we go, the first thresher. Now, let's fetch the doctor and we're good to go.
Struggling against the wind, he rounds the Mako. The left side is badly dented as the thresher hit it in its mortal struggle, the rear is glued with sand sticking to the acid. Shepard applies the neutralizing agent, cursing silently because his left cheek itches and he cannot rub it in the helmet.
His comm craks. "Shep?" Brezinova says on a private frequency, in a softer tone than she normally uses.
"Almost done," he replies. "'Be right back. What about the thresher?"
"Fading out. We got the bastard alright. Pity we had to use the bait, though, I was looking forward to mashing its ugly head."
"You did a great job, anyway, I saw the stats."
"Always a pleasure," she chuckles, and Shepard feels warmth spreading inside. I'll ask her out, he decides. High time for another first.
The whisky is slowly warming, untouched. Anderson is sipping his, watching Shepard over the rim of his glass. "No-one's blaming you, Shepard. Grosvenor performed an autopsy, the doctor died of his injuries even before we reached Edolus."
"It was for nothing," Shepard mutters, watching his left, scarred hand lying on the table.
"Nonsense. You have fulfilled the mission objectives, and you did good. I have sent my report and recommendation, and we'll head to the Arcturus for your stripes as soon as we receive confirmation."
"...thank you, sir."
Anderson softly curses. "Shepard, being your mentor was well worth it, but there are moments when I feel like smacking you. Could you possibly show any less excitement? What did you expect, swooping in and saving the day each and every time?"
With a little perverse satisfaction, he sees the scars redden again – a tell-tale sign that he can get Shepard out of balance. He nudges the glass towards his soon-to-be ex-trainee. "Come on. I know that it was an uncomfortably personal mission. I was there, too, remember?"
Finally, Shepard relents and takes a swig. "Hard to forget," he sighs. "Especially as I am no closer to finding out what had happened there than I was. You told me then to bid my time, and I have, while keeping my eyes and ears open... and I still know nothing."
"As an N7, you will gradually get your hands on highly classified information, but you will have to tread carefully. Very carefully."
"I know, sir. I will." With one gulp, Shepard downs his glass, then carefully sets it on the table. He hesitates a little but Anderson waits patiently, knowing that he will have his answer. Activating his omnitool, Shepard shows him a picture taken somewhere warm and sunny: his younger self, laughing and without scars, and a young man with slanted eyes, holding on their shoulders a petite young woman, wiggling and giggling. Anderson knows their names, and their fate.
"That's one of the few pics I have because I sent it to my mother – she met us on that shoreleave, you know. All the others were lost along with my 'tool." Shepard's lips press in a thin line before he speaks again. "By failing to recover that doctor alive... it feels as if I let them down, as well."
"You know that this should go to your psychological profile," Anderson remarks blankly.
"Of course. I have already arranged a session with Grosvenor." 'As you surely know,' Anderson hears, and knows as well that Shepard has become rather proficient in having the psychologists get their due without revealing anything substantial.
No-one likes to have their soul poked, and Anderson is no exception, after all. As long as the mission comes first... "On your N7 stripes," he raises his glass in a toast.
Long after the Alliance team leaves, the sandstorm finally ceases, the landscape reshaped by the shifting sand, the thresher's nest almost devoid of any signs of its dreadful inhabitant.
Then, among the rocks not far away, something moves in the ochre: something that does not belong.
Slowly emerging from the sand, blown away by its jets, a mechanic shape is revealed. A small shuttle, sand-coloured, covered with a net masking its energy signatures.
Except the slowly rising shuttle, nothing moves from horizon to horizon; whatever other life there might be, it remains hidden underneath.
With steady moves of his scarred hands, the former Corporal Jerry Toombs heads for the sky, to his ship hidden in the asteroid belt. The long wait was worth it, even though he ran out of supplies towards the end. He could definitely use a shower, as well, but such insubstantial details cannot deter him in the least.
A little smell and discomfort is a small price for revenge.
The whole time, he left open the frequency of the radio that he had installed in Fronsard's shuttle, listening to the man's whimpering and screaming before he succumbed to his injuries and dehydration. How desperate he was to realize that he had survived the fall, only to find out that he was doomed, anyway. He sobbed like a child, and begged, after Toombs let his presence known.
Toombs heeded his pleading no more than Fronsard had his when another test was due.
His hands clench. The Alliance rescue operation nearly thwarted the scheme which he had spent months preparing… and it was nearly thwarted by Shepard.
Shepard. Shepard got himself a fancy scar and became a fucking hero. Toombs also has his scars – regular sets, all over, in neat rows, as Fronsard was testing various dilutions of the thresher acid and reactions with neutralizers, never bothering to sedate his test subject.
The memory makes Toombs feel nauseous again. Stravinski did put him under sedatives every time but still he knew what would follow.
He hasn't made up his mind yet whether to give her a bullet, or devise for her some special treatment like he did for Fronsard. On the bad days, which he spends crouched in a corner, rocking back and forth, he thinks about drugging her, letting her struggle in vain with the effect of the sedatives while knowing that something terrible is going to happen to her.
Beautiful, intelligent Julianna Stravinski, with a piece of ice instead of heart. She sedated him only because his screams and trashing were disruptive for her experiments.
It never ceases to amaze Toombs that those perfectly willing to inflict pain and death to others are unable to stand such a fate themselves. That tech, Romero, always so cocky and facetious whenever he came to the labs, screamed and begged, as Toombs applied on him some of the measures that he had become acquainted with during his stay with the Cerberus. Eventually, he yielded all he knew, all the names, as well as the access to his account which, though somewhat depleted by Romero's taste for expensive drinks and girls, became a welcome contribution to Toombs' cause after he was done with its owner.
So far, only two names off the list, but Toombs will get all the bastards, one by one. Then, perhaps, he will be able to sleep without drugs.
In memoriam of my darling OCs, Toshio Iaeda and Yelena Denisova
Credits:
My thanks to alliedforces74 and jay 8008 for the insight on tactics and the N training, as well as to all those guys who put the various special forces training videos on youtube.
Notes:
To my dear LDLN beta reyavie: you wanted Romero dead, so here you go, hun :-)