Disclaimer: Mass Effect and its characters are the property of BioWare. BIG thank you to the Mass Effect team for giving us this universe to play in. I do not now, nor do I ever, claim to own the characters of John Shepard or Steve Cortez. I only play with them gently and put them back on the shelf when I'm done ;). No copywrite infringements are intended.
Shepard just walked out of my shuttle and straight up the ass of hell. He beats the loading doors letting me know everyone is clear, and I'm dismissed. I watch him turn, his attention focused on the mission, gun at the ready. There are Reaper forces on the ground and even though I know it's not my fault, I curse myself that I can't even give him a safe landing zone. If I stay any longer I'll be a liability, and our mission, cure the Krogan genophage, must succeed. EDI and Garrus lay down suppressing fire as I finally pull up leaving the conflict, my team...and Shepard...far below, but never far behind...
Tuchanka. Krogan fondly describe their home world as a paradise when, in reality, if the devil ever took a shit, Tuchanka would be a kernel of corn in that turd. The planet is a dust ball of misery covered in near anaerobic sand and broken cities. Perpetual nuclear winters coupled with centuries of war have twisted the wildlife into nightmare visions that would give the most imaginative horror novelist a run for their credit chits. The Krogan are as much victims of their world as they are its ultimate architects. Of course, the Turians and Salarians bombing them back to the literal stone age didn't help liven the place up any either. Hell, I've even heard the plants are carnivorous...and I just dropped Shepard there. My guts twist at the thought, and I try to occupy my mind with adjusting the Kodiak's trim...which is, despite EZo-assisted flight, harder than you would think in Tuchanka's brutal crosswinds. It's not that I don't care about everyone else, and it's certainly not that I don't care about our mission...it's just that I happen to care about one battered and bruised man just a little more. I can't pinpoint exactly when it happened. Like nearly every living creature in the Milky Way, I'd heard the legend of John Shepard. Even if I hadn't, my friendship with James Vega would have thoroughly indoctrinated me...sorry...poor choice of words... The Commander Shepard of legend could eat glass, shit out a champagne flute, negotiate Salarain mating contracts, and impregnate 20 Asari matriarchs, all while killing Blood Pack mercs with laser beams from his eyes. All of this before breakfast. Trust me...I'm not exaggerating some of the crap I've heard. Then again, when even the Krogan and Turians tell stories about your battle prowess, you're kind of a big deal. It wasn't until I met the real man, actually laid eyes on him, did I understand. I've had plenty of commanding officers introduce themselves to me, and many who it was a pleasure to serve under. I've even had commanding officers who I would, as part of my duty, lay down my life for. Until I met John Shepard, there was only one other person who I would have gladly and whole heartedly gone to the abyss for unasked. Oddly enough it was "that one other person", my husband Robert, who made today possible. I thought I'd left that part of my life buried with his ghost back on Ferris Fields. I'd ran as far away from the traverse as I could...all the way back to Earth. I thought about requesting an assignment on one of the Geth fronts, ready to go down in a blaze of glory, until some prompting from Vega got me assigned to the Normandy. There was plenty of work...Cerberus may know how to build ships but they know exactly jack-shit about how to lay them out...and Jim's friendship helped ease some of my pain. I know what you're thinking, but Jim's a good guy to be around. Let's not kid ourselves, he's easy on the eyes, but terminally straight (Jim's got a thing for women...specifically Asari... who are, as a rule, MUCH smarter than he is). He's not so caught up in his own machismo though that he won't spend time with yours truly. Jim Vega is also a champion bull-shitter, and I find myself laughing more in his company which is a hell of an improvement over all the crying I've been doing lately. He doesn't take too many things seriously except when he talks about his old squad, his career, and John Shepard. I lost track of how many guys I saw Jim take to the mats when they mouthed off about Shepard turning traitor with Cerberus. Anyone of us who left their heart out in the traverse would've done the same damn thing. How could I have known that the real man, the true living legend, would be so much more compelling? I would've had to have been blind not to see his image a half dozen times on the extranet, but the holo-image John Shepard was never so approachable. Of course he had the square jaw, zero-percent body fat, and chiseled-from-stone good looks that alliance brass rushed to slap on recruitment posters. He had the perfect five o'clock shadow, the perfect curve to his lips when he smirked, he even had the perfect swagger when he walked...but none of the images, stories, or outright bullshit ever captured the depth of his heart.
I first met the true John Shepard when he came down to the shuttle bay late one cycle to collect a few items Jim saved from his cabin during the overhaul. The fall of Earth, no matter how temporary we hoped it would be, was fresh and it still weighed on him. His broad shoulders were bent, that five o'clock shadow was just a little too scruffy, and those perfect lips could only manage a ghost of a smile. The Great Destroyer of Worlds (a nickname I'd heard applied to him by a crewman from New Delhi) appeared as human as the rest of us. The thing I remember most was his gratitude and appreciation for everyone who made it out on the Normandy. It didn't matter to him that most of the staff were techies who never fired a gun outside of a qualifying range, or still looked at him with suspicion. We were all his crew and he made damn sure we knew how much he cared for us. The second thing I remembered from that day were the color of his eyes when he looked into mine and introduced himself. They were the light blue of a perfect sky, a color that always reminded me of flying...and of Robert. I don't know how I made it through those few moments. He made a show of being interested in my past as a fighter pilot, and was genuinely impressed with the improvements I'd made to his ship. I found myself telling him about Robert, and he listened...really listened. I saw the unspoken sorrow cloud his eyes, the subtle wince when he felt my pain. Here was a man who knew loss and felt it as keenly as he would a knife in his ribs. Maybe it was that moment I officially started orbiting planet Shepard...hell maybe I was a card carrying member of the fan club all along. I still don't know.
"Daaaamn Esteban," Jim whistled after he left "it took me two tequilas to get that much out of you when we first met."
"Shut up." I huffed, using the 'ol 'wipe-my-hands-off-on-an-old-shop-rag-to-hide-my-embarrassment' trick.
"So...what did you think?"
Right then and there I was thinking too many things to discuss...even with the man I'd come to consider my best friend "I think, Mr. Vega, that if you were half as good looking as you think you are, you wouldn't have had to resort to tequila."
He laughed, but gave me a look that said he'd seen my blush and shaking hands. I knew eventually, tequila or not, I'd have to give him my first impressions.
It soon became readily apparent that at least one outlandish rumor about John Shepard was true. The man didn't sleep, or if he did it was only when he was exhausted. I know this because I'm the same way, and like yours truly, he elected to spend a good chunk of his time in the shuttle bay. It was a little unnerving at first, but it got to the point where I anticipated and even came to look forward to the quiet "Hey Commander's" and "Good evening Sir's" from the 3rd shift that announced his arrival. Sometimes we'd just trade stories about funny vids we'd seen, and sometimes we'd rehash the previous mission. I always found it illuminating to get a "ground pounder's" prospective of things, and for his part Shepard took an interest in my role as air support.
"No offense, but I always thought you guys had it easy." he teased in his rich baritone.
"Far from it!" I laughed "Just because a LZ is clear when we drop you off doesn't mean it got that way on its own. I've done my share of strafing runs."
"Point taken." Shepard was no stranger to drop ships.
"I'll always do my best to make sure you get to where you need to go as safely as possible, and when the time comes, I'll always be there to pick you up." I replied soberly with more than just a little double meaning in my words.
"I know Steve." he replied with such unshakeable faith that I almost missed him calling me by my first name.
Other times he and Jim seemed to take particular delight in describing to me (in detail) the number of ways they'd proceeded to get their asses shot off. Robert used to do the same damn thing, so it appears all the men in my life (platonic and non) have a thing for causing me angina. I would describe to them my own brushes with the Grim Reaper. Jim took it all in stride, but I never failed to notice the subtle tightening of Shepard's fists or the way his smirk morphed into a grimace. Turnabout is fair play.
On very rare occasions, when Jim was off loosing at poker, the shuttle bay was quiet, and even the 3rd shift had better things to do, we'd compare scars of a different sort. He'd tell me about Akuze or Virmire. I'd tell him about Ferris Fields.
"You were talking to him when the Collectors hit?" he asked matter of fact.
"I was organizing construction a few clicks south of the main colony. Robert managed to get outside of the field the Collectors put up. Instead of running...he called me." When I told the story to Jim, it felt like I was reliving the whole thing over again. With Shepard it just seemed like a dull ache. Maybe I was starting to heal after all.
His eyes were downcast, obviously remembering personal losses of his own...but maybe to Shepard, every loss was personal "I'm sorry for your loss. He obviously cared a lot about you."
"He was afraid I wouldn't let go. But for him, I moved on...or at least I thought I had." I turned my back, I just couldn't bring myself to look at him "Then the invasion hits. There's no time, and the one thing I grab is this" I showed him the recording my omnitool made of Robert's last call to me.
I turned to look at Shepard once more, trying in vain to keep the bitter edge from my voice "I mean, what's the point of moving on with your life when everything is going to hell?"
"Start thinking that way, and we've already lost." he reached out to squeeze my shoulder.
"Yeah," I admitted "you're right. But, well...to be honest I've never felt as alone as I do right now."
I felt his hand slide down to my forearm before he seemed to think better of it, and returned it to his side "You're not alone Steve." his voice had taken on a curious gravelly quality and I looked up to see a momentary film of tears in his sky-blue eyes "I'm here if you need me."
"I appreciate that Shepard, I really do." I realized I slipped and used his name. I needed a change of subject fast, or one of us would be on the receiving end of some very non-platonic action. Robert's death was still too raw, and I wasn't sure about the Commander's intentions. I'd done some fool things in the past, but his friendship was too precious for me to risk driving him away. "But don't worry Commander. When I'm in that pilot seat, I'm there 100%. I won't fail you. It's just the downtime between missions that's hard...you know?"
"I know." And he blinked away his own grief before turning to leave me with my ghost.
Even though Robert's name was still thick on my tongue, I felt my heart dance.
My shuttle jumps.
"That's no crosswind." I mutter to myself and curse as proximity alarms start blaring.
A swipe of my hand brings up my LIDAR display, and I swear again. "Shit! There's a bogy on my 6!"
I've flown a lot of things, even propeller aircraft, but I've never quite gotten the hang of flying solo. Sure there's plenty of room for a co-pilot in the Kodiak, but not much need for one with all of the instrumentation. I invariably end up talking to myself. Whatever the hell is chasing me looks big and fast.
"What are you?" I growl as I jog my shuttle to the left just in time to avoid something that looks like a plasma flair.
I frown at the energy signature, I've seen it before on Earth and again on Menae "A Reaper! Are you kidding me?"
As if to mock me, or only confirm the obvious, the bogy's LIDAR image resolves into a tiny 3D rendering of my nemesis. I'd heard the Turians back on Menae call them Harvesters, but to me it looks more like a dragon from the stories of my childhood. It's torn wings look too fragile to support its bloated midsection, and a sightless worm's head glides through the air at the end of its serpentine neck. There's no way this monster should fly, let alone gain ground on me. I feel every hair on my body prickle and smell ozone, a sure sign that biotics are at work. I now have my answer of how this impossible creature is able to pursue me. Fucking great.
"You're only leaving an active battle zone Steve," I grumble under my breath as I punch up the Kodiak's countermeasures "it's not like you shouldn't have expected this. Those husks didn't get there by fucking magic."
My eyes never leave the LIDAR as I continue to dodge my enemy's attacks. Right now, it's making things easy on me, forecasting its shots with its head, but it would only take one good hit to cause some serious damage. I spy a canyon to my right and I dive for it in the hopes I can lose or at least lessen my pursuer's odds of catching me. Its biotic field is playing havoc with my countermeasures' auto targeting sensors, and I know I'm going to have to do this the hard way.
"Nice going pendejo," I grunt as I maneuver the Kodiak around a towering rock formation "get caught with your pants down, day dreaming about a guy that probably just wants to be your friend. You can't even make sure he gets home safe without getting shot down by Smaug the fucking magic dragon back there, you idiot!"
Another gout of plasma crackles past, this one close enough to burn my shields. It occurs to me, rather ironically, that I'd just spent my one day of shore leave on the Citadel saying my final goodbye to Robert. This was ironic only due to the fact that if I didn't do something, and soon, I'd be joining him in the hereafter. Not exactly the outcome I'd had in mind when I placed his photograph at the refugee memorial wall.
The views were everything Shepard had promised, and to have him standing with me was just about as perfect as a day of semi-mandatory shore leave could get. I say "semi" because while I wasn't exactly ordered to take some time off the Normandy during our quick supply run, I'm pretty sure Shepard would have come looking for me if I'd elected to remain on board. I find it hard to tell the man "no" and he's damn well aware of it. I hadn't seen much of him in the shuttle bay lately. Ever since the conference, he'd been locked away in the war room trying to hammer out peace between the Turians and the Krogan. Joker was secretly running a betting pool on the side as to which one of our distinguished guests Shepard was going to shoot first. With some notable exceptions, Specialist Traynor and I were betting on the Salarians. Two days later, Shepard had called an executive staff meeting and announced we were headed to Tuchanka after a brief supply run to the Citadel.
"This is a quick on/off people. I'm approving limited shore leave to purchase anything you may have left behind." I might have imagined it, but I swear Shepard's eyes lingered on me when he mentioned shore leave.
" I've been informed that Major Alenko has been cleared for visitors, and I'm sure he'd appreciate any personal well wishes you'd like to deliver. Joker...that does NOT include the latest issue of Fornex, understood?"
The crew chuckled quietly before he continued "I know it seems like we've abandoned Earth in its darkest hour, and I've heard many of you say that we're spending too much time on galactic politics, but the Turians and the Krogan have both spilled blood for our cause." The room had gone silent, and I didn't need to look around to see that everyone was as awestruck as I was "They will spill more blood again. Much has been said of humanity during our short time as part of the galactic community. Never let it be said we turned our back on our allies. If Earth keeps her promises, and I know she will, our allies will do the same. Dismissed."
I still remembered that speech, every word and how the room had gone silent. Even as he stood quietly by my side watching me place Robert's photo on the memorial wall, I was still in awe of his presence. It was plainly obvious that most of the refugees knew the legend of John Shepard as well, and they were wondering just who I was to garner his attention. To tell the truth, I was wondering that myself. I'd been wondering since the first time he' slipped and called me 'Steve' instead of 'Cortez'. I'd been wondering since he elected to spend his sleepless nights in the shuttle bay when he had his pick of anywhere (and anyone) else on the ship. I felt his grip on my arm, and I spun without thinking into his embrace. The entire room ceased to exist, and I suddenly realized I'd been wondering because I'd hoped...
Right now, I'm only hoping to make it through another five minutes. I realize my canyon escape route is just another bombed out city with rows of empty windows staring out at my pursuer and I like a gallery of hollow-eyed skulls. A cold feeling washes over me as I realize I might not make it only to be replaced a moment later with the white hot stab of fury. My team is depending on me..Shepard is depending on me, and it's suddenly so clear to me. I'm in love with John Shepard. Against all odds, against all reason, the universe has decided to give me one more chance at happiness. I'd be damned if I was going to let circumstance rob me again.
"Come get some you miserable son of a bitch." I growl as I swipe my hand over the Kodiak's scatter guns.
The floor plates vibrate underneath me as the shuttle's anti-personnel weapons roar to life. I hear my opponent's outraged screech and grin like a savage.
"Oorah mother fucker!"
I haven't killed it, not yet, but I've definitely made it mad. Good. I can use rage. Rage, when improperly harnessed, makes your opponent sloppy. The Reaper-spawn careens through a broken wall, shattering the ruin into fine concrete powder and twisted rebar. My targeting computer whoops with a firing solution and I slap my palm against the haptic display. My pickets roar once more and the harvester explodes in a shower of gore. Adrenalin leaves a coppery taste in my mouth as I pull up out of the dead Krogan city and head for a much higher orbit. I feel shaken, but more alive than I've felt in quite a while. I love John Shepard, and I have an inkling that he just might feel something for me too. I don't know what the future holds for us, but I know I'm not going to take one more moment for granted. I've got some more shore leave time saved up, and if...no...WHEN we survive Tuchanka, I just might see if The Great Destroyer of Worlds is up for some drinks.