Note: So, this is just a one-shot I threw together. I haven't seen many stories that talk much about Hackett, and he really is a good guy, so I made this. It's a more fleshed out version of his battle speech and a final talk with Shepard before the Battle for Earth. It might be silly that he has so many ancestors dating so far back, but I don't care. Also, some of the people he's related to are fictitious, while others are real but made to how I see them. It's kinda a crossover, because one of the characters is from a different video game, but I'd call it more of a reference to it than a crossover. Hope you like it, Read and Review!
Admiral Hackett stood at the highest point on the Normandy's deck, with his hands clasped behind his back, rubbing hard and tight against each other in angst for the upcoming battle; The deck made for looking down at your soldiers and giving a speech before battle, made by human and alien hands. He sighed as he stared down to the map under him, wishing for the best outcome of the Battle for Earth. His posture was straight and powerful, but in truth, he felt weaker and more tired than any man living.
For all of his years in the Systems Alliance, he never thought he'd live to see the end of it, if this was indeed the end of humanity.
Shepard walked up the ramp to get to Hackett, and took a spot next to him on the small platform. "Admiral." He acknowledged him, also looking down to the map in hopes of finding what Hackett saw.
"Shepard." He said, the name familiar to himself, though not the same. "You know, many years ago, my family's last name was the same as yours." He stated, not taking his sight off of the galaxy map under him.
Shepard turned in surprise and a silent shock, staring at his superior oddly. "Really?" He asked, pursing his lips and looking back down to the map.
"Yes, though it wasn't spelled the same. It was, S-H-E-P-H-E-R-D."
"Why'd your ancestors get it changed?" Shepard asked, looking back to Hackett.
"My great-great-great-grandfather–That's a lot of greats–was a mad man, a murderer, and a stain to the United States Army."
"I thought you were from Argentina?" Shepard inquired, squinting his eyes and turning his head to his Admiral.
"Yes, I am. Shepherd's son left the United States, and changed his name, in fear of others killing him for his father's betrayal. I can trace my ancestry back farther than most." Hackett said, nodding to himself, and looking up from the map and taking to the metal ceiling of the Normandy instead, as he thought back to his many ancestors.
"Sir! Roach, and Ghost are heading this way! Makarov's men are fast in pursuit!" Yelled a soldier through the rotating of the Chinook's propellers.
General Shepherd was one of the highest ranking among the United States military. He was old, had a gray mustache, and short gray hair. He was dressed in his fatigues and a black beret with his stars on it.
The helicopter had finally touched down in the field of tall green grass, and the blades started to slow. "Good, I'm coming out to meet them." The ramp and door lowered, allowing Shepherd full access to the outside field, where he saw two men approaching, one supporting the other with an arm around the shoulder. "You have the DSM?" Shepherd asked, holding a hand over his head as the blades above blew air down on them.
"We got it, sir." Said the man wearing a black mask with a skull in white covering it, Ghost.
The United States Army helped their escape, several choppers propelling men down to deal with the Russian terrorists group of Makarov's. "Good. That's one less loose end." Shepherd pulled his revolver from it's holster, holding it steady at the hip, and pointing it into the wounded man's stomach, Roach's stomach. A blast sent him falling back to the dirt of the field, cracking in pain under the fall.
Ghost screamed out Roach's name, and tried to kill Shepherd, but was too late. Shepherd took Ghost out with a single shot to the chest, killing him instantly.
Shepherd crouched down to Roach's body, searching for the electronic device he wanted, the DSM. He found it hidden in Roach's pocket, and snatched it out quickly, telling his men to discard the bodies quickly.
Shepherd's op team took the bodies to a far end of the field, and dumped them on a mostly dirt covered patch in the field. A voice from Roach's radio echoed out, an older man's voice. "Roach! We're under attack by Shepherd's men! Don't trust Shepherd! I repeat, don't trust Shepard! Roach!"
With the bodies safely placed away from any dry grass, Shepherd pointed to more of his men, signaling them to come over and help with the rest. Roach was barely alive, his eyes glossed over and blinking slowly at his former leader and general.
With a cigar in his mouth, puffing slowly and enjoying every burst of smoke, Shepherd watched his men pour gasoline on the two soldiers. "Five years ago... I lost 30,000 men in the blink of an eye." He referred to a nuclear blast that happened as far back as 2012. "And the world just fuckin' watched." He said, puffing another blast of smoke from his cigar. "Tomorrow there will be no shortage of patriots, no shortage of volunteers... I know you understand." He said, plucking the cigar from his lips and flicking it onto the pile of liter fluid with Roach very much alive underneath it all.
He walked away slowly, lassoing his hand in the air to round up the rest of his men near their planes, leaving the two men to burn under the fire.
"He died some time after that, killed by some operative who was never named. Most of my ancestors shame me." Hackett said, shaking his head slowly at the thought of his kin being a evil man, and a murderer. "Another man you may know from the history books, who was by no means a smart or good man, is also related to me. He may not have Shepherd's last name, but he was related to me, on a mother's side. You won't believe who it is." Hackett said, smiling to Shepard and nodding slowly at him. Shepard waited to hear a small story, and no doubt be awed by it.
"But, sir, they outnumber us by a hundred to one. How will we win?" A frightened Union officer in his blue overcoat and dark blue pants muttered, picking at the gold cloth and pins on his shirt as he moaned a sad tone.
"They're savages!" The blonde General laughed, mounting his horse with his sabre drawn and ready for a fight. "When have the savages ever beat a Union force? A force commanded by me, at that?" The general laughed again, smirking down to the small and frightened man. "Come now, boys! They've got gold beyond your wildest dreams! And a many pretty women to go with said gold! Ride with me, and you will have both!" He chanted, shaking his shinning sabre in the air, waving it around like a flag.
"Hurrah!" His men cheered, mounting their horses and preparing themselves for an attack. "Custer! Custer! Custer!"
He smiled to himself, pinching and twirling his yellow mustache in his white-gloved fingers, and kicking at his horse once he finished making himself ready. They sounded a cavalry charge, and drove into the masses of enemies.
The Indians that surrounded were numbering the thousands, few had rifles in hands, the others had bows, yipping their war-screams and chants. "Trust not in your Gods! Your Gods can't see you through the black clouds above!" Custer yelled, twisting his sabre at the air above, speaking of the storm that appeared over head. "Trust in your steel, trust in your brothers, trust in your bullets! And we'll all come out of this alive!" He cheered, pulling two pistols from his belts and pointing them at the advancing Indians.
He laughed as he shot, dropping two Indians from their horses as he advanced, making his way to the top of a hill. After another shot from a third pistol, his own horse took a bullet, and kicked him off to the top of the hill. His men saw this as a time to dismount, and took their place around their leader.
The horses around them kicked up dirt and grass, making clouds of dust from their hooves and marching around in a threatening circle. They shot their bows and fired their guns, threw their spears and flung axes to their enemies.
Custer stood from his position, and pulled surprisingly two more pistols from his belt of seemingly unending weapons. "Hurrah boys, we've got them! We'll finish them up and then go home to our station!" Custer roared, blowing smoke and bullets from his two guns, missing the fast circling Indians.
An arrow pierced his knee, dropping him to it and leading him to grasp it and drop his guns. "Gah!" He groaned, breaking the arrow in his knee, and throwing the twig away. Picking up a fallen rifle, he aimed it at an advancing Indian, shooting him dead from his horse.
He smiled at his small success, and laughed quietly. Two more arrows came flying at him, striking him once in the stomach, and another time in the shoulder. His face flashed with pain, though he tried to swallow it, and pick up his fallen sabre.
Swinging it randomly in the air, and yelling a Yankee roar, he laughed at the much larger Indian force.
His soldiers crumbled around him, falling to the arrow, bullet, or ax. The forth shot is the one that took the life from him, pushing through the heart, and forcing him back to the top of the hill. He fell, bloodied and defeated, his sword inches from his dead fingers.
"George Armstrong Custer?" Shepard asked in shock, his eyes wide and unblinking.
Hackett nodded to him, and smiled. "He wasn't as bad a man as Shepherd, but he wasn't the most militarily and strategically sound either."
"Hmm... I'm related to the guy who invented the first optical character recognition device." Shepard mumbled, scratching at his head as he pondered his old ancestor. Hackett smirked and nodded slowly. "Yeah, I know, not very interesting." Shepard smiled back. "Any others?" Shepard pushed him further into the conversation, wondering how far his memory extended.
"There is another one, dating very far back. You'd be surprised how far my blood runs, and with the technology today, I could probably find people even further than this." Hackett began to retell his final story.
"But, sir, our men are in there too." The Earl of Surrey brought to the King's attention, pointing out to the mass of English red and Scottish blue, their swords clashing in an orchestra of steel.
"Yes..." The old king said, shrugging his shoulders and turning to face his vassal on his horse. "But we'll hit some of their as well... attack." He commanded, his face old but threatening. 'The Longshanks' he was known as, for his height and intimidating personality. The Earl did as was bid, and commanded his archers to fire.
"Fire." He whispered to his soldiers, most of them hearing and firing, with the others following by example. He didn't want to do it, but Longshanks was his king, and he had to obey his superior.
He watched as the arrows blotted out the sun, flying into the mass of friendlies and enemies, killing without a bias. The arrow volley ended, and the king looked to the Earl for another. "Fire." He said again, his men releasing and filling the enemy with another row of death. The twigs soared through the air, almost all of which hit their mark; Their mark was flesh, English or Scottish, The King didn't care who.
"Good... send in the reserves." The King muttered, turning away with his horse and personal guard, flashing his eyes quickly to the Earl. "You can lead the cavalry charge." He said, smiling at the man, and leaving him to his work.
He had always done his job, and he wouldn't stop today. He did as the King commanded, rallying his horsemen and charging forth to the mass of Scottish survivors. "For King and Country!" He yelled, drawing his sword from it's sheath and pointing it to the men in front of him, screaming a devilish sound, with their large swords at the ready.
The man they called 'Braveheart' was somewhere in this battle, and Earl prayed he would be fortunate enough not to fight him. He saw a man in the center of a Scottish war-band, a large claymore in his hands, blood sliding from the blade. He recognized the man's banner, the one he had made of cloth on his chest, he was of the house Donnelly.
With a single swing of his large sword, he cleaved the horse's legs from it's body, dropping the animal and man to the ground. The rest of the horsemen piled into the Scottish, some driving through them, others being knocked to the ground and killed on the grass.
The Earl hopped to his feet, and picked up his sword, seeing the Scotsman running for him. In this last moment of his life, he wondered if he had made the right choice. Now, he would die knowing that he sent hundreds of Englishmen to their graves, even telling his own men to fire on them, which was an act of betrayal. Though the King wouldn't care what happened to them, because he cared more for the gold on his head, than the men protecting it.
Was it right of him to blindly obey his king, even though it caused the death of several innocents? Should he have disobeyed him, and lost his head due to the traitorous act? He would never know the best outcome to the battle, or even if his side one, because Donnelly came at him with his sword, and hacked his head off with a single swing of the steel.
"Donnelly?" Shepard questioned, scratching his chin with a few fingers. "Any relation to Kenneth Donnelly?" He asked Hackett, speaking of his engineer Ken, who was also a Scotsman.
"Ha!" Hackett forced a laugh, remembering the man who he assigned to the Normandy. "Maybe... maybe." He nodded his head and looked up to the cockpit, seeing Joker struggle with the controls as they faced Earth, ready to fight the Reapers for the last time.
"You ready, sir?" Shepard asked, stepping down from the platform to let his Admiral give a speech.
He nodded to Shepard and cleared his throat, earning silence from the crew, who gave them their undivided attention. "My ancestors fought for different reasons. Shepherd wanted his revenge through blood and unnecessary killing. Custer wanted to get his riches by stealing it, and his ignorance cost him dearly. The Earl of Surrey thought he could follow his King to victory, and blindly did his bidding which also cost him his life." The soldiers weren't sure where Hackett was taking this, but they were intrigued to see where it would go.
"I've fought in many battles, and this one I'm sure will be my last, and will be the one I'm remembered for." He rested his hands on the railing of the platform, looking down at his soldiers. "The difference between me and my ancestors, is that I'm not fighting for revenge. I'm not fighting for fame. I'm not fighting for my boss. I'm fighting for my home, my country, and my loved ones." Soldiers nodded at his speech, some smiling to themselves.
"Don't fight for revenge. Don't fight for riches. Don't fight for fame, for you won't get any. That's your planet the Reapers have. Your families they mean to kill. Your houses they want to burn." He shoved his finger toward Earth, and out the window where several Reapers could be seen floating around aimlessly in space. Soldiers started clapping lightly, while some stared blankly, probably thinking of their families that were on Earth or may have died. "When this is over, you can't tell your family that you fought for your army. If you die, you can't tell your God that you were told by others to go forth and fight. This will not suffice. You need to do this on your own accord. I've said it before, you can pay a soldier to fight, but you can't pay him to believe. It's a mind-set, if you honestly think you can do it, then you can. So, now that all is said, trust your fellow man, not yourself alone. believe in our cause not in your paycheck. Fight for you, not for your leaders. Gentlemen, it's time to fight." He ended, the soldiers clapping and cheering for him, even Shepard gave an honest and pleased clap and smile.
"Good speech, sir." Shepard admitted, walking with him to the front of the Normandy.
"It won't matter if we don't win." Hackett said, stopping with Shepard and his personal guard by the exit.
"I know, sir. We will."
"Good, glad to hear it. I might just be able to right the wrongs of my ancestors, hopefully the universe sees us as heroes, and not the martyrs and villains my forefathers turned into."
"History is told by the victors of wars." Shepard stated, watching Hackett and his men walk out of the Normandy, and turn one last time to see Shepard.
"Indeed." He gave a fatherly smile to John, and gave a firm positive nod. "It was an honor serving with you, John."
"And you, Steven." The doors closed, and the battle was soon to begin.