There is a place on the Citadel, a bar to be exact, like many others. It has good music, good food, good service, and a good atmosphere. It is a place where you can take your friends, grab a protein-amenable drink, and speak about old times. It is in this place that once a year, on the Systems Alliance date of April 17th, the Turian barkeep walks to the door and turns off the flashing "OPEN" sign. This is a special date, a holiday even, and the amount of profit that the barkeep loses is surely staggering.
He doesn't care. There are some things more important than money.
The barkeep looks up at the clock, slowly cleaning a spotless, blue glass, one of eighteen. His two largest tables are placed side-by-side the center of the dance floor, with eighteen seats arrayed around them. No other tables are in sight. A soft song plays in the background, a wordless song that speaks of loss, of pain, but also of victory – of hope.
They should be here any minute now. They hadn't been late in thirteen years. He doubted they'd be late now.
He puts the glass down with a soft clink, and as if this was some signal, the door to the bar opens regardless of the fact that the lights were dimmed and the sign turned off. Three people step in, the first arrivals – one elderly woman, another, younger woman in the casual dress of an N7 commando, and a Krogan, large and imposing, yet with a smaller headplate than the norm for his people.
"Bah. I told you we'd get here first, Williams," the Krogan rumbles, holding out a hand that the younger woman reluctantly presses a credit chit into.
"Shut it, tanky. If you hadn't pressured us to leave so early…," the woman called 'Williams" replies, though a grin is clearly hidden behind her stern expression.
The elder woman gives a soft smile to the barkeep and a respectful nod. "Hello, Padonis," she says in a soft, cultured voice.
"Doctor Chakwas. Good to see you again. How's the wrist?" the barkeep, Padonis, responds, mandibles twitching into the Turian equivalent of a smile.
"Nothing that a bit of Serrice Ice Brandy couldn't cure, I'm sure. Any word from the others?"
"The other three shuttles just docked. They'll be here in a few minutes."
He was right. Within fifteen minutes, thirteen more people had walked into the bar, some laughing, some smiling, but all of them without a doubt happy, and they all seated themselves in what appeared to be preordained places – or perhaps just places they were used to sitting at.
There was a clearly ancient Salarian, who nevertheless walked as though he was in his prime, talking animatedly with a Drell in a black trenchcoat, who appeared to be listening more out of respect than actual interest – or comprehension, for that matter.
There was another Krogan, larger than the first, in red armor and with a thick, red headplate, having a soft conversation with a blue-armored Turian who had one half of his face, it seemed, replaced with a crude metal plate. They appeared to be reminiscing about old battles and old times.
There were two Asari, one clearly much older than the other but still as beautiful as most of her race, laughing politely at some joke a younger man wearing a tight "baseball" cap was regaling them with in the dim atmosphere, his movements controlled.
There was a Geth, one of the synthetics created by the Quarians more 300 years ago, appearing to annoy a grim-faced elderly man with a wicked scar down one eye with questions as to what the logic was behind carrying around an old rifle that hadn't been able to fire a shot in three decades.
There was a petite, hooded woman with eyes that glinted in the depths of her cowl seated next to a dark-skinned man, who was laughing into his drink at a crude story that a heavily tattooed woman was telling them, much to the chagrin of a dark-haired woman seated opposite her, who gave voice to her resigned disgust with the hint of a smile and a thick Australian accent.
It was clear that these people all shared a powerful bond, and were close friends regardless of their many differences. They laughed as they shared old stories they'd all heard a thousand times but would never grow tired of hearing. And they stopped talking as one as the final two people walked into the bar, gently locking the door behind them. One was a short Quarian woman, her envirosuit intricate, but elegantly tasteful, that had one arm locked with the man she stood next to, a tall, powerfully built human that carried himself with confidence – and a wide smile on his face.
Almost as one, the sixteen people seated at the table, as well as the Turian barkeep raised their glasses in the new arrivals' direction.
"About time you two made it. Was beginning to think you'd gotten lost," the blue-armored Turian called out with a grin.
"Can it, Garrus. Hard to get lost with your ugly acting a lighthouse in the fog," the man shot back in reply before a chuckle forced its way to his lips as Garrus grasped his chest in a mockery of emotional distress, the others laughing at this familiar display, and he and the Quarian woman beside him made their way to the head of the table, their drinks waiting for them.
The man pulled the chair out for his date, a gentle smile still present on his face before he too took his seat, and he raised his glass in a toast the moment he sat down, as all the eyes in the room had followed him, all voices had hushed.
"A whole year it's been since I've seen some of you. For some, that's far too long…," he begins, voice fading out momentarily as he looks to the red-armored Krogan, who returns his gaze with a nod. "…and for others, well, not long enough." He cast a grin towards the blue-armored Turian, who merely laughs along with the others. The fact that Garrus was seated closer to the speaker than any of the others save the Quarian robbed his words of any possible offense.
"This is the fourteenth time we've gathering like this, on this date. I, personally, am already looking forward to the next one. And I know that you'll all still be here, because we're all too damned stubborn – or stupid, in some cases – to die.
"It does my heart good to see everyone here with Tali and I, to just sit around with everyone without worrying about Reapers or Collectors or rogue Spectres. To just sit, and drink, and laugh as friends – this was what we were fighting for, what we fought for. What we won.
"And I couldn't have done it without you."
The cheer that rose up at the conclusion of "Commander" John Shepard's speech made him laugh in embarrassment at the sincerity of it. It would be clear to any observer, now, just what kind of bond these people shared – it was him. Here was a man that had led them across the Galaxy, from one hellish mission to another, and pulled them back out of it, only to take them somewhere worse – and not one of them regretted it. Together, they'd saved all the sapient species of the galaxy, and though it had come at great cost, they had won, beaten back a threat millions of years old. They were the best of the best, paragons and renegades both, but here, seated together as equals, as friends, they could escape the limelight that had followed them the past fourteen years and just be themselves.
And not one of them doubted who it was that brought it all about.
"To Shepard!" Garrus says, standing with a wink of the eye covered by his targeting visor. "A soldier so tough that when he went to meet Death, Death gave him a raincheck! Our Commander!"
"To Shepard! Our Commander!" the others echoed, all standing, even Legion, who was holding an empty glass. It had taken them a few years to get it to understand just what a "toast" exactly was for, but it had grasped the concept eventually.
In her seat, Tali'Shepard vas Normandy nar Rayya turns to look at the blushing man beside her, knowing that regardless of how much he protested, this meant the world to him – to know just how much the only people in the galaxy he'd ever been able to call "friends" cared for him.
"To Shepard," she whispers, just loud enough for him to hear, and he turns to regard her with a quirked brow and that same halfsmile that had changed her life all those years ago.
"My Commander."