Author Notes: Some of you may have noticed that I have added this prologue after already publishing the first five chapters of the main story. I decided to retrace my steps a little a give our heroine a solid background to start from since I'll end up referencing these events at different points through the story. I'll be going back to the main story now that this (longer than anticipated) prologue is completed.

This story is intended to be a re-telling of the events of the Mass Effect games. The main plot will be based on events in the Bioware storyline (and possibly some side missions), but everything else will be original content. You will start to see more and more original dialogue, situations and background as the story goes on in an attempt to delve deeper into character development and relationships, while still keeping them "in-character." Eventually, I will foster a Garrus/FemShep romance, but it will be slow, so please be patient. I wasn't a big fan of how ME portrayed the romance aspect of the game, so I'll be tinkering with that a bit. Still, this is primarily going to be an adventure fanfic, so the other characters are going to get lots of screen time as well. Also, as a prelude, the Shepard in this story is an Earthborn/Sole Survivor/Soldier Class.

Lastly, Mass Effect doesn't belong to me and neither do any of the characters. I'm just borrowing them for a while.

Reviews and constructive criticisms are welcome. Enjoy!

Prologue

(April 6, 2172 - Eleven Years Prior)

"Ry, hurry it up!" The voice hissed with urgency, its owner glancing anxiously at his wristwatch. "Four minutes and counting."

Riley Shepard gritted her teeth and jammed the 9mm into her waistband, freeing up both hands to rake the crisp bills off the counter into the duffel bag at her feet. They were cutting it close, too close.

"Almost done…"

Her team had been casing this bank for the past two weeks, studying the security guard patrol patterns, mapping customer traffic volume and even triggering alarms to determine police reaction time. She had committed the floor plan, vault codes and the employee emergency protocol to memory. But none of that seemed to have helped. What had started as a well-developed plan had quickly evolved into chaos. Now, they were only four minutes away from disaster.

Like clockwork, the sound of sirens began to wail in the distance. Three minutes now, and full force of the Chicago PD would arrive to ruin their day.

She ripped the zipper closed. "Got it! Let's go!" she yelled, leaping over the prone forms of the several distraught customers and employees in her path. Duffel bag in hand, she slammed into the emergency exit door at a full sprint, holding it open as her three companions dashed through.

The cool spring air did nothing to soothe the burning in her lungs as the group tore through the maze of darkened alleyways. A thin sheen of sweat coated her skin under the black balaclava and her breathing came in small ragged gasps. Only when they reached the pre-designated rally point did the four teenagers begin to slow to a jog and remove their masks.

"That…was…awesome!" heaved Hutch between gasps for air, grinning from ear to ear. Despite being only sixteen, Hutch could easily pass for a full adult. His six foot frame and linebacker physique gave him an air of intimidation, though his fun-loving personality and carefree attitude often shattered the illusion as soon as one got to know him. A shock of neon green hair fell over his left eye as he nudged the team's youngest member playfully, raising his hand for a high-five.

Kit, only twelve, had to jump to reach Hutch's proffered palm. The polar opposite of Hutch, Kit could manipulate his slender build with a measure of stealth and speed that rivaled that of even the most accomplished professional thief. His small stature enabled him to infiltrate potential targets and conduct reconnaissance without detection. While Hutch was the brawn of the team, Kit was the eyes and ears. His ceaseless energy and innocence of youth had endeared him to all of the team, but he and Hutch had developed a particularly close bond, often teasing one another affectionately.

"Hutch...," chided Shepard, eyeing their antics. "Save the celebration until we make it back to The Hotel. You know that."

He nodded in response, but continued to whisper excitedly to Kit as they discussed the heist with adrenaline-induced euphoria.

"That really was too close, Ry…" said Blane in a low voice, dropping back and matching her pace. At twenty-one, Blane was four years her senior. His soft-spoken presence provided a level of maturity and level-headedness that Shepard had come to rely upon since he had requested to join her team within the last year. Despite being older than her, he had always accepted her authority and offered suggestions and criticisms only when she requested them, which she often did. Right now, though, his normally steady temperament was laced with concern.

"No shit," Shepard replied curtly, slowing her pace until they were out of earshot of Hutch and Kit. "I told him it was too risky. I warned him..." Her voice began to rise as she clenched her fists at her sides.

Blane remained silent, recognizing her need to vent her frustration.

"It was too crowded, the alarm systems were too advanced…there were too many unknowns! We had to leave too much to chance, and for what? To make a name for ourselves?" She was seething now, a snowball of red anger gathering momentum. She shook her head, sighing. "Having four minutes to spare is concerning enough, but, with that security guard…"

"…we were only seconds away," finished Blane somberly.

She nodded. It was the situation with the security guard that had bothered her most about the whole ordeal. She had her reservations about the target from the beginning. The bank was in a conspicuous location, offering little by way of covered escape routes. To make matters worse, it was newly renovated, which meant an influx of customer traffic, state of the art silent alarms and heightened security presence. It was this last factor that nearly compromised the whole operation, when an extra security guard was unexpectedly added to the rotation in the midst of the heist. He emerged from the staff room to find frightened employees and customers prostrate on the tile floor with four armed robbers in ski masks standing over them. It was only Shepard's notoriously quick reflexes that saved Hutch's life. The security guard was a mere ten feet away from him and preparing to pull the trigger when she beat him to it, shooting him in the thigh from across the room. It hadn't been a kill shot, but she doubted that would grant her any leniency in the eyes of the court.

It wasn't the first time she had fired her weapon, but she resented having to do so when the situation could have been so easily avoided altogether. Had she been given the option, she would have chosen from a laundry list of other smaller banks that could have produced just as much bounty. That's what they had always done before – selecting targets with outdated alarm systems and security guards who preferred napping over making rounds. Go in, scare everybody into submission, take the money, leave. Usually, they didn't even have to draw their weapons.

But that was before Raul. Raul was the current leader of the Tenth Street Reds, a street gang composed of about seventy teenagers and young adults including Shepard and her team. Ruthless and quick-tempered, Raul had assumed leadership of the gang nine months ago when their former leader, Bryant, had been arrested during a botched jewelry store heist.

Shepard had liked Bryant. It was under his reign that she had found a family in the Reds. Abandoned by her father before she was even born and orphaned by her mother who died from complications in childbirth, she had spent her first ten years of life bouncing around a defunct foster care system made up of drug-addled couples looking for a government tax write-off rather than a daughter. At eleven, she decided to take her chances on the street, relying on sympathetic fry cooks for scraps of food and inattentive passer-bys for a quick pickpocket. It wasn't long before she unwittingly stumbled into Red territory, attempting a dip into the pockets of none other than Bryant himself. She was lucky. Had it been Raul, he would have surely snapped her neck right on the spot. But Bryant was impressed enough with her tenacity that he overlooked her misstep, offering her a spot in the Reds. It wasn't long before she started accompanying small teams on raids, quickly commanding respect for her natural athletic ability and cool composure under pressure. Several team leaders lobbied Bryant to make her a permanent fixture on their teams over the few years that followed. By sixteen, she had earned her own team, and a spot in Bryant's inner circle. Bryant commanded a strong loyalty within the gang which, in turn, elevated her own status as one of his most trusted subordinate leaders. Under Bryant's leadership, the gang functioned as a well-oiled machine, committing only the petty crimes necessary for the survival of the group and coasting under the radar of law enforcement. Bellies stayed full, morale was high – one could almost pretend they were part of a normal family.

But with Raul, that had all changed. Raul believed the Tenth Street Reds were too soft. He longed for the fame and notoriety that the leaders of the Crips and the Bloods possessed, and that required publicity. He had begun upping the ante, issuing pistols and assault rifles to even the youngest members of the gang and encouraging their use, even when violence was unnecessary. Order was maintained through fear and strict discipline. Steadily, the small-time heists of the past turned into full scale operations in high traffic areas, often treading on the territory of neighbor gangs and invoking bloody retaliation. Raul began to create designated teams to break into the drug trafficking and arms smuggling markets, increasing the attentions of local law enforcement. As the publicity of the Reds increased, so did the death toll.

Shepard shook her head to clear her thoughts. She drew in a deliberate breath. "Raul is getting out of hand, Blane."

"Be careful," Blane responded automatically. "Talk like that can get you killed these days."

"Apparently, avoiding the subject can too," she pointed out, alluding to Hutch's earlier brush with death. "You know, I might still have enough support leftover from Bryant's era to protect me. Raul can't touch me without pissing off a good chunk of the gang. Even he isn't dumb enough to create that kind of rift."

"Maybe…" he trailed off, unconvinced. Clearly, he wasn't comfortable with the idea.

She glanced sidelong at Blane, running a hand through the soft blonde fuzz on her head. She had started buzzing her head when she was fourteen, discovering that hiding obvious indicators of womanhood was not only safer on the streets but was also helpful at masking her identity during heists.

"I'm not thrilled about the idea either," she sighed finally, "but I might be the only one left who can challenge him." It was true. Most of Bryant's inner circle had been arrested at the same time he had been caught. She was the only one with enough status and credibility to garner support from the other gang members who were too afraid to voice their concerns themselves. As powerful as he was, Raul still couldn't ignore the desires of the majority. "Maybe he'll back down when he sees that the rest of the gang feels the same way."

Blane opened his mouth to speak, but was cut short as they approached the entrance to The Hotel. The Hotel was the large abandoned warehouse that the Tenth Street Reds called home. It had gotten its moniker ironically, since nothing about the decrepit structure could be likened to the comfort of an actual hotel. But, it offered shelter and ample room for the gang to sleep, eat and socialize. That was more than Shepard could say about most of the places she had slept before joining the Reds.

Once inside The Hotel, she made a beeline to the stairwell. She knew exactly where Raul would be this time of day. Hutch and Kit followed her curiously, while Blane had already started ascending the stairs ahead of her, anticipating her intentions.

They found Raul on the fourth floor, head bent over a map of the city. He utilized this area as his makeshift war room. Here, he monitored current operations and selected new targets based on prominence and visibility. A battered radio sat in the corner, its dial set to the local news station. He measured the success of their crimes based on how many times the Reds were mentioned during primetime.

He looked up as she approached, along with many other gang members that were lounging in the area. "You're back," he stated matter-of factly, "Is that the bounty?" He tilted his chin toward the duffel bag slung around her shoulder.

In answer, she let the bag slide to the floor with a loud thud.

A thin-lipped smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he crossed muscular arms over his broad chest. "I've got to hand it to you, Ry. You've caught us a big fish. They're already saying it's this year's most daring crime on the radio."

"Daring? Try idiotic. Hutch was almost killed."

"You expected it to be easy?" he drawled, raising his eyebrows until they almost disappeared into the jet black spikes of his hair.

"No, I expected it to be damn near impossible." She struggled to keep her voice even, though her anger threatened to boil over. "How could I not, with all these risks you are making us take in the name of publicity? It's reckless, and our people are dying for it."

A hush fell over the room as all eyes turned in her direction. There was a challenge in her words, a question as to Raul's competence to lead the Reds. To the average gang member, it was a death wish. But this was Riley Shepard, beloved and respected by much of the clan. The outcome was uncertain.

Raul narrowed his dark eyes, bolts of cold fury directed toward her. The silence seemed to stretch on for ages as Shepard steadily met his gaze with her clear blue eyes. She could see him calculating, mentally weighing his options. Finally, he spoke.

"You want an easier assignment? Fine." His voice was clipped but accommodating, betraying none of the malice she had seen in his eyes just moments ago. He bent down over his desk and scribbled a few lines of information on a sheet of paper, briefly consulting the map. "Here," he said, as he tossed it in her direction with a flick of his wrist. It fluttered slowly to her feet as she bent down to retrieve it.

"And the others? I'm sure they'd appreciate a reprieve in the suicide missions too." She was pressing her luck, she knew, but she didn't just come here for herself. She could literally see the eyes of her fellow gang members light up hopefully at the prospect.

Raul drew in a long breath, releasing it slowly. "I'll see what I can do," he forced through gritted teeth.

"Appreciated." Without a backward glance, she turned on her heel and headed back down the stairs, numerous pairs of eyes staring wide-eyed at her retreating form.

Raul waited patiently for the activity in the war room to resume its usual din before summoning two of his subordinates with a twitch of his finger. Extracting another piece of paper from the stack, he created an identical copy of the address and time information he had just provided Shepard. "Your next assignment," he said, sliding the paper across the desk toward them. His eyes glittered as a wry smile crossed his lips. "We've got a problem that needs solving."

Shepard double-checked the strip of paper she held between her hands. Squinting from her rooftop perch across the street, she could just barely make out the street number emblazoned on the glass door of the jewelry shop: 1402. She glanced down again. The number matched the figure scribbled on the paper exactly.

Looking to the adjacent roof on her left, she identified the hulking mass that was Hutch and gave him a thumbs-up. She watched intently as Hutch passed the message to Kit and Blane, who had taken up similar surveillance positions on the street level.

This was the place. They were good to go.

She glanced at her watch. It was a silver Seiko that she had picked off a careless businessman who was foolish enough to walk down a Chicago alleyway solo at night. After she'd shoved a gun in his face and relieved him of his wallet and jewelry, he had genuinely thanked her for not killing him. One didn't get many expressions of gratitude in her line of work. In fact, it was the first one she could ever recall having received. A nice watch was a dime a dozen for a criminal like her – but she had kept his to commemorate the occasion in a rare moment of sentiment.

The quartz face now read 3:23 PM. Two more minutes and she would give the signal to set the plan in motion. Surprisingly, Raul appeared to have delivered on his promise of a less risky assignment. The target was nestled in a quiet neighborhood. No customers had entered in the last forty-five minutes and the only employee was a portly woman currently engrossed in a trashy romance novel. Shepard pulled the black mask over her face and raised the grey hood on her faded leather jacket. Her 9mm was cool against the skin of her lower back. She made her way soundlessly down the fire escape to the street level, linking up with Kit and Hutch in the shadows.

On her signal, Blane entered the jewelry store.

The plan was a simple one. They had executed it successfully many times in the past. Blane, with his unassuming crew cut and faded blue jeans, took on the guise of a love struck suitor shopping for an engagement ring. He would spend the next fifteen minutes casually chatting up the clerk and pretending to peruse the jewelry displays. Simultaneously, he would determine the presence of any previously unaccounted for employees or customers and locate any visible alarm triggers or security cameras. He would then position himself so as to immediately subdue the clerk as soon as the rest of the team entered.

The allotted fifteen minutes ticked away slowly until, finally, her watch read 3:40. In a flurry of shouts, the trio rushed into the store. Blane whipped into action instantly, grabbing the clerk and forcing her to the ground. She sobbed in terror as his knee pressed into her lower back, his fingers deftly securing a blindfold over her eyes. A small stack of zip ties lay by his side, awaiting their turn.

"Cameras: left front by the door and center behind the counter. Trigger alarm: under cash register," he barked, without looking up from his work. He began to bind her hands while stuffing a sock into her mouth to quiet her incessant cries.

His clear and concise instructions directed the team's movements and, within moments, the cameras were coated in black spray paint.

A collective sigh of relief passed around the room as the team removed their masks. The initial assault was always the most chaotic and dangerous part of the process. Now that they had established control of the store, they could relax a little and slow down the pace.

Shepard withdrew two black pouches from her jacket, keeping one for herself and tossing the other to Kit with a grin. "Have at it. The shinier the better," she quipped.

Kit flashed her a wide, toothy smile. Trying to find the biggest, most gaudy piece of jewelry in the store had always been a favorite game of his. He flitted between the cases of jewelry in search of a winner.

"You in position, Hutch?" Shepard asked distractedly, practiced eyes already scanning a row of diamond necklaces for the most profitable stone cuts. Hutch had drawn the short straw during the planning phase and was to be the designated lookout for the duration of the heist. It was a lackluster job, but essential. Right now, Hutch would be positioning himself by the rear emergency exit, ensuring that their escape route remained clear and keeping an eye out for any passersby.

"Not exactly," came the response.

But it wasn't Hutch's voice. It was deeper, colder.

She knew who it was before she even turned to face him.

Sure enough, Raul stood near the rear exit, flanked on each side by one of his lackeys. Tall, stocky and muscular, they were an imposing picture in the dim lighting. Held firmly between Raul's arms, Hutch stood motionless, the dark silhouette of a 9mm pistol pressed against his temple.

Shepard leaned back against the display case and crossed her arms over her chest, feigning casual indifference. His surprise entrance was intended to unsettle her, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction by appearing so.

"Ah, Raul. I was wondering what your game was. It's not like you to honor your promises," she said coldly.

He let out a humorless laugh in response, appraising her over Hutch's shoulder. She could feel his calculating gaze like a physical chill on her skin, sizing her up. If he could, he would try to gain the upper hand through intimidation.

She'd be damned if she let that happen. Even so, she could feel her heartbeat quickening in her throat.

With a tilt of his chin, he signaled to the two others. "Get their weapons."

Shepard clenched her jaw as unwelcome hands traveled up and down her body, lingering unnecessarily as they passed under her shirt. Both her pistol and switchblade were confiscated and added to the growing pile of her team's only defenses at the opposite end of the room.

Satisfied they were no longer a threat, Raul released Hutch, roughly shoving him aside. He dropped his pistol unceremoniously to his side and began to pace slowly between the maze of display cases, peering disinterestedly at the items within as he passed. Shepard followed him with her eyes, patiently waiting for his next move.

"You've got a lot of potential, Ry," he began evenly. "Smart, quick on your feet, willing to do what it takes to get the job done. I can see why Bryant promoted you so quickly."

"Flattered," she said flatly, her sarcasm earning her a glare of disdain.

"But, we have some fundamental differences, you and I," he continued. "I have a vision for the Reds – power, glory, wealth, respect, admiration. To do that, we have to make sacrifices. We have to take more risks to reap the rewards. But you, you would rather us stagnant in keeping with Bryant's philosophies. Play it safe, don't stir the pot, just survive…" He looked at her with contempt. "Don't you ever get tired of just surviving? Don't you want more?"

"I do," she agreed, "but not at this cost. Not at the expense of our lives."

He shook his head, halting his advance a few feet away from her. "Then we will just have to agree to disagree. And, on principal, I'm okay with disagreeing" His icy gaze connected with hers, his voice lowering with spite as he continued. "But you couldn't keep it to yourself. You had to make it public…question my methods in front of the group." His voice began to rise with anger, each word dripping with venom. "You've sown a seed of doubt in them about my competency."

He paused, appraising her with distaste when she refused to respond. Her blue eyes met his gaze steadily, her chin held high in defiance.

"And I can't have that," he said simply. He leveled his 9mm at her.

The moment she had seen him standing there with a gun to Hutch's head, she had expected it would end something like this. What she hadn't expected, however, was the small blur of youthful energy that darted out from behind the counter and threw itself headlong into the Raul's torso, knocking him off balance before scampering out of reach.

The split second of shock was all she needed to close the distance between them. She was on top of Raul in an instant, her momentum flinging both of them to the ground in a jumble of tangled limbs.

She recovered first, rolling smoothly to her feet. Flying fists and neon green hair flashed in her periphery as the rest of her team grappled with Raul's minions. And there – the metallic glint of Raul's pistol, mere feet away. She lunged toward it.

Her fingertips just grazed the cold metal as she felt a strong hand clench around her ankle, halting her progress. A simultaneous yank brought her crashing down onto her elbows painfully and the world tilted as she was flipped roughly onto her back. Raul crouched over her, pure rage emanating from his every pore.

"A gunshot was too good for you anyway," he growled, his words dripping with malice.

In reply, she bucked her hips, kicking hard. Her right boot connected solidly in the center of his chest with a hollow thud. He grunted in pain as she backpedaled away from him and struggled back to her feet. A full head shorter than him and easily sixty pounds lighter, she was no match for him in strength. If she could just reach that gun…

But he was upon her in an instant, grasping the collar of her jacket and shoving her forcefully against a nearby display case. Stars exploded behind her eyes as the back of her skull connected with the thick glass plating. The adjacent pane fractured from the impact with a loud shatter. He had her pinned now, his forearm pressing unrelentingly against her throat. His flashing eyes never left her face as his other arm stretched out searchingly, open palm combing the inside of the broken case until finally closing around a large, jagged piece of glass.

"I think this will do the trick," he drawled, baring his teeth. He was only inches from her face. She could smell the sweat on his skin, the garlic on his breath. "But just in case, we'd better test it out."

Searing pain engulfed the right side of her face. The razor sharp edge bit into her cheekbone, making its way toward her jawline.

"Shut up goddammit!" he hissed vehemently in her ear. Suddenly, the piece of glass was pressing painfully against her lips in warning. She hadn't even known she was screaming.

BANG!

A deafening crack rang out in the store. Raul ducked instinctively, slackening his hold on Shepard as she twisted free of his grasp. The metallic tang of blood was thick on her tongue. She spat in disgust, wiping her mouth with her sleeve and steeling herself for another attack.

But it never came. A stillness had instead descended on the room, the eerie silence in stark contrast to the mayhem of just seconds before. All eyes gravitated toward the back of the store, where a small figure was doubled over in pain. She could see Kit's petite hands pressed to his side, covered in a film of bright red. Behind him stood a solitary figure, one of Raul's lackeys. His eyes were wide as he let the smoking pistol drop to the floor with a harsh clang.

"I…I didn't mean to. We were wrestling and….and it just went off…," he stammered, shaking his head repeatedly. His eyes darted around in pronounced panic.

Shepard felt frozen in time, struggling to comprehend it all. The pool of blood, the gun, Kit's body on the floor. The dots were all there, but her mind refused to connect them.

It was the familiar wail of approaching sirens that jarred the group back to life. Raul sprang into action, grabbing his own pistol off the floor and slamming in roughly in his waistband. "That bitch must have tipped them off," he grunted, gesturing to the now vacant corner where the clerk had been. She was no doubt long gone by now, having taken advantage of their preoccupation to escape. He jogged to the rear door, looking back expectantly at his two underlings. "Let's go!" he barked. The urgency in his voice spurred the two to action. Kit's shooter followed numbly behind his companions as they rushed from the store.

Hutch was already kneeling over Kit when she reached him, Blane close behind. Kit clung on to life feebly, his skin ghostly white and his chest heaving with shaky, uneven breaths. Hutch cradled his head gently in his arms. "C'mon buddy. It'll be alright. Just gotta get you to a doctor and they'll patch you right up," he said, his voice cracking with desperation.

The harsh blare of the sirens began to fill the room, closing quickly. Her mouth set in a grim line, she leveled her gaze at Blane. "You have to go," she stated matter-of-factly.

"Ry…,"

She cut him off with a shake of her head. "If he's going to have a chance, one of us needs to stay with him. I would have been dead if it wasn't for him. I owe him this much." Her eyes were clear, stubborn resolve shining in them.

It was useless to argue when her mind was so clearly made up, he knew.

Shaking his head in begrudging obedience, Blane rose and placed a steady hand on Hutch's shoulder, tugging him gently. "Time to go, Hutch."

But Hutch would have none of it, shrugging off Blane's hand roughly. His eyes were wild with grief, his rationality slipping away like sand through fingers. He remained bent over Kit's prone form, mumbling repeated reassurances.

The sirens were almost on top of them now, and there was no time for sympathy. Shepard stood quickly, sliding her hands under Hutch's arms and yanking him to his feet with a great heave. "Blane, get him out of here!" Shepard yelled as he jumped in to assist her. Blane nodded, grunting with effort as he forcibly dragged Hutch toward the rear exit.

"No! No!" Hutch screamed, struggling against Blane's iron hold. She could hear the frantic shrieks following him as Blane wrestled him across the floor, finally shoving him out the door.

And then they were alone – her and her youngest protégé. She swiftly shrugged off her jacket, sawing off the fabric hood with a nearby piece of glass and gingerly pressing the thick cotton to Kit's side to staunch the bleeding. He didn't stir. He was completely still now, and she could no longer detect the rise and fall in his chest. She swallowed the thick lump forming in her throat.

She had just pressed two shaky fingers to Kit's throat, searching for a pulse, when screeching tires and slamming car doors announced the presence of Chicago's finest.

Her hands were in the air before they even entered.

In the tumult that followed, Shepard found herself face down on her stomach and surrounded by a variety of loaded weapons. The metallic clanking of handcuffs as they snapped around her wrists sounded muffled as she followed their sharp commands in a dreamlike haze. Not once did she offer any resistance. Instead, she watched in silence as the paramedics knelt over Kit, shaking their heads as they tried to locate a pulse that she already knew didn't exist.

"What about the drugs? The weapons? We know the Reds are hiding the caches in a warehouse somewhere in the city. We know the identities of some of the suppliers. So where's the goods?"

Shepard let her head drop into her hands, running her palms back and forth across her spiky scalp in exasperation. Her elbows rested on the solitary table in the room. "Look, I told you," she replied tiredly, "I wasn't involved in any of the drug or weapons smuggling side of things. That's not my department."

Detective Schultz slammed his palms down on the interrogation room's metal table in frustration, his mustache puffing out and he snorted indignantly.

Raising her head from her hands, she met his glare steadily. "If you don't believe it when I say it, then just think about it logically." Her tone was slow and measured. "If I was so informed about the intricacies of all the gang's operations, would they really have left me there to fall into your hands for interrogation?" She shook her head, answering her own question. "No, I would be too valuable. They would have either ensured my escape, or they would have ensured my silence by killing me."

The detective eyed her warily, taking in her rumpled clothing, the fresh cuts on her face and the remnants of dried blood still under her fingernails.

"Looks like they tried…," he observed.

She didn't respond, merely running her fingers lightly across the track of newly stitched skin on her cheek and upper lip absently. With the violent crime rate so high in the Chicago slums, Medi-gel was often scarce. She'd had to settle with the traditional method of dressing wounds.

"Alright," he ceded with a huff, letting his hands fall to rest on his hips. "You don't know anything about the drug and weapons. You've told us what you know about Raul. All that's left is to talk about you, Riley."

"Hooray," she said flatly. She was sure this conversation would not be pleasant.

He raised an eyebrow at her sarcasm as he withdrew a small datapad from the inside pocket of his sport coat. "Let's see," he mused thumbing through the virtual pages. "Age: 17. Mother: Hannah Shepard, deceased. Father: Unknown. Associations: The Tenth Street Reds…." he trailed off as he continued to scroll through.

Shepard propped her chin up on the heel of her hand disinterestedly, elbow resting on the table.

"Ah, here we are," he exclaimed finally. "Outstanding Warrants: 18. Larceny, trespassing, criminal mischief, grand theft auto, burglary, armed robbery, assault, assault and battery..." He ticked away each separate charge on his fingers, glaring at her distastefully as he completed reading the list. "And these are just the crimes we were able to get enough evidence to get a warrant." He paused pointedly, waiting for her response.

Shrugging her shoulders, she looked at him apathetically. "I don't know what you want me to say here," she said finally. She knew enough not to admit to anything, but she also saw no point in denying it with the overwhelming evidence against her.

Detective Schultz shook his head slowly in disappointment. "If it were up to me, I would charge you as an adult and have you locked away for a very, very long time. Quite frankly, I think you're a menace to society and deserve nothing less for your crimes," he said blatantly.

She nodded, expecting as much.

"But not everybody agrees with me," he continued gruffly.

Shepard watched in confusion as the detective gestured at some unknown individual through the two-way glass in the interrogation room. A moment later, another man stepped into the harsh light.

She barely recognized him at first. His signature faded blue jeans and black hoodie had been replaced by a tailored suit, his normally ruffled dark hair combed to the side smartly. A large, golden detective badge hung from a lanyard around his neck.

"Blane," she breathed, her face a mirror of confusion and shock.

"Hi Ry," he returned with a lopsided grin. She could see him grimace at the effort. His nose had clearly been broken in the fight and recently reset. A stark white bandage now covered its bridge to hold it in place.

"I don't…how…," she stammered, her shock getting the best of her. She took a deep, measured breath as she fought to organize her thoughts and regain her composure. She started again evenly, "What's going on here?" Her gaze flitted back and forth between Blane and Schultz suspiciously.

Schultz was the first to speak. "Detective Chase here has been on an undercover assignment with The Tenth Street Reds since we began to notice the dangerous shift toward violence after the previous leader was taken down. He's been busy gathering the necessary intelligence on Raul and monitoring the gang's operations."

Her fists clenched against the edge of the table, her knuckles white. All this time, her teammate, her friend, had all been a lie. She had believed it all and let him in on all their secrets. He knew almost as much as she did about the Reds, thanks to her blind trust in him. How could she have been so ignorant as to have not even suspected him?

Anger at her own shortsightedness transformed quickly into fury at Blane himself for misleading all of them. "How could you?" she demanded sharply, ice in her gaze and her voice razor sharp.

Blane faltered slightly at the hate in her eyes. While he had seen it directed at others before, she had only ever directed warm camaraderie and composed assurance at him. Still, past the verbal onslaught of anger and bitterness, he could just detect the faint hint of hurt at his betrayal in her voice.

"I was only trying to take down Raul. I never had anything against you or Hutch or Kit. That friendship was genuine," he explained, emphasizing his final words ardently.

"You should be thanking him, you know," broke in Detective Schultz, "He took some time off his double life to come in here and defend you."

"Defend me?"

Schultz nodded, continuing, "Seems Chase thinks that, while you are certainly extremely misguided, you don't deserve to be in prison for most of your life."

Shepard scoffed in disbelief, turning to Blane. "Don't deserve it? You've seen everything I've done firsthand! I didn't think the law had that much of a gray area."

"Perhaps," nodded Blane, "but you're not like Raul and the others. You're not the cold blooded, heartless killers they are. You stood up to the senseless violence, trying to protect us on your team. You have integrity, moral courage, loyalty…" He sighed, shaking his head. "I'm not dismissing the crimes you've committed. You need to be punished for them, certainly. What I'm suggesting is that your punishment shouldn't be the same as Raul and his lackeys. There's a distinct difference between them and you. You don't deserve to rot in prison for the rest of your life like they do. They are too far gone, but you can still make something out of your life."

She blinked at his surprising assessment of her. Nobody had ever described her as anything more than an unredeemable criminal, nor had she ever seen herself as such.

"What are you suggesting?" she said slowly, after a long pause.

"You turn eighteen in five days. At that time, we can either charge you as an adult for your crimes and begin the judicial proceedings, or we can hand you over to the Alliance military for immediate enlistment. My father is a recruiter. He's agreed to see you," Blane proposed, appraising her reaction hopefully.

Detective Schultz glanced pointedly at Blane, clearly unhappy with the idea. "Don't make it sound so easy, Detective Chase," he chided. Then, turning his attention to her, "They've only agreed to accept you if specific criteria are met. You'll have physical screenings, mental aptitude tests and psych profiles you'll have to pass. Most importantly, one slip up, no matter how insignificant, and you're back here watching that poor security guard up on the witness stand talking about how you shot him in cold blood." He shook his head. "You're lucky they're so desperate for soldiers right now trying to expand the fleet and all, or you'd be doing that anyway."

Shepard looked both of them squarely in the eye. She didn't know anything about the military or space travel or alien species, but still, it was a no-brainer.

"Where do I sign?"