DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE MASS EFFECT FRANCHISE OR COMMANDER SHEPARD.
Whoa. Shoulda done this quicker. But there was a landslide of exams, so, no time to update. But, here it is. Much better. Rather angsty. Bit o' confession time towards the end, portrayed in a flashback. Will make the next chapter with a slight bit of smut, suggestiveness, more romance.
By the way, there's a reference to a particular, popular RPG that BioWare made sometime before ME2. Can you find it? If you can, you gets a cookiez! xD
Abnegation
Shepard
"Shit, shit, sh- Whoa - Shit!"
Shepard narrowly dodged a huge glob of Thresher Maw acid that splashed right in front of him, feeling some of the acid sear slightly through his armor. As he dashed away and in the direction of the second Thresher Maw, he fired the Collector Particle Beam at the monstrous, towering beast.
Grinning in triumph as he heard it die as the Particle Beam struck flesh, he spun around and tried to get a clear shot at the first Thresher Maw, but it had disappeared.
What the -
Behind him, it was behind him, he realized it when he heard the rumbling, when he had felt the shaking of the ground, like something was tunneling underneath it, which was true -
Shepard spun around but fell backwards, fell right on his ass as he so eloquently thought, the Particle Beam clattering against the rocky terrain as it skittered across the ground, and the Thresher Maw rose to full length, towering over even the mountains next to it, and Shepard felt fear, true fear, fear that he hadn't felt for a long time.
The fear hadn't snared all his instincts and senses, which had been honed by years of intense warfare in unimaginable circumstances and simple training. He at least managed to crawl a few feet away before he heard the startlingly-clear sound of a Thresher Maw spitting acid.
In those few seconds, he had somehow managed to clearly remember every detail, from the image of the Thresher Maw acid splashing onto his leg, the memory of Miranda rushing over to his side, to the memory of Garrus picking up the Collector Particle Beam and dashing the Thresher Maw's brains out all over the rocky plateau, before everything was washed away with the red haze of complete, absolute, unimaginable pain.
Someone was screaming. Shepard wondered who it was and why that person didn't shut up.
Then he realized that he was the one who was screaming.
Everything came flooding back - his vision, his memories, and ... the pain.
Through the red haze, he made out vague, dark shapes towering above him, rushing about in blurred motions.
"- another dose!"
" - heart rate's flying, he won't-"
"- he WILL-"
The voices became mixed and jumbled, fragments of sentences running into one another, Shepard unable to hear anything coherent. His vision became extremely blurry.
A sudden rush, as though a rush of adrenaline filled his senses. He took a raspy, large breath and tried to sit up, tried to see what was happening. But his soldier's reflexes were being dulled. He tilted his head slightly, and before he passed out, he managed to get a glimpse of Doctor Gerinsy frantically fiddling with his console, blood smeared all over his lab coat.
It was a dream, was the first coherent thought that came into Shepard's half-conscious mind.
Yes, that was it ... The Threshers Maws, the acid, the pain, the voices, Doctor Gerinsy ... all a dream. He was going to wake up in his bed on the SR-2, just another boring day of playing the peacekeeper, another normal day of killing mercenaries and monstrosities for Commander Shepard, Council Spectre ...
The first thing he noticed was the IV drop hooked to his arm. The fear hit him with all the subtlety of a gunship's missile.
"No," Shepard wheezed out, disbelief and panic flooding him as he remembered -
The Thresher Maws, the acid, my leg -
Shepard groaned with a cross between denial and disbelief as he saw his left leg.
I'm screwed.
His left leg was barely recognizable, his upper leg covered in blood-stained metal, glowing blue conduits located at the links of the bones, the rest of his foot mercifully covered with a thick - albeit bloodied - sheet. When he tried moving the remains of his leg, he was rewarded with barely any motion and a burst of pain.
Panic flared.
Then it was instantly replaced by something else, and Shepard lost himself to it completely - blind, complete, senseless fury.
Garrus
Never in his life would Garrus Vakarian ever imagine Shepard going through this.
Never would he have ever imagined Commander Shepard ... in a wheelchair.
To be fair, Garrus had heard that Shepard only had to roll around in the thing for a few months before Gerinsy and the med-team could finish repairing his leg. But a part of him had a nervous, unsettling thought.
What if this was it for Shepard? What if that battle with the Thresher Maws had been his last?
Garrus wasn't naive; he knew that the commander was only human, having only gotten this far by skill, skill that was driven by his natural soldier genes and the luck of just being at the right place at the right time. He had seen the commander in some of his weakest moments.
His thoughts were interrupted when Shepard himself rolled out of the elevator and made his way over to the airlock. Garrus was to accompany him for a meeting with the Citadel Council.
The turian grimaced. He could think of only one reason as to why the Council would pay so much attention to Shepard as of late. A part of him knew what was coming.
Discharge from the Spectres. I don't even think he'll be able to cope with it.
Garrus noticed the dangerously calm look in the commander's eyes. He instantly shifted from his leaning position on the wall next to the airlock, stood up straight and faced Shepard.
"Hey, Shepard," Garrus said, trying not to piss the commander off. "You feeling alright?"
For a split-second, anger flashed in Shepard's steely-blue eyes before it disappeared, followed by a stiff response.
"Yeah. Fine as I can be, which is pretty good for being stuck in a goddamned wheelchair with half of your left leg being a fucking hunk of metal."
"You want me to push your wheelchair?"
For a second, Shepard's eyes flashed murderously, and Garrus was worried that the commander was too lost in his rage and denial to hear the awkward, attempted note of sympathy, note of concern for a friend in his voice. But the turian relaxed when Shepard suddenly sighed exasperatedly.
"Yeah. Okay." Shepard looked up, and for the first time in his life, Garrus finally saw a bit of the real Commander Shepard, the man that had been hidden underneath the 'inexorable soldier' exterior. He found a tired, wounded old man that barely had the strength to put up with the galaxy's remaining bullshit.
As Garrus made his way to the back of Shepard's wheelchair, Joker opened the airlock door.
"Don't worry about it," Joker's parting words were. "It'll be fine, Commander."
Garrus couldn't believe it. And yet, he couldn't say it came to him as a surprise.
"Therefore, and with the consent of the rest of the Citadel Council, we formally give ex-Commander Shepard an honorable discharge from the ranks of the Spectres, due to disability."
The words still rang in his mind, fresh and piercingly clear.
Garrus was a bit relieved about the meeting, however. The discharge, well ...
Luckily, it seemed that the commander had expected it. Otherwise, he might've shot somebody. In fact, Garrus had seen Shepard's trigger finger twitch when the Council delivered the news. But, somehow, he had managed to keep his poker face on, albeit with a dash of noticeable rage and denial, and had kept it stonily etched on his face throughout the entire jaunt back to the Normandy.
He'll probably call everybody together tomorrow or so, the turian thought. Get everything settled. What about the Normandy? Will he keep it since, it isn't an Alliance vessel, or will he sell it off, or what?
Garrus finished his evening meal and grabbed the tray, tossing it in the sink. He saw most of the remaining crew members finish up and head to the showers or the Crew Quarters.
Probably by the end of this week, they'll be jobless, the turian thought grimly. I'll probably join them. Where does that leave us?
Shepard
Five bottles. Five bottles of heavy liquor downed in about fifteen minutes. If he didn't pass out after the seventh bottle, he'd beat his own record.
"Fuck the council," Shepard sneered, his voice slurred. "And fuck being a Spectre too!"
Shepard sighed, downed the remaining liquor in the sixth bottle and slammed the bottle on the coffee table in front of him, burying his face in his calloused, scarred hands, waiting to pass out, to throw up, or to die - who cared?
He couldn't say he didn't expect the discharge. He certainly didn't expect an honorable discharge, at least. But the news still struck him with the force of a slug from a Carnifex handcannon.
Denial. Yes, that was it - denial. He was a soldier, damnit - besides fighting, what else did he have to live for?
He felt his fists clench. One, two, three seconds passed. Then the anger was gone, leaving a hollow, blank feeling of emptiness in its wake.
Stop it. Stop acting like such a child. You knew this would be coming sooner or later. Did you seriously expect to play the Galactic Hero forever?
Shepard sighed. The events of the past two weeks had progressed too quickly. He needed to think things through. He needed to plan. He bit back a cynical scowl. Only now did he decide to use his 'great tactical mindset'.
Standing up, he shook his head as though trying to clear the foggy, dulling effect the liquor was having on his brain, making his way to the shower. He really needed to think things through.
A shower was definitely what he needed, the steady beat of water on his back relaxing in coordination with the warm water trickling down his spine. It gave him time to think.
"Where ... Ah, where do I begin?" Shepard was nervous, wringing his hands and pacing the room like an agitated, caged lion.
"Begin what?" Miranda seemed genuinely interested, raising an eyebrow, watching Shepard carefully as she sat on the edge of his bed.
Shepard took a deep breath. "Alright, alright ... How do I say this? Pff, you'd think it would be easier. But sometimes, just when I'm around you, I feel like my head's about to explode, like ... like I can't think straight.
"Odd? Absolutely, if you think about it for a moment. I doubt most would expect Commander Shepard to ... to act like some ... Well, I don't know, some awkward, testosterone-induced teenager with his first crush, but, ah, the sadness that is reality." He gave a small, almost sad, smile and a short, derisive scoff.
"Okay, so, here it is. I'm not used to ... confessions, and a sane part of me is considering grabbing my Carnifex and blowing my brains out, but since I'm mostly - wait ... I'm acting like an idiot." Shepard took a few deep breaths before continuing.
"About this ... this ... thing we're having ... this ... relationship, if that's the right term ... I guess, since we're in the heat of the moment, so to speak, I guess it's okay to confess that I've been shamelessly smitten with you since ... since Horizon, I suppose. I remember. You saved my ass there. And since the Reapers are coming, I just wanted to say ..."
"Yes?" Miranda finally spoke after Shepard's initial, long string of stammers.
"... that I love you."
Shepard wanted to kill himself. He wanted to bash his head open against a wall or something. That sane part of him was berating, screaming, launching itself into a tirade about how this was a bad move, how he'd regret this, how he had just awkwardly, embarrassingly stammered the only statement in the English language that was avoided by most ...
Shepard stepped out of the shower, the vivid memory of his confession to Miranda piercingly-clear in his mind. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he was about to go change when a sudden blip from the terminal interrupted him. A message. From his son.
Andrew.
Shepard sighed. He should've gone straight to his family. His mother, Miranda, his children ... But, no, he had to put up with all the political Council bullshit.
From: Andrew Shepard
To: John Shepard
Dad,
We heard about the news - everything. Don't worry, we didn't listen to the crap on NewsNet or Westerlund - everything came from Mom, so no Council politics screwing everything up.
Jane still hasn't been told - she's been off on Tuchanka with Grunt on a camping trip. We've contacted her, told her to come back.
We know about what happened, and just what you're going through right now ... And we'd like you to visit. We haven't seen you for a month and a half already. Things have passed. Changed. Grandmother's worried sick. We all are.
Your son,
Andrew
A/N - Yes, as I've said before, angsty, but will make up for it with a bit o' old Shep/Miranda lovin' in the next chapter. Stay tuned.