Commander Myla Shepard stalked through the Normandy's airlock, trying to swallow her anger. The half-naked biotic in front of her strode confidently onto the ship, casting a calculating glance towards the cockpit that did not go unnoticed by the ex-marine.
She planted herself firmly between Jack and the way to her pilot. Wordlessly, she gestured towards the Command and Information Center, but gave a thin smile to temper her less-than-welcoming body language. The younger woman sneered and moved to the elevator. As she followed, Shepard decided against the traditional meet-and-greet tour.
Shepard briefed Subject Zero on the way down to Engineering, still studying the biotic for a threat. She knew she wouldn't be able to sleep tonight.
Jack was sullen, openly hostile, and, worst of all, she didn't give a damn about anyone but her. Not a team player, this one. Shepard wondered how she'd be able to motivate her to work with Cerberus uniforms, much less to go on a suicide mission.
She dropped Jack off at her new quarters, gave Kenneth and Gabi a quick warning, and checked to make sure Zaeed wasn't up to anything dangerous. Finally, she took the damnably slow elevator back up to the CIC, feeling the anger and frustration build.
Out the door, past the Galaxy Map ("No new messages for you, Commander!") and up the ridiculously long hall. Her pilot turned to her with a flippant grin.
"Great, Commander, just great. Now we've got a psychotic biotic superwoman who hates the organization that owns our asses. Are you actually crazy, or does it just sorta gravitate around you?"
She sighed and ran a hand over her hair, "Come to think of it, probably both. A lot of both. Mind if I vent?"
"Commander, of course I'll listen. Do you know why?" His question was prompting.
"Because you're my friend?" She grinned and leaned against the sloping gray wall.
"Nah, I can't run away. Talk."
She told him about that backstabbing turian bastard, about the Illusive Man's arrogance and stupidity (first about recruiting Jack, then in general terms), and about the frightening shift in Garrus's attitude and personality.
When she'd finished, he nodded slowly, like he always did. She smiled suddenly, knowing that she never would've dreamed of unloading so…completely before…well, before her death. Shepard still wasn't sure she was entirely comfortable with it now, didn't know if he was entirely comfortable with it, but ever since her first rant before docking on Omega, he'd seemed so open and it felt almost natural.
Plus, there was an obvious flexibility in the general regulations now, and she didn't have that constant nagging voice in the back of her mind, always crying 'Fraternization! Court-martial!' whenever she looked at a friendly crewmember. Now, here, she was free to look at whomever she chose in whatever way she liked. It was the kind of freedom that was good just to have—no need to worry or even to exercise it. Still, whenever she looked too deeply into her helmsman's green eyes, that voice started to whisper insistently.
He cleared his throat, bringing her internal musings to an end. Here came that borderline insubordinate and inarguably sarcastic feedback she secretly treasured.
"Commander, what will you do when all this is over?"
She blinked, surprised at his seriousness. "I…hadn't given it much thought."
"Humor me. Think now."
"I'm not really comfortable with—"
"Oh c'mon," he laughed, "You're fine with bitching to me about every last detail about the now and you never talk about the future. You owe me a little speculation."
"Mr. Moreau, it is insensitive to press a subject when the—" Without turning his chair or looking away from Shepard, Joker slapped the AI's mute button. He arched an eyebrow expectantly.
Shepard smiled reluctantly, already turning to go, "I don't like to jinx myself, Joker. Let's focus on the now so we can have a future."
"Aw, you're no fun, Shepard!" He called after her and she could hear the grin in his voice, "This isn't over!"
She bit her lip sadly as she walked away. He was right—it wasn't over and it wouldn't be for a long time. She tried so hard to avoid thinking about the possible future. The glass was half-empty—the Reapers would be nigh-impossible to defeat, and even if they did avert destruction by inorganic super-race, the battle would likely result in her death or those of her crew. Looking eagerly ahead was just setting herself up for devastation later. It'd be bad enough without building golden dreams to be torn down.
She rubbed the back of her neck and headed down to the elevator to brief Miranda before trying to rest. No use chasing half-formed hopes when reality was grit on your cheek, blood in your mouth, and a heavy pistol in your hand.
Still, as she lay uselessly on her twisted sheets in hopes of sleep, she found herself wondering. Maybe…maybe next time she'd have an answer for him.
...
Gardner smiled sympathetically as he handed her a plate of what, in loosest possible terms, constituted breakfast aboard the Normandy SR2.
"Hope you like eggs, Commander."
If I did, I'd hate this slop. She smiled politely, swallowed the gag reflex when the noxious stench reached her nose, and carried the unsavory breakfast over to the single mess table. Poor planning, that. They have the funds and space for a giant aquarium in my quarters but can't be bothered to put in more than one table for grub?
It was early by Cerberus standards—there were only two crewmembers already seated, who gave her cautiously friendly nods. They hadn't gotten used to her yet. She returned the greeting gesture, but sighed inwardly. The worst part about a reputation was that people thought they knew you.
She started to stir the artificial eggs with her fork, but the mushy and uneven reluctance of the stuff was so vile, she decided to let it congeal.
"It's best t' jus' close yer eyes an' get I' over with," offered the man closest to her. Engineer Kenneth in his strong Scottish brogue.
Shepard rolled her eyes, "That's what my drill sergeant used to say about resetting bones."
"Surviving Gardner's cooking is more painful by far," remarked the other crewman. He was tall and solidly built; Asian with a wide, friendly face. Able Connors, she remembered.
She grinned appreciatively and called back over her shoulder at Gardner.
"Cooky, you'll get those high-grade ingredients if it's the last thing I do!"
"It's not that bad, is it?" His rough voice sounded hurt.
"Rupert, if'n she takes a single bite 'o yer vile concoction, tha' will be the last thing she does!"
Connors and Shepard laughed as the bickering escalated, and she even managed to choke down a few forkfuls. Gotta keep the machine running.
A slim salarian in a strange combination of armor and lab suit entered the mess hall.
"Good morning, Mordin." Shepard grinned at the eccentric alien. Connors gave him a wave, and Kenneth and the disgruntled cook halted their back-and-forth.
Mordin sniffed, " 'Morning' on a starship is a relative term—sleep cycles are regulated by shifts and not the movement of stars. Regardless, the sentiment is appreciated. Thank you, Commander Shepard."
"Saints a'wailin'…couldn't ye jus' say 'good mornin'' back, professor?" The Scot's eyes were wide and incredulous.
Mordin cocked his head, mismatched horns casting odd shadows across his face, "Specificity and application of knowledge, when combined with scientific analysis or terminology is not a negative occurrence. You may even learn something, although that event seems unlikely."
"Ach." Kenneth put his head down on the table in despair.
"Mr. Solus," Gardner leaned over his counter, "what's your opinion of my cooking?"
Shepard hid her face in her hands. Bad move, she thought.
"Hm." The alien considered for a few seconds—an inordinately long time for him, "At a physiological level, nutritionally acceptable. Palatably, however, borderline inedible. The constraints of social etiquette prevent me from elaborating further."
"See?" The cook brandished a spatula towards Kenneth, "He likes it!"
All three other humans laughed. Mordin gave his little twitch-smile and collected a plate from Gardner.
He sniffed it experimentally and jerked his head back swiftly. He walked quickly away from Rupert's counter, back to the elevator, and Shepard caught his low mutterings: "Hm, strange olfactory-gastronomical effect. Must take this up to the lab. Need samples for diagnosis…no longer hungry."
Shepard smirked and shoveled in a few more bites. Noxious taste aside, she needed the fuel for today's mission. The Normandy had received a troubling signal—static punctuated by garbled commands and screams—from a small nearby planet. She intended to investigate, help if she could. It would also be a good opportunity to test her newest team-member.
...
"Jack! Lay down cover fire for Zaeed! Zaeed—take the left position!" Shepard yelled into her mic, vaulting over a low boulder.
The biotic screamed as she strafed her SMG into the unending masses of husks, and Zaeed pushed forward to take a new cover position. Shepard waved her omnitool and three advancing husks burst into flame. She felt a grin of adrenaline spread across her face, she saw it spread on Jack's lips and splitting Zaeed's craggy mug. They were fighters—it wasn't right, it wasn't how she was trained, but it was instinctive. Killing husks felt good—it bled off the frustration and guilt she felt because she'd been too late to save the colonists and scientists.
The masses of zombies slowed, and Shepard took advantage of that pause to advance her team further down the dark mine. The dark, the damp, the stink—a primal scream stabbed at the base of her skull, but she shut it out. This place had to burn. She had charges in one of her belt-pouches—if she found the right place, she could trigger a cave-in.
She glanced to her squad to make sure none had been injured. Nope. Good. Grit crunched under her feet, sprayed up around her red-armored calves. Her breath burned in her chest, echoed in her ears. Her muscles hummed with warmth and she felt her heart sing. It was good to know she could still rely on her body, on her strength and aim.
They came to a large chamber, and Shepard could see a strange structure at the back. That was it. She shouted commands to Jack and Zaeed, and they moved in, dispensing a second death with each squeeze of a trigger or biotically reinforced wave of a hand. It was easy. She was almost disappointed. They fought their way through the chamber—cries of effort and elated anger echoing off the craggy rock of the cavern, staccato howls and rasping moans fell and died at their feet among the slight layers of mist.
They sprinted into the structure and skidded to a stop. A colossal artifact stood tucked away in a partial antechamber. Blue light glowed softly, twisted metal glimmered darkly. Shepard shivered and glared at it, she could feel evil radiating from it. A burst of gunfire snapped her back to the task at hand—more husks were coming.
She ripped the charges from her belt and set them around the abomination. Fingers steady, breath even. There.
"Everybody out!" She bellowed, spinning to drop five husks with precise shots.
"No, I thought I'd stay here a bit longer," drawled Zaeed, tucking away his shotgun.
"Less talk, more fucking moving!" Jack screamed gleefully. She raised her blue-glowing arm and a wave of power swept lurching figures from their path that several exploded at the initial contact.
They raced down the twisting tunnels and small chambers until the exit portal jogged into view. Wave the omnitool—click, crack, sky, out! They tumbled out of the mineshaft just as a tremendous explosion sent rocks, dust, and unmentionable fragments out the exit in a vicious plume.