A/N: Thanks to those of you that reviewed. I haven't written anything of substance for a very long time and subsequently the first chapter was a bit rough to hammer out, so I've gone back over it and made some edits. Hopefully you'll continue to enjoy the story.

.2.

-Makeshift Prizefighter-

.x.

Surprisingly, I was in the days that followed able to secure three more recruits for the mission that most of them referred to as nigh-impossible. The salarian doctor, Mordin Solus, we picked up the day after my chat with Garrus in the med-bay. Mordin was not what I had expected from a doctor (or any doctor, for that matter), being somewhat cold-blooded and as equally given to ending lives as he was to saving them. That face aside, he seemed a valuable addition, bringing his vast stores of knowledge and considerable expertise to addressing the issue of finding a way to thwart the Collector's seeker swarms.

Jack was the next recruit. Our time aboard the prison-ship Purgatory was nothing short of a disaster. After the warden's decision to ensnare me rather than hand over Jack as arranged, things became unnecessarily complicated. Picking our way through escaped convicts and prison-guards—both of which were inclined to attack us on sight—we finally managed to corner and subdue the warden and then strike a very tenuous deal with Jack in exchange for her cooperation.

Grunt's recruitment was more or less as complicated as Jack's. His creator, the Warlord Okeer, was our original interest; Okeer's demise left us with a pure-blooded, tank-bred krogan youth—the very epitome of strength with a high penchant for violence. While both these were attributes that would indeed prove worthy throughout the course of our mission, Grunt's innate irritability and uncouth personality were things I often found myself wishing Okeer had bred out of him.

There was a short lull between Grunt's recruitment and our next directive; the amount of information needed to plot our next course of action was not something that would be ferreted out easily, even by the Illusive Man. And so the Normandy moved from planet to planet, systematically searching for elements and materials that could further benefit both team and ship. On the rare occasions a distress beacon or planetary anomaly was found, we would disembark via the shuttle to scout; these outings served somewhat to ease the inevitable cabin fever experienced by all those who had ever served aboard a military ship.

During the small window of down-time, I began to find ways to channel my ever-present, always-irritating uncertainties and worries into something productive. Some of the crew had transformed an unused corner of the cargo hold into a makeshift gym, complete with an old-fashioned punching bag, weight-lifting equipment, and mats for hand-to-hand training combat.

I started to invest serious time into polishing my melee skills. Miranda had insisted in the days after my premature awakening that I push the limit in terms of physical exertion in order to strengthen myself to get back into the shape I had been before my death. I'd done so, needing the knowledge that in a present fraught with so many uncertainties, I could rely on my own physical capabilities in those situations where all other methods of defense failed. With the aid of my new cybernetic implants, I was able to hit harder and move faster than ever before. This fact wasn't something I broadcasted, already feeling uncomfortable about my status as reborn hero come again to vanquish great evil.

One morning found me risen from my repose far earlier than usual; dogged by the memory of a suffocating lack of sound, I abandoned all hopes of more sleep and instead made my way to the cargo hold. Once there, I found myself presented with the rare occurrence of an empty gym. Usually in the earliest of hours there were a couple of crew members fresh off the graveyard shift, getting in their workout before they went off-duty. There was also the occasional ambitious soul willing to forsake a couple hours of sleep in order to fulfill their daily quota for physical activity. I took advantage of the opportunity. Whenever I was there and other people were about, I was always aware of their scrutiny, however surreptitiously they watched. Every person on board the Normandy was aware of how I'd died, and more to the point, how I'd been resurrected. I suppose it was only natural that they were curious, but it led to my being somewhat self-conscious over the course of my workouts.

I lost myself that particular morning in the pure physical outpouring of every concern, every worry, every irritation I'd dammed up inside over the past few weeks. I attempted to exorcise in ever lunge, kick and punch all of those hindrances. And for a while, breathing fast, covered in sweat and enjoying that tell-tale burn, it felt like I was succeeding.

After perhaps an hour of this, I grew aware of another presence nearby. I stopped my pummeling, reaching out to steady the bag with one hand while half-turning to see who had intruded on my makeshift haven. It was Jack. She was dressed in civilian wear—she adamantly refused the offer of a uniform—in a black sleeveless vest, loose dark pants belted with a chain and boots that looked even more monstrously militaristic than my own.

As I looked her way, she ran a hand over her shaved skull. "Hey," was all she offered.

I nodded, still breathless from my exertions. "Jack."

She turned and headed for the weight-lifting station, skirting the large blue worn-out mat meant for melee practice. Inwardly shrugging, I returned my attention to the punching bag. I'd entered a ready stance and was prepared to start up again when behind me, she spoke.

"Does it help?"

I turned fully to face her, wiping sweat from my brown with the back of one hand. I could have pretended not to understand what she was getting at, but I opted instead for candor. "A bit."

"I've always found it more … therapeutic if my target was living and breathing."

I immediately understood the offer, but decided to err on the side of caution. "I imagine they saw it differently after being on the receiving end of your biotics."

"No biotics," she said with a dismissive shake of her head. "No fancy shit. Just one-on-one." She paused, cracked her knuckles slowly, and smiled. "A brawl."

My decision was swift; a punching bag was great for practicing the offensive, but it would never hit back. Even the combat simulators I'd tried on the Citadel and the larger Alliance warships didn't provide the kind of all-inclusive stimulation of another living opponent. Of late, I'd been staring at my enemies down the barrel of one firearm or another without ever having to step outside that comfort zone. Jack had just presented me with the opportunity to ensure my self-defense skills were still intact.

"Alright." I said, and her smile grew wider.

We moved to the floor-mat, Jack taking one corner while I stood on the one diagonal to hers. I felt limber enough from the past hour of exercise to forego any warmups. Jack apparently saw no need for any either; she stood confidently before me, flexing her hands at her sides.

"Let's go, Shepard."

The words were scarcely out of her mouth before she began moving, gliding in a fast side-step to try and flank me. I spun on the spot to track her progress and was able to bring up both arms in time to ward of the quick punch she threw as she darted into my reach. As she leaped back I lunged, locked my arms about her waist, dropped to one knee and rolled her over my shoulder. She hit the mat hard but recovered more swiftly than I'd expected, dropping low into a defensive crouch. We faced each other for a long moment, our mingled breathing fast and loud.

I'd banked on Jack loving the offensive, and I wasn't disappointed. When she came for me next it was to unload a flurry of punches with both hands, some high, some low. She wasn't striking out with any particular finesse but what she lacked in form she more than made up for in sheer savage eagerness. I blocked the majority with my arms but she landed a glancing blow along the left side of my jaw. She threw another punch, directed at the same side of my face, but I'd caught her pattern now. I stepped into her charge, dropped a shoulder and threw myself full-force into the movement. I hit her square in the chest, her fist harmlessly cutting the air near my cheek as together we stumbled several feet. I felt her gather herself, planting her feet and shoving back; I let up a fraction, balled my left fist and aimed for her gut. It didn't land solidly because I'd telegraphed the movement, but as she recovered enough to shove me away I brought my right elbow up and drove it hard into her chin.

She choked, head snapping back and hands flying to her face. I pursued the advantage, sliding one of my legs around hers and locking it under the knee. I let myself fall, tripping her in the process; she stumbled and went down as I rolled out from underneath. I hopped up, twisted around and was surprised to see she'd already gained her feet. There was no smile on her face, her mouth twisted now in a feral snarl. She came at me this time in a frenzied rush, no planning behind her blows, only the iron determination to see me defeated. Jack was considerably shorter than I was and somewhat slight of frame, but the power housed within her form was comparable to that of a charging krogan—and this was without the prodigious power of her biotics.

Our sparring consumed my comprehension of time. Back and forth we went, neither of us really gaining ground, neither of us giving way. Several times she managed to land a shot by way of her wild burst of punches; while none of them were debilitating, I didn't doubt that my already impressive collection of bruises was growing. I tried to play to her obvious weakness, jack-knifing in to strike through her haphazard defense. Finally, I managed to succeed, sweeping her legs out from underneath her and throwing myself across her when she hit the mat face-first. Her arms pinned by the weight of my body, unable to dislodge me even through the furious bucking and squirming, she struggled another few seconds before finally falling still. I twisted my head around to see her face, and though her expression was murderous, she relented and nodded. Slowly, cautiously, I climbed off her and rose to my feet before offering her my hand.

Pushing herself to her hands and knees, she eyed my extended hand for a moment but chose to slowly stand on her own merit. And as she worked her jaw and rubbed at her chin, I suddenly realized that we were no longer alone. Behind Jack stood a clustered group of people, and recognizing several of them I inwardly groaned.

"Impressive work, Commander." This from Miranda, who stood at the forefront of the group; I knew she said it less because she actually thought my skills were impressive and more because she loathed Jack.

I lifted a hand, palm-out, to forestall any further comments that could and most likely would be incendiary. Jack had turned as well to face our audience, but to my relief had ignored Miranda's insult. I saw in the hands of some of the gathered crew personal data-pads and I guessed that a considerable sum of credits had just changed hands based on the outcome of our little match. I turned back to Jack, feeling the beginnings of several aches start up at various across my body, and meant it when I said, "Good fight."

"Not so bad yourself," she replied, regarding me with an expression I'd never seen her wear before; an instant later I realized it was respect. I began making my way off the mat, trying hard not to favor my right side where one of Jack's blows had caught me unawares. Miranda had turned and was already striding in her aggressive, confident way out of the cargo hold, but Jacob, Grunt, Garrus and Kelly had remained along with a few other members of the crew.

"Wasn't wrong about you, Shepard," Grunt said, eyeing me up and down as though to try and estimate how well I'd fare against his own considerable bulk in a one-on-one encounter. I had absolutely no desire to find out. He went on, "Thought maybe this'd be one of those slapping fights I read about that the females of your species sometimes get into."

"A cat fight." Jacob said, shaking his head. "That was no cat fight. Nice skills, Commander. Glad to see you haven't lost it."

"Jack almost cleaned my clock," I said, glancing over my shoulder to where the powerful biotic was now working with the weights. "I was lucky."

Jacob shrugged as though to indicate he wasn't sure whether I had or hadn't been fortunate; Grunt made the sound he was named for. Garrus, who had been completely silent during this exchange, spoke up.

"It wasn't luck. You watched her technique, you saw her weak spots, and then you went for the throat." The remainder of that sentence remained unsaid but I could hear it hanging in the air: just like the old Shepard would've done.

"Maybe," I said, suddenly feeling self-conscious knowing Garrus had watched the entire fight. Since our tense encounter in the med-bay, I'd made a pointed effort to avoid the Normandy's only resident turian. It wasn't easy; with only four decks of limited space to wander, our paths crossed more often than not. I was uncomfortable with the fact that I'd revealed to him during that terse discussion just how rattled I was by the series of events that had shaped my life the last two years. It was, I knew, already difficult for him to trust me, as uncertain as he was about whether I'd returned the same Shepard that he once knew; knowing now that I was less than confident in myself and my reason for being, how far would he follow me? I hadn't spoken these insecurities aloud completely, but Garrus had always been dangerously perceptive and what I hadn't said would have been clear despite my silence.

"Come on, Shepard," Grunt rumbled, pushing past Garrus and stumping towards the mats. "Let's see how you do against a real warrior."

As I opened my mouth to refuse, Garrus spoke instead, "You'll have to wait your turn, krogan. The next match is mine."

Startled, my eyes flew to his. His expression was openly inviting me to back down, and in doing so, prove that his suspicions about me were correct—what reason did I have for refusing him, if not to hide that I'd wasn't the same as I'd once been? I'd never sparred with Garrus before. I'd never had reason to. But it was clear to me in that moment that if I refused his challenge, it would give him a clear indicator that I'd been inexplicably and irrevocably changed by the process of my resurrection.

Aware that Jacob was beside me and watching our exchange with interest, and that Grunt had turned to observe from a few feet away, I finally nodded. "Alright, turian," I said, channeling the annoyance I felt at being backed into a corner this way into my voice. "You're on."

Garrus' mouth curved up in the turian equivalent of a sharp and fleeting smile, one without any real mirth. He brushed past me and headed for the mat, and reluctantly, dreading the imminent encounter, I followed. Grunt and Jacob, along with Kelly and the other remaining crew members, followed our little procession and stood a short distance from the mats themselves, ready to offer vocal encouragement to whichever of the two of us they would decided to cheer for.

This time, I took the corner Jack had taken, my back to the onlookers. Garrus took position where I'd been standing. The turian was still in uniform and as before, I speculated on the fact that he looked far more predatory without his armor than he did with it. I took a couple deep breaths, concentrating on the hurts I'd sustained in my match with Jack and wondering if I'd be able to stop Garrus from making them worse. I somehow doubted it. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jack set down the barbell she'd been working with and turn to watch us both.

A hush had fallen over the cargo hold, broken only by the normal mechanical sounds of the ship's internal workings. I didn't like the quiet. Garrus had yet to make a move, but I knew enough about turian combat to know that one didn't charge like a fool in their direction and hope for the best. Jack had been a spirited fighter, but she was wild and unfocused. Garrus was clinical in his actions, detached and patient, and this made him all the more dangerous. I wouldn't be able to count on luck this time.

When he finally did move, it was so quick that I was caught off-guard. He surged straight for me, crest flared with aggression, needle-like teeth bared in a snarl. I danced backwards, whirled about and managed—barely—to avoid his outstretched hands by dropping to my knees and scuttling to the side. I was a heartbeat too slow on regaining my feet; a low kick caught me mid-section and it took all I had not to double over and collapse. As he attempted to deliver another kick I caught him by the ankle and twisted, hoping to offset his balance. Instead he lithely executed a complicated, flip-like maneuver that wrenched his ankle from my grasp while simultaneously letting him deliver a kick to my chin with the other limb.

I immediately tasted blood. He'd recovered his stance and was balanced on the balls of his feet. I, on the other hand, was busy blinking spots from my vision and rotating my jaw in an effort to alleviate the pain. It made sense that as a dutiful member of his race, Garrus would be a fighter of excellent skill; turians had the most formidable discipline of all the races known, and that discipline had gone a long way in making their military one of the most respected and feared. There would be no infuriating him to the point where he'd lose all self-control and rush at me blindly, as Jack had; Garrus would remain cool-headed until the end, and that did not bode well for me.

That disparaging realization aside, I was ready for him the next time he lunged. Grappling with him would be a bad idea—his reach far exceeded my own and the long, deceptive slenderness of his limbs didn't provide me with a lot of area to work with. I needed to keep him at bay and try to whittle down his impressive defense. However, such a task was easier said than done. After long minutes of attempting to maintain my guard against his potent, quicksilver, painful strikes, I knew a change in tactics was needed. I let him in close, let him grip my arm and as he swiveled and fell to one knee to execute the throw I drove my elbow down as hard as I could into the middle of his back. The air whooshed from his lungs in a pained exhale and his grip loosened; I wrenched free, kicked at the back of his knee, and leaped as he toppled.

I hit him hard, my intent being to force him down face-first on the mat under my weight and catch his head in a choke-hold to force him to submit. But Garrus was fast, faster than I'd given him credit for. I'd tackled him full-body but he managed to flip around on me so that I was straddling his chest rather than his back. I squeezed hard with my thighs, hoping to cause enough pain to be a distraction. He was trying to dislodge me, grabbing at my upper arms in order to get enough purchase to throw me off. I reared back and hit him in the face once, twice, and almost connected a third time but he caught my fist with his hand. I tried to throw a punch with the other but he suddenly shoved upwards, smashing the bony ridges of his crest directly into my face.

The world went black for an instant, and I rolled off him in a haze of agony. I felt his fingers close about my neck and I knew it was nearly over. He began to squeeze with relentless determination. My vision cleared and I stared up into eyes that should have been cold and focused, but what I saw there was something else altogether; they glowed with an inner heat I'd never seen there before, something I could not identify. I clawed at his hold in vain while trying to hit something vital by blindly lashing out with my legs. My foot struck him mid-thigh and he grunted, his grip on my throat loosening. He was leaning across my upper body, bracing his elbows on my chest as he attempted to choke me into submission, but as the thrashing of my lower limbs increased, he brought his body over mine and straddled me as I had him such a short time before. He slid down until his knees were on either side of my thighs, effectively hampering my attempts to dislodge him. Again his grip tightened about my throat, but I wasn't quite done putting up a fight. I arched my back and bucked upwards while at the same time removing my hands from where they had wrapped around his wrists; curling my fingers into fists, I drove them both into his abdomen.

It worked. With a strangled hiss his hands fell away and he toppled back. I sprang into a crouch and threw myself at him, knowing that if I gave him the chance to recover I'd be right back on the losing side of this fight. I hit him full-force as he attempted to stand, my momentum taking us both down in a rolling tumble. He brought his arms up to shield his face so I began to aim lower, trying to land a punch that would again wind him and thus render him vulnerable. But Garrus was as stubborn as I was, and I began to wonder if perhaps this little match wouldn't be over until one of us really was dead.

I was tiring. The round I'd gone with Jack had been exertion enough, but Garrus was quicker and his defense nigh-impenetrable. The muscles in every part of my body were aflame, and I was beginning to feel weak. And so it was that I let slip my guard for that one notorious half-second that had made all great defeats in history possible; so intent on preventing him from landing that one final, knock-out blow was I that I failed to notice his other fist descending in a direct line to the side of my face. He hit me so hard that my mind went completely blank upon impact—all I was aware of for a span of a few heartbeats was a world of unrelenting white. When awareness drifted back to me I was again flat on my back with Garrus looming over me. I could see his fist, raised and balled for another shot and I knew that this time it would be the strike to end this little skirmish. His face was mere inches from mine and I found myself thinking, absurdly, that I'd never seen him look so fierce or so frightening. And suddenly I was angry, full of fury at him for a multitude of reasons, for making me prove my worth in such a way. My strength and endurance were flagging and I knew I'd lost, but I'd be damned before giving up this way. If he wanted to win, he was going to have to knock me out.

His fist trembled, and I knew he was a flashing second away from letting it fly. And so I summoned up the last dregs of energy I had and shot upwards, driving my head directly into his face. I was instantly aware of the blood, both mine and his, that ran in rivulets into my eyes and down my cheeks. I'd heard Garrus cry out in pain and I tried to get to my feet, but blinded by the blood and agony I couldn't see; I felt myself being shoved back to the ground and I blinked furiously to see Garrus crouched over me, trickles of dark blue running from his mouth and down his chin to drip onto his chest. In an action that seemed to take forever, he drew back his arm yet again and threw the punch.

And missed.

Except that he hadn't. As his fist struck the mat beside my head, as he stared down at me with wide, startled eyes, I realized he hadn't missed. He could have knocked me out cold with that blow if he'd wanted to. And as realization trickled into my mind, I felt my own eyes widen in response.

He hadn't missed. He'd hesitated. He'd made the conscious decision to check the punch before it had connected and rendered me senseless. Halted by some thought, some idea, some emotion, Garrus had hesitated.

It was the same error he'd faulted me for that day in the med-bay. It was the same trait within me that had caused him to question my authenticity as the real Commander Shepard. As all these thought fragments swirled within me in a struggle to be made whole, I became suddenly and alarmingly aware of his body pinning mine, of the sharp, powerful angles pressing down against me, holding me immobile. A flash of heat roared through me, disconcerting in its fervency, shaking me all the way to my core. I knew what it was—how could I not?—but I couldn't be feeling that here, lying on the floor covered in blood both red and blue, defeated in a battle that should never have happened. Perhaps Garrus had felt it too, that lightning bolt of white fire that had coursed through me, or perhaps he'd suddenly realized we still had an audience. Whatever the reason, he rose slowly to his feet, wiped at his bleeding mouth with a wince, and offered me his hand.

I became then aware of the people around us; judging from the good-natured cries of dismay, I was pretty sure that our draw had cost a few crew members even more credits. I ignored Garrus' proffered hand and climbed to my feet a little unsteadily. I wiped at the wetness on my face with my fingers—the two colors of blood that clung to my palm made me feel abruptly nauseous. I took a wobbly step forwards, then another, and found that my legs would function normally if I exerted a tremendous force of will. I didn't look back at Garrus. I didn't acknowledge the crew members who called out that I'd done well. I didn't reply to Jacob's words of praise, or Kelly's concerned battery of questions, nor did I return Grunt's painful slap on the back. I made my way out of the hold and to the lift with as much quiet dignity as I could muster, and once the doors had closed and sealed me in isolation, I sank back against the wall and closed my eyes.

I should have gone to the med-bay. Dr. Chakwas would be less than pleased by my new injuries and I knew a lecture was inevitable. But I couldn't make myself move for a long time. Instead, I stood there in the elevator and held my head in my hands, wondering what the hell I was going to do about my ill-fated, ill-timed attraction to Garrus Vakarian.

.x.

I'll dig until we've made your grave

Oh, you've been a bad, bad boy.

I'll cut until I carve it out

and stick it in a sad, sad song.

Why the bother? You're no brother.

You're the wrong I need.

Boy, we all found an audience

while you found the worst of me.

[The Hound (of Blood and Rank) – Coheed & Cambria]