Clint was sitting at the front desk today at the clinic, thumbing through the latest Men's Quarterly, when he saw the ex volunteer John Shepard walk in. Rather than speak, Clint ducked behind the periodical, watching the engineer from the safety of his desk.
He observed as Shepard seated himself in the lounge, scribbling something on a pad of paper. Clint could have watched the strokes he made, having mastered the art of eavesdropping, but this was unnecessary as Shepard held the note up to face him. In large-printed letters, the pad said: "Come here."
The orderly sighed, set his article down, and went over to accompany his friend. Meanwhile, Shepard tossed the scrap paper into a nearby trash bin, setting the pad face-down. "What's up?" Clint asked informally.
"Not too much," Shepard replied. "Not recently."
"How're you holding up after… you know?"
"Just fine," he answered. "I can't complain."
"So, why are you here?"
"I just thought I'd drop by, say hello, you know."
Clint could no longer contain his curiosity. He pointed to the clipboard in Shepard's hand, "What do you have there?"
"Hm?" Shepard glanced at the pad as though it was nothing special, "Oh, nothing really."
The medic swiped the note from his friend, "Right." He flipped through the pages, finally stumbling upon an information form. Clint looked at Shepard. "What's this?" he asked confirmation.
"Like I said, it's nothing."
"Well, 'nothing' looks a lot like an Alliance Military application form apparently." He handed the pad back. "I thought you said you weren't interested?"
"I wasn't at first. Then something occurred to me: I wasn't interested in the sights throughout the galaxy; I never gave the people that live there a shot. If I meet the right people, then I may have a good reason to go."
"No, no-no-no," Clint shook his head. "I think I know what this is really about." He crossed his arms, giving his friend an accusatory look. "Or should I say 'whom'?"
"What are you talking about?" Shepard twitched.
"Dude, you just got over her. Chances are: she's over you, too!"
"This isn't about her!" He stood, purposely using Clint as a support. "I'm just trying to make the galaxy a better place." Shepard glared at the medic, continuing his rant, "Now, you have been nit-picking since I admitted I was interested in Tali, and I'm sick of it. All I ask is that for once you accept the fact before second-guessing it!"
Clint stuttered, "I-I understand what-"
"No. You don't, Clint. You don't understand at all. So why don't I say it in a way that you'll understand?" He dragged Clint to a standing position, growling words through clenched teeth, "I will gladly throw myself into the fire and claw my charbroiled ass back out, if it only meant I didn't have to take any more shit from you!"
Shepard threw Clint back into his seat, and nearly did worse than spook him before being interrupted by a single pair of applauding hands. He turned around, his adrenaline soon faded when the hands' owner came forward. He was dressed in a sleek navy uniform, with several medals on his lapel. His skin was light brown, his face was wrinkled, and his militant hair was the color of rust. He was tall with muscular arms and a chest like a lead block. He looked at Shepard with bold, dark blue eyes. "Just the kind of man we're looking for," he said in a gruff, lightly accented voice.
Shepard looked back at Clint before approaching the soldier. "What are you talking about? Who are you?"
The officer held out his hand. "Commander Hendel Mitra, Alliance Navy. You're John Shepard, correct?"
"Yeah," he answered, hesitantly shaking Mitra's hand. He wasn't nervous; just wary that the man would break him in half. "Why?"
"We've been scouting you for some time now. We deemed it necessary to recruit you before you maimed our friend there."
"Who?"
"Me." Clint stood, still rattled by Shepard's earlier outburst. "I haven't been completely honest with you, pal. Sorry." He shot Mitra a look, "You sure took your sweet time, Commander."
"Clint?" Shepard looked back and forth between Clint and Mitra confusedly. "You're in on this?"
"As a matter of fact, I am. Dr. Clinton Lloyd, Alliance Navy; I'm a psychiatrist."
"And he's got a few notes on your psyche profile." Mitra flipped through a notepad Clint handed him, reading out loud: "Determined, tenacious, low temper."
"Temper?" Shepard asked.
"That was a guess on my part, given the scene you just caused a moment ago." He continued, "From what you just said, you must also be willing to sacrifice yourself for the good of the mission, right?"
"That was the temper talking."
"It was justified," Clint piped up. "I have been kind of a prick. But it was in the name of research, mind you."
"Duly noted," Mitra nodded. "And Shepard, you can just toss that application in the trash. My being here means we want you to join."
"You know, if you're still interested..."
Shepard thought about it briefly before he saluted Commander Mitra, "Yes, sir."
"Then pack your bags, Private, because we shove off at seventeen hundred."
The new recruit counted up on his fingers, working out that seventeen hundred was supposed to mean five o' clock. "Got it, sir." Shepard rushed home to grab the bare minimum things he would take with him in his new life in the military.
/-/
Dear Tali,
I just thought I'd write you another letter. It calms my nerves, you know?
I think I finally thought of a way to see you again, if you're still interested. I'll be on the lookout for you out in the galaxy. Write me back if this finds you, but it'll have to come to my new address.
Missing you,
Private John Shepard, Alliance Navy
