Chapter 4

After several weeks in the hospital, Shepard came to look forward to daily visits from his mother, for a few hours every afternoon. She was unable to spend as much time with him as she would have liked, but even after stepping down from the majority of her duties, she still had obligations to the Alliance. There were few enough senior officers who were both alive and fit for duty for her to leave cold turkey; her contributions were invaluable, and though Shepard would have liked to have the company, he recognized that she was doing important work.

She had just left half an hour ago. Shepard was sifting through fan mail. On the vid-screen, Jackie Chan battled atop a hovercraft as Rumble in the Bronx neared its conclusion. He had seen the film dozens of times, and though he loved it, he was mostly ignoring it at the moment. Shepard had always found reading fan mail to be both fascinating and unsettling. He had certainly never asked to be a celebrity, and was still unsure why he'd even become one in the first place. The mob admired who the mob admired, and for some reason, they'd chosen to admire him, a man whose job was to kill people and bring together disparate people and cultures so as to become more successful at kill even more.

He would never discredit his work; he'd played no small part in saving galactic civilization. Still, in a perfect world, people like him wouldn't be necessary. To celebrate his accomplishments in such grandiose fashion seemed oddly perverse; a world where people didn't need to become killing machines at all would be worth lauding. He was flattered that people admired him so much, but he also found it a bit off-putting, depending on the phrasing of the letter. For the most part, however, the quality of his fan mail had increased since he'd reluctantly assumed the mantle of galactic savior.

He'd first become a household name after that mess on Elysium. He was proud of the lives he'd saved, but at the end of the day, his claim to fame was killing a lot of pirates. When he'd begun receiving mail about that, he found it quite eerie. "I really look up to the way you killed those batarian sons of bitches," began one of the letters. While in general he found most batarians to be contemptible scum, he was still not comfortable with the accolades.

Things had gotten better over the years, as the nature of his work changed. Most people didn't know the geth like he had, so mail after the Saren incident had been mostly fine. The influx of fan mail that he'd received since the battle for Earth was some of the best he'd ever been sent. There was no moral ambiguity about the war with the Reapers. It had been them or the rest of the galaxy. He was receiving mail from bereaved loved ones of fallen soldiers, sole survivors of families, kids thanking him for killing the monsters that had taken their parents away. It was fan mail for the right reasons, but that made it all the more gutwrenching.

He skimmed a few gushing letters and began to read one from a man named Edmund Ramirez.

Dear Commander Shepard,

You probably don't remember me. We never actually spoke to each other, but our paths have crossed. I was at the Huerta Memorial Hospital while you were there visiting your injured crewmate. I hope she's alright. I was lying on a gurney, arguing with a doctor. She told me that they were going to have to amputate my leg.

"Jesus Christ," Shepard gasped. He did remember the man. He'd been thinking about him the day he woke from his coma and realized his leg was gone. He continued to read, hand gripping the datapad tightly.

I felt all kinds of terrible when she told me that. How could it happen to me, in the middle of the war? I was so angry. I had friends fighting the Reapers all over, and all I could think about was how I was letting them down. What if one of them got killed while I was lying in bed? If I was with them, I could be the difference between success and failure. In my mind, the war effort would fall apart without me there on the front lines. I felt like that for months after they took the leg. If I'd been able to get my hands on a gun, I'd have probably killed myself. I'd like to tell you that I'm exaggerating, that things weren't really that bad. But they were. I spent the whole war in Huerta Memorial, hoping and praying that my friends would be okay, that we would win.

When the Reapers hit the Citadel, a lot of people tried to hole up in HMH. We kept the abominations at bay for three days, until you finally killed the bastards once and for all. I didn't think that a one legged man could be much use; I was barely getting used to my prosthesis. It's true, my mobility wasn't what it had been. But I can say with no boasting that my assistance to C-Sec saved lives in there.

Obviously, the war is over, and I'm rambling, but what I'm trying to say is this: we've been dealt shitty hands, Commander. I'll be the first to back you on that. But if we play them right, we can still walk away with the pot. Don't lose hope, sir. As much as it sounds like bullshit, it really does get a little easier each day. Anyway, I'm not too good at this sentimental shit. I'm a soldier, or at least I was. I'm not sure where life is going to take me next, but I'm going to look it right in the eye and tell it I'm not going to stand for its bullshit. You should too. And Commander? From one disabled vet to another? Thanks for everything you did.

Lance Corporal Eddie Ramirez, 9th Division, Alliance Marine Corps

Shepard sat in silence for a moment, touched by the man's honesty and reassurance. He archived the letter with the intent of showing his mother. She'd want to read it. He clicked through some more mail, finally setting it aside and starting up another vid. This time it seemed to be hate mail. The subject line was simply "Pussy." Curious, he clicked on it. With rising anger, he began to read a lengthy diatribe about how he was a coward and a liar who had played no part in stopping the Reapers. The letter alleged that he hadn't even participated in the battle, let alone lost his leg. He resisted the urge to hurl the datapad at the wall. Instead, he took a deep breath and set it down on the table next to his bed.

He was due for a status update from Dr. Michele soon; he was apparently healing nicely. The ruptured spleen and punctured lung had been taking care of while he was in the coma. His ribs were mending, and though they still pained him a bit, they were better. His arm was also mending. He was cleared to do light lifting, though it was not even close to fully healed. He seemed to mostly be making a full recovery, barring the amputation. If she cleared him today, he'd be able to begin with physical therapy, and learn to start coping with his missing limb.

The door chimed. "Come in," he said, glad to have something to do besides look over hate-mail. The nurse who had found him awake several weeks ago when he'd first regained consciousness poked her head in.

"Commander, you have a pair of visitors." He nodded absently, beckoning for her to send them in.

"Holy shit," he exclaimed, as two familiar faces stepped into the room.

"You're swearing now, Shepard?" said Jack, corners of her mouth fighting a smile. With her was another old friend, Zaeed Massani. Neither of them was easy for the average person to like, but Shepard had been through a lot with them both, and was quite fond of them. He was surprised that they were the first of his old team to get in touch with him; they both put a great deal of effort into appearing not to care, though he knew that they both did, deep down.

"I'm high on pain medication," he said with a laugh. She shook her head with a wry chuckle. Her hair was even longer now, falling gently around her admittedly gorgeous face. She seemed more at peace than he could ever recall seeing her. "What brings you two here?

"Figured we'd stop in and see how the fearless leader was doing," Zaeed said gruffly. "Goddamn good to see you alive, Shepard, if not in one piece."

"I'll manage," Shepard said weakly. "So. I want to hear what happened on the ground towards the end of the battle. I've really only spoken to fleet personnel."

"It was bad down there, Shepard," said Jack. "I lost some of my guys." Her eyes were downcast as she said it. He knew that she'd have taken that hard; Jack saw the biotic recruits under her command as examples of who she could have been; not the angry kid, tortured by Cerberus, but happy, well adjusted. He'd recommended that she and her team become front line fighters. He didn't regret the call.

He'd known that Jack wouldn't have been happy behind the scenes, and that with her team in the thick of the fighting, they would save a lot of lives and do a lot of damage. He'd known full well that there would be the possibility of some of those kids dying, and while that was something he'd have to carry with him, the war effort had needed all the capable biotics it could find. Hell, it was worth it to get Jack out in the fray where she could do some damage.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Jack," he said sympathetically. Goddammit, he thought. They were kids. They didn't deserve this. Nobody did. The galaxy was far from perfect, but nobody deserved to experience the hell that the Reapers brought upon it.

"It's…it's okay. They didn't die for nothing, you know?" She smiled faintly. There could have been something between the two of them, once. Shepard had been sorely tempted to try to initiate something back during their mission to stop the Collectors. He found Jack appealing, and he knew that she respected him. But she needed someone who could devote themselves to her, who could love her with everything they had. He'd been angry at the time; angry with himself for dying, angry with the Collectors for killing him, angry at Ashley for rejecting him on Horizon, and most of all, angry with Cerberus for bringing him back. It wouldn't have been fair to Jack.

Now, Ashley was back in his life, and he was truly grateful for that, but he also couldn't help but wonder what might have been. "How did you two end up together?"

Zaeed let out a harsh chortle at that. "How do most of my stories start, Shepard?"

"You were pinned down by overwhelming odds, and your entire team was dead," Shepard said, rolling his eyes. Of course. How else could the story begin?

"I was pinned down in a pub, down to me and my last man. The Reapers were hitting us with everything. Dozens of those turian things, even more of the batarians. They even had some of those repurposed asari. Anyway, Günter ends up getting filleted by a husk. Pulled him right apart. I'm doing alright for a while. Ended up falling back into the kitchen, and then onto the roof. Then I hear this crazy bitch barking out orders," Zaeed said fondly. Shepard glanced at Jack and then back to Zaeed. Did the man have a death wish? Shepard had to assume that using such nomenclature to describe Jack was akin to a signed suicide note.

To Shepard's astonishment, Jack grinned widely. Zaeed continued. "Her team was moving through an alley behind the pub. I called down to her and we were able to gut the bastards out on the main street. Those kids pack a wallop."

"Yeah, they do. And I guess your sniper support was okay," Jack said.

"So…you met up months ago? This wasn't a spur of the moment reunion?" He was trying to figure out what could compel Jack and Zaeed to remain in contact with one another for so long.

"Yeah," Zaeed said gruffly. "I don't know a lot of people on Earth. Not living ones, anyway. These are chaotic times."

Shepard nodded faintly, puzzled.

"Plus, we're fucking," Jack said with a sinister smirk. Shepard's jaw dropped, his eyes widened, and if he'd been taking a drink, he'd have spit it all over himself. Jack burst out laughing in one of the most genuine displays of good humor he'd seen from her.

"So, uh…you two are…a couple," Shepard said, half making a statement and half asking a question.

"I don't know if I'd call us a couple exactly, but-" Zaeed began, when Jack cut him off with a withering glare.

"We're a fucking couple," she said sternly.

"Yes, dear," the grizzled old mercenary replied sardonically, locking eyes with Shepard. His one good eye seemed to be saying 'no, we're not'. Shepard resisted the urge to burst into hysterics, as he knew it would cause some pain to his still tender ribs.

"Well," Shepard said, trying to keep a straight face. "I'm glad to see that something good has come out of all of this. Two dear comrades, blissfully in love…" he grinned widely.

"I will fucking kill you in your bed, Shepard, and I won't feel guilty about it," Zaeed spat, a twinge of amusement in his tone.

"Seriously though. It's good to see you both. Have you heard anything from any of the others?" His concern for his old teammates had been growing over the weeks, as more and more time passed with no word from them.

"Goto, Lawson, and Taylor are all in the Citadel trying to get it moving. The council isn't keen on leaving the seat of their power in Earth's orbit, but getting it mobile has been a challenge. Your krogan buddies Wrex and Grunt are en route back to Tuchanka. Haven't heard from Samara, but I can't say that bothers me. She'd probably try to put a bullet in my head, and then I'd have to kill her."

It was probably for the best that the justicar had departed. Shepard tried to be a good man when he had the luxury, but sometimes his mission had to come first. She'd once informed him that some of his actions were in conflict with her rigid moral code, and that if they met in times of peace she would attempt to kill him. With two legs, Shepard knew he could take her. Now, he wasn't so sure.

"So what are your plans?" Shepard asked. He couldn't imagine the volatile pair staying together for very long.

"Find a beach that hasn't been turned to glass, get a drink, and live my days in quiet retirement," Zaeed said.

"You're not retiring, asshole," Jack said sternly. "If I'm sticking with the Alliance, you're sticking with the Alliance."

The grizzled old mercenary sighed. "You're not that good a lay, you know," he said with a scowl.

"Oh, but I am," Jack replied devilishly. "We're going to stick around on Earth for a bit. Help out where we can. It's weird, you know? What do people like us do when all the killing is done?"

"I've been wondering that myself," Shepard said. "Especially because even if there was more fighting to be done, I'd be in no shape to do it. Feeling a little useless."

"Christ, Shepard," Zaeed said. "I've known men with worse injuries than you who I'd still want to have around in firefights. Granted, they're all dead now, but that was always unrelated to the injuries."

"What Zaeed is trying to say, Shepard, is don't feel useless. If a crazy fuckup like me can turn it around and make a difference, a gimp like you should be just fine," said Jack, in what Shepard assumed was an attempt at earnestness. The vaguely psychopathic comfort his old friends were providing actually did make him feel a bit better, he realized.

The trio chatted for a while longer, catching up on old times and swapping stories from the battle. For a while, Shepard felt like his old self. He found himself raising an eyebrow when Zaeed put his arm around Jack's shoulder, but it was so good to see comrades that he forced himself to let it go. Odd as it was, he was happy for the unlikely couple. The war had taken so much from so many; they found each other in the wake of the chaos, just as he and Ashley had reconnected. He would have given anything to accelerate the Normandy's trip home.


Several miles away, the man known as Fist was checking into one of the few operational motels in Vancouver. It was a shithole, but that could be said of the entire city now. The owners had apparently gotten it up and running about a week ago, and business was clearly slow, as most people were trying to find more permanent lodgings, or were staying on vessels in orbit. But Fist didn't need to be in Vancouver for very long. He wouldn't rush things, of course. He'd need to see what sort of opposition he would face, and he needed to wait for the men he'd hired to arrive. They all booked separate transportation; he didn't think that customs would be very efficient at the spaceport, but he didn't want to raise any red flags. His mission hinged on his ability to get it done and get off-planet without drawing attention to himself.

One of his hirelings was also smuggling in an arsenal, which, Fist hopes, would not really be necessary. He didn't expect much resistance from a cripple, but he wasn't going to underestimate Shepard twice.

He paid the woman at the desk, who was all smiles, making friendly small talk about her plans now that the war was over. "Can it, sister," he said, turning from the desk without another glance. He used his omnitool to open his room and stepped inside. The walls were cracked and some rebar was poking from the ceiling, but it was accommodating enough, with a good sized vid screen, bed, and bathroom. His mind wasn't on the room though. He was preoccupied with thoughts of the task ahead. He'd need to find an isolated area, away from the bustle of the city, free from prying eyes and ears. He wasn't sure why this mission was so important to him; it wouldn't improve his miserable lot in life or reverse his fortunes. "I deserve to do this," he told himself. Shepard had ruined his life. Fist had just been a businessman, preying on some quarian hoodlum that nobody would miss. Shepard had to go and ruin everything. For that, Fist thought with fire in his eyes, he was going to torture and kill the bastard.