I'm sorry if this story is moving a bit slow. I want to set the scene and make sure there aren't any inconsistencies before the real plot begins to thicken. Sorry if the past few chapters have been a bit rough/repetitive. I'm still trying to work on getting all of this right. Please keep the reviews coming, I love absolutely all of them.

XOXO

THR


Chapter 4


Your name was Admiral Steven Hackett and you were starting to wonder if your title meant anything anymore.

As the commanding officer of the Fifth Fleet of the Alliance Navy, your duties included (but were not limited to) signing peace treaties and making inspirational speeches on the Citadel's reconstruction to tired out refugees.

Your advanced age had given you the wisdom to be excellent at performing these tasks, but if you had been told this a year prior, you would have had to disagree. You belonged on the battlefield or at a communications hub, barking orders to your ground scouts in an almost paternal manner. Your new office was more than amiable to you in theory, however, it couldn't compare to the experiences given to you through the sparks and fire of war. It never would.

As top ranked as you were, destruction and war cataclysm were not required in the galaxy at this moment. It was the year twenty one eighty seven, you were fifty two years old, and the Reaper War in the Milky Way had ended a year ago. The galaxy had entered into a self proclaimed period of great reconstruction and peace. Hostility between races was no longer a current issue.

That is, until someone pointed out that permanent galactic unity wasn't possible.

Since the incident that changed all organic and synthetic life permanently, you had been given a new position on the Citadel in thanks for your efforts in the Reaper War. Despite most of the place being in shambles, the Alliance had gifted high ranking officials with cramped leftover offices in the Presidium. It was certainly better than being stationed on Earth, which was in an even worse state. The Citadel position wasn't much, but all of the tired and essentially unneeded big shots had been placed there to twiddle their thumbs and appear to be useful. You were among these high rollers, and your job description read more like one of a humanitarian than a war hero.

Instead of mobilizing fleets and patching yourself through to the Normandy while it was engaged in battle, you got to watch as everyone else rebuilt their lives around you. While everyone forgot, you were left to remember.

It wasn't bad for the first few weeks. It was, in fact, therapeutic. Knowing and seeing the civilians you had saved had given you that satisfying feeling every time you encountered them. When you went out into what was left of the Presidium Commons to buy a bite to eat, the looks the remaining frazzled merchants gave you were ones of utmost respect.

Some of them would exclaim to you how much you've done for them indirectly. The horror stories they would tell hurt you every time. The pain from the deaths of families and friends never dulled, even in the heart of a hardened soldier.

Others would ask more personal questions. One in particular would come up more than once every time you went out. As you began to become better known than you already were, people swamped you with it again and again. Shopkeepers, waitresses and nosey newsmen would all ask it and use the exact same words every time.

It hurt more to hear them inquire than to hear about death stories or a heartfelt refugee account of the war.

It reminded of you of something that was more guilt inducing.

"Where is Commander Shepard?"

You never answered them.

Quite frankly, you hadn't realized the magnitude of Shepard's heroism until after she had been discharged. You had told her that it was a "leave of absence" just like it had been after the Collector incident, but this was not true. You lacked the courage to tell the great Commander that she could no longer do the thing she loved, regardless of the things your own experience with these sorts of things.

Commander Shepard was undoubtedly the most recognized war hero the Alliance had ever known, and she damn well deserved all of the praise that was hurled at her. Mainly positive responses about her role in the Reaper War had been collected throughout the galaxy, most notably from Earth. Without even knowing about her actions related to the Crucible, the entire galaxy at least gave a shit about her.

It was an amazing thing to be close to such a woman like you were. She had that kind of spark that made you want to know more, especially in the heat of battle. Like a good book, she drew you in but didn't divulge the good details until later. She was also, however, straightforward and the best leader anyone could ask for other than yourself and the late Admiral Anderson. You could care for her like she was the child that you never had, but she had never accepted your nurturing. If she ever really did, she hid it. It was simply the way she was. She did at least think of you as a close friend, and that privilege was enough for you.

This relationship made you determined to be with Shepard through her career, including when she was not in her finest hour.

That was exactly what you did.


The Alliance got word of the Commander's post-Reaper state not much longer after you had. Her health report hadn't been as clean as you had been expecting.

Mental Health State: Fair but below average. Deteriorating.

Physical Health State: Excellent but also deteriorating. Current injuries sustainable but permanent damage is still a possibility.

Emotional State: N/A.

This had been enough for the galaxy's most prominent form of government to pull the plug.

They had told you that this once great war hero was no longer needed for active duty. Let her keep her Spectre status so she had something worth fighting for, but strip her of everything else and consider her temporarily retired. There wasn't a war on, so why keep her hanging on for nothing?

Besides, proclaiming her dead seemed like a simpler idea anyway. If they really needed her, they could pull her back out and parade her around for speeches. For now, though, she just wasn't well enough.

There was hardly anyone above you in the Alliance forces, and the words that had exited their mouths had been ones of complete and utter bullshit. You had been at the meeting and had heard it all. They respected her enough to appreciate her services, but their self pity for her as a veteran was almost non-existent.

They were going to send her this information over the Extranet. A simple message stating that she was no longer needed was going to be the one thing that would terminate all she ever knew.

You couldn't allow that to happen.

"Shepard is the most honorable solider I've known in my whole goddamned life." you had told them. "If you're going to make the mistake of discharging her, I'll do it myself."


When you had sent for her on a certain fateful day many months prior, she arrived to see you sitting in her old ship. The doors of her cabin had slid open with ease, and the woman's expression was no longer one of a fearless leader. She was uncomfortable since the Reaper War; you could tell by her face, not just by the medical reports.

Your objective that day was supposed to be simple: you were to tell her that she was being given an honorable discharge due to a condition of hardship. The papers that you had been instructed to give her had been folded in the pocket of your old navy uniform. Hasty, prompt and polite were the instructions given to you specifically from the Alliance and the Council themselves. It was apparent that you didn't intend to follow these instructions. After all, you had already brought the Normandy to the Citadel for her to make it a little bit easier. If it were up to you, you'd give it to her to keep. She deserved it after what the higher-ups had done to her.

You had asked the Alliance presence on Earth to send in Shepard's former fleet specifically for the meeting; the Normandy was in pristine condition after having some repairs done and bearing bad news in a familiar setting always seemed like it would be better experience.

You had rendered the rest of the details from the awkward situation unimportant.

The only thing you had left to remember now was that Commander Shepard's discharge papers had been long forgotten in your uniform pocket.

She had also never turned in her dog tags.

Your name is still Admiral Steven Hackett, and as the doors to your office opened to reveal a familiar turian, you began to wonder what was worth fighting for anymore.