Author's Note: The events of this chapter take place shortly after the Skyllian Blitz.


Chapter 4: It's About What They Need

You know, it's been a couple weeks since I'd first set foot on Elysium. Let me tell you, it's just as beautiful as all the ads say. Amazing landscapes. Green vistas stretching as far as the eye could see. Great people—well, the locals, anyway. Some of the recent tourists, not so much. And by tourists I mean slavers. State-sponsored thugs sent by the Batarian Hegemony to get back at us upstart humans and our Systems Alliance. Only their big revenge plan kinda fell apart.

Which left the after-action reports. Plural. And, apparently, the after-after-action reports and the after-after-after-action reports and the... well, you get the idea. Brass seems rather fond of them, judging by all the accounts I had to give. And all the meetings and hearings I had to attend. I kid you not: I've met more admirals and generals in the last twenty days that I had in the last twenty years—and considering I spent my life flitting from starship to space station, that's saying something.

Sadly, I could have done without the privilege. Had the latest hearing this morning. Everyone introduced themselves, just like all the other times. Then they asked me to go through my sitrep again, just like all the other times.

"When the batarians secured the spaceport, you fled the scene rather than stand your ground and fight, isn't that right, Lieutenant Shepard?"

Then they began grilling me, just like all the other times. I leaned towards the microphone and repeated the exact response I'd given the last six times this question came up. "No, sir, I made a judgment call based on my tactical evaluation of the situation."

The latest grizzled general—this one notably fatter than any of his colleagues—scowled at me, a move that was wasted on me by this point. "And your call was to shirk your duty. To disregard your oath of service to the Systems Alliance. Isn't that right, Lieutenant Shepard?"

"No, sir. My call was that I was up against a well-armed hostile force that outnumbered me by several hundred to one. I had no backup whatsoever and was armed with nothing more than a pistol. In light of such overwhelming odds, putting up any kind of immediate resistance would be counterproductive. The best course of action was to find allies, weapons and equipment so I could organize a more effective response."

"Well, I wouldn't consider your response very effective," an admiral frowned. "If it wasn't for the arrival of our ships, Elysium would have been lost."

"Sir, it was because we were able to consolidate our forces and establish a stand that we were able to send out a distress call. The same distress call that your ships picked up."

"Perhaps you're right. Let's go over this again, Lieutenant Shepard. From the beginning."

Oh for crying out loud!

That was one of the many delights I got to look forward to. Me and no one else. I mean, as far as I could tell, I was the only one they pestered. What happened, they would ask? Why didn't you do something sooner? Why didn't you put the pieces together? How did you know you were under attack? Why did you do this instead of that? Why did you turn left instead of right? What happened next? And so on and so forth.

And when the brass wasn't pestering me with accusations, they were pestering me with salutes, enthusiastic handshakes, backslapping and big, fake smiles. I know. Makes a guy's head spin. Guess the Alliance wanted to make sure they had covered their asses in pretending they had done everything they could do to avert this potential tragedy before showering me with glory.

Or maybe they saw the politicians coming and knew what that meant. Different heights, different faces, same agendas. Same big smiles. Same vapid speeches. Same handshakes. Same poses for the vid-cams. But hey, all those politicians thought I was the golden child, so maybe they should do the same too.

The accolades did have the occasional perk, though. It meant some of the more redundant hearings and reviews could be cut short. Just like that last hearing. I was in the middle of yet another explanation when I was interrupted: "Which one of you fellas is Lieutenant Shepard?"

"That would be me, sir," I identified myself, turning around to the elderly man who'd just entered the room.

"Senator Cooper," he identified himself, "Systems Alliance Parliament."

I stood up and shook his hand. Onto the next step in this dance. Wait for it...

"When I heard about what you did on Elysium, I just had to come over here and personally commend you for the fine work you did here. An attack on humanity's oldest colony in the Skyllian Verge could've been a calamity of unfathomable proportions. From what I hear, you saved thousands of lives. Elysium and the Alliance owe you a great debt, Lieutenant."

Never mind that the senator was a couple weeks late. Okay, maybe a week and a bit late, given travel time from Arcturus Station or wherever the hell he'd come from. "Just doing my job, sir," I replied. "As were the men and women who fought beside me."

"'Just doing my job,' he says. I like that. I really do. Well, son, you did a hell of a job. We need more men like you, fighting for humanity's freedom and security." Cooper extended his hand. Of course I had to shake it. Of course there were lots of vid-cams and reporters behind the senator. Of course I was temporarily blinded by all the flashes.

That's another trend I'd noticed. Everyone tended to blame or congratulate me. Me and me alone. As the lone thick-headed grunt that'd singlehandedly dropped the ball and almost lost humanity's oldest colony in what the media had dubbed 'The Battle of Elysium.' Or as the valiant hero who'd singlehandedly stopped those damn batarians during what some quick-thinking reporter had called 'The Skyllian Blitz.' Because the soldiers and civvies who had the poor luck to be stuck with me? The other men and women 'fighting for humanity's freedom and security'? Apparently they don't count. At least, not in the eyes of the brass.

Or the reporters, for that matter. They keep hounding me for an exclusive interview. Or at the very least, asking 'just a few questions.' If by that, they meant asking the same questions, even if they didn't know what they were talking about.

Take this exchange: "When you launched your attack, I understand you split your forces in two to attack the slavers in a... a sort of claw-like fashion?"

"You mean a pincer maneuver," I corrected. "And no, I didn't."

"Oh. You mean one of your groups was intended as a diversion?"

"No, I mean one of my groups was intended to draw out the slavers from their fortifications and into a carefully prepared area, where the rest of my forces was waiting."

"Ah. Right. So you could hit them in a... sideways maneuver?"

"Flanking maneuver. And that was part of it. The main intent was to funnel them into a tightly packed area where they wouldn't be able to move around very well or bring their weapons to bear. From there, it was easy for us to strike from the windows around and above them."

"I see. Now I have to ask, why didn't you do all those things together?"

"What do you mean?"

"The pincer thing and the diversion and the flanking. Why didn't you do all those things together?"

"Three reasons," I replied, stifling a long-suffering sigh. "First, I didn't have enough men and women. Second, many of my troops were untrained civilians, who would have difficulty in executing such a complex series of orders. Third, trying all of those maneuvers at once would generally be counterproductive. At best, it's a waste of time. At worst, it would be suicide."

"Oh... I see... next question."

Naturally. There's always another question.

Generally, knowledge of what they were talking about or accuracy in general wasn't high on their list of priorities—okay, that's not true. Most of them were professional. But there were an awful lot of them that seemed more interested in sounding important, being seen talking to me and trying to get my contact info for a date. Yeah, that's right. A date. I'm not sure who was more obvious, the blonde who kept showing me her cleavage or the man who was trying to live down to every gay stereotype in the book. It's also possible that the hanar reporter was asking me out as well. Hard to say, given how he talked in the third person and insisted on yakking about the Protheans—sorry, the Enkindlers. Yeesh.

Unlike the various celebrities, who had no professionalism to speak of. Before Elysium, I occasionally read about them in the news. New movie here, latest outrage there. But now? Now every one of them wanted to be my friend. Just a bunch of self-absorbed, entitled—


"—narcissistic idiots," I finished.

Ellie's face stared at me from the screen of my computer. "So... rough day, huh?"

I had to stop and think. "Guess I had a lot to get off my plate," I admitted.

"Gee. Ya think?"

"Sorry," I said, giving her a sheepish grin.

"Oh, don't be. You had to vent before you exploded."

Good ol' Ellie. She always was the kindest, most considerate and all-around best sister a grunt like me could ever have. Well, spiritual sister: we weren't related or anything. But Eleanor Faye Bartowski and I had grown up together. Our families had gone from starship to space station together throughout our childhood—a deliberate move on the part of our mothers, who wanted to make sure their kids had one constant growing up. For which we were eternally grateful.

Some might've thought that we might've hooked up or something. You know, childhood sweethearts and all that. The topic's certainly come up. To which Ellie and I would immediately respond "EW!" The thought was just... unthinkable. Ellie was my big sister. I was her little brother. That was that. End of story. Not bestest buddies, not BFFs—Ellie would never say that. See above, under kindest and most considerate. We were siblings, in all the ways that really mattered.

"So," I said, looking back at my sister's face on the computer screen. "What's new with you?"

"Just finished a double shift because of a scheduling screw-up of colossal proportions."

"Define 'colossal'," I requested.

"There were no doctors, nurses or techs scheduled in Emergency for the graveyard shift."

I stared at her in disbelief. "At all?"

"That's right."

"How the hell does that happen?" I sputtered.

"The hospital VI tried to auto-assign some shifts. The senior attending physician—who everyone thinks is a Luddite—tried to override the VI and make up the schedule herself. Signals got crossed, programs crashed and when the dust settled... nada."

"So you're saying that the VI said one thing, the doc said another, the two opposing forces were brought together and cancelled each other out?" I summarized. "Resulting in... nobody being assigned at all?"

"Pretty much."

"How is this possible?"

"Well... it's not the first time."

"It's not?!"

"Nope. But it is the first time things got screwed up this badly."

I stared at her in stunned disbelief. Despite all the crap I'd had to deal with, this kinda put things in perspective. "Huh."

"Yeah. Pretty much."

"That's... ridiculous."

"You can say that again—and no, that wasn't an invitation."

"So... makes you glad that we've got some time off coming up?"

"Oh God, yes."

I should explain.

Ellie had some vacation days that she needed to use up. And I had some personal leave owed to me—quite a bit, actually. So we got to talking, coordinated our schedules and decided to go visit Earth. It had been ages since either of us had dropped by.

"By the way, I looked up that restaurant we visited the last time we were in Vancouver. You know, the one with the really good steak? It's still in business. They're celebrating their 50th year anniversary. Which means special deals and discounts on everything!"

"Great!" I enthused. "And after that, we can go to the bubble tea shop down the street. I just discovered a new flavor that you have to try out: taro root milk tea with coconut jelly."

"Taro root?"

I ignored the dubious tone in her voice. "With coconut jelly," I nodded. "Trust me, you'll love it."

"If you say so." Ellie still looked a little skeptical, but she was willing to give me the benefit of the doubt. "Hey, Chuck?"

"Yeah?"

"I know all this attention has been driving you up the wall. I know you never asked for it—any of it. But I was reading this smutty gossip rag on the extranet—don't judge—and... well..."

"You wanna know if I met Aishwarya Ashland," I sighed. I'd read the same smutty gossip rag myself. Don't judge: I had to pass the time somehow while waiting for the brass, politicians, reporters and celebrities to show up.

"I'm sorry. You probably don't want to talk about it. Forget I asked. Um... well... how's the weather over there?"

"Obvious, much?"

"Well..."

"It's fine," I relented. It's not like I could be mad at her for long. "Yes, I did.

"And?"

"She did get some elective gene enhancements."

"I knew it!"


Ellie was right. I had had a rough day. A rough couple of weeks, in fact. But all it took was a simple chat with her to make things better again.

"Yoohoo! Lieutenant Shepard!"

And all it took were three words from my least favourite person on Elysium to ruin it all over again. Closing my eyes in resignation, I sighed heavily. Took a deep breath. Then I turned around with my eyes open and a bright smile—borne of long practice—on my face. "Ms. Grodin."

"Oh, Lieutenant," she laughed. "I've told you before. Call me Lori."

Lori Grodin. PR whiz with a business degree in making my life a living hell. Appointed by some REMF to schedule my life; day after day, week after week. Every hearing with some brass with an axe to grind. Every photo op with a politician or celebutante. Every interview with a half-witted reporter. Believe it or not, none of these guys bothered me. Even with everything they put me through. Despite their blatant, self-serving agendas or painfully oblivious naiveté. At least, not compared to 'Call me Lori' Grodin.

Naturally, none of that mattered. "Lori, what can I do for you?"

"I just wanted to bring you tomorrow's itinerary."

She'd been bringing me 'tomorrow's itinerary' for the past couple weeks now. I'd grown to dread her arrival. And her perpetually cheerful voice. Not for the first time, I entertained the notion of taking a sample from her for a drug test. Even a scan would do in a pinch. If she did test positive, it would explain a lot. More importantly, it would get her out of my hair.

But, like all the other times, I reached out and took the datapad that was offered to me like a good, obedient grunt. To my surprise, there were no hearings. Or interviews. There must be a catch, I thought. There was always a catch.

The catch, no doubt, had something to do with the one and only item on tomorrow's itinerary: 'Central Square—1000,' it read. "This seems a bit shorter than usual," I observed.

"Well, it is the last day before you leave Elysium."

I KNOW! HALLE-FREAKING-LUJAH! "I noticed." I said with considerably more poise.

"We saved the best event for last. I think you're gonna love it!"

That's what she said about every interview and photo op with every politician and celebutante in the galaxy.

"Right this way, Lieutenant Shepard."

She led me to a ridiculously huge warehouse. You could fit a spaceship in it, it was so big. I later found out it used to be a hangar. Which explained why it was holding a very, very large... something. With some trepidation, I followed Lori into an elevator that took us up to an overhead catwalk. The better to see the monstrosity that lay before me.

It was a larger-than-life statue of a man, dressed in a standard-issue Alliance hardsuit. An N7 logo was prominently emblazoned on his chest. And the face...

...

...well, the face was very familiar. "Lori..." I said slowly. "That guy kinda looks like me."

"That's because it is you! Isn't it great?"

Great would not be the first word that came to mind. "Lori, you wanna tell me why there is a giant statue of me lying on his back, looking like he wants to kill me?"

"He's not going to kill you, silly. Unless you're a no-good, rotten batarian slaver. That's the point! This statue will commemorate the day where you protected the crowning jewel of the Alliance against the ravenous onslaught of slavers and the Hegemony. It will stand proudly as a testament to human courage and tenacity!"

Kill me now.

I moved a few feet to the left. Then back. Then a few feet to the right. "Wherever I go, his eyes keep... following me."

"I know! Isn't it great?"

"It's creepy."

"Oh, Lieutenant!" Lori laughed. "You're so funny! Don't worry, you'll come around. They all will."

It figured that this goddamn statue was going to be revealed to the masses on April Fool's Day. The galaxy had already decided that I was gonna be its personal bitch. Its fool to prance around and provide an endless source of entertainment and amusement.

But there comes a point when a man's gotta put his foot down—one way or another. Either that, or go flat-out insane. And while the jury was still out on whether I was certifiable, I felt like clinging to the last vestiges of my optimism. Like a drowning man clinging to a torn life preserver.

"So... when are you going to drag this—I stopped myself from saying 'garish over-sized monstrosity' just in the nick of time—thing out of storage?"

"7 o'clock tomorrow. We want plenty of time to move the statue to Central Square in time for the grand unveiling. Three hours should be enough, don't you think?"

0700. All right, then. I had until 0700 to correct this looming disaster.

No pressure, Shepard.


Of course, there was pressure. Who was I kidding? I had to do something about that thing.

Maybe I could shoot it to pieces. Surely the damn statue would fall apart if I hit it with enough bullets. Sure, the gun would overheat long before that happened, but that's why you carried a spare. Or two. Or ten. Or fifty. And boy would it be satisfying.

But that would take forever. Explosives would be faster. And probably more effective. Yeah, it would attract a lot of attention, but so would shooting a statue in smithereens. Not to mention it would satisfy that primal, visceral need to blow shit up.

Or maybe I had to think outside the box. Elysium was a fairly large colony. It had a sprawling infrastructure of prefab buildings and its own spaceport. Which meant it had some kind of industrial capacity. Maybe I could find something I could use to melt the statue down. Like acid. While I was at it, maybe I could also find some industrial-grade bleach to get the image of that thing out of my head.

But that would make a mess. Which would be bad. Elysium had been through enough. Its people had more than enough to clean up as it was. Maybe there was another way. Maybe I could convert the whole thing into omni-gel instead. A statue that big could churn out a whackload of the stuff. And Elysium could use that to make... I dunno. Whatever they needed to pick themselves up. Yeah. Yeah, that might work.

Of course, I'd need some help to convert the statue to omni-gel. The sucker was pretty damn big, after all. I couldn't use my omni-tool to do the job. Poor thing would probably have a nervous breakdown. Or explode. Both would be bad.

So I would need to get an honest-to-gosh fabricator.

It didn't take me long to find one. All I had to do was ask for directions. Everyone was so eager and willing to help The Hero of Elysium.

Except for the guy I was directed to. Though it really wasn't his fault. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant Shepard. I'm afraid we only have a couple fabricators left, and they're all in use. The slavers caused a lot of damage, you know."

"And what's that?" I asked, pointing to the bulky box-like thing he was tinkering with when I arrived.

"Damaged fabricator," he replied. "Power surge fried several circuit boards. I was just repairing it so we can print some commemorative memorabilia.

"Print some commemorative memorabilia?"

"Yeah. Pins. Plates. Tiny bobble-head statues. That kind of thing."

Oh God.

Just then, the door hissed open. "Hey, Tara!"

"Frank!"

The two civvies hugged. And kissed. For a while. It got kinda awkward, so I turned away to give the lovebirds some privacy. Eventually they came up for air.

That was when they spotted me. "Oh!" Tara's cheeks blushed. "Sorry."

"That's okay," I smiled.

Tara's eyes widened. Aw, crap. "You're… you're Lieutenant Shepard!" she gasped.

Here we go again. "So they keep telling me," I sighed.

"I… it… it's an honour to meet you."

It always is. You have no idea how many times I'd heard that in the last couple weeks. Mind you, she seemed earnest and sincere. Both of them did, as a matter of fact. There wasn't any axe to grind or ulterior motive behind the awed looks and glows of adoration. Just simple, honest admiration. I'd almost forgotten what that looked like.

"Thank you so much for saving us. All of us," she continued. "Now we can get back to keeping our business afloat."

"It was my pleasure," I smiled. "And you are Frank and Tara, I assume?"

They looked at each other. "He knows our names," Frank whispered.

"I know," Tara whispered back. "How does he know our names?"

"You said them out loud when you greeted each other," I whispered.

They looked at each other sheepishly. "Oh. Right."

"Wait a sec," I frowned. "What did you mean by 'keeping our business afloat'?"

"End of the fiscal year and we're in debt," Tara shrugged. "Not much demand for repairing old equipment these days when you can just fabricate or buy new ones. People just don't cherish the past like they used to. No room for nostalgia or sentiment when you're busy chasing the latest new thing, I guess. Up until a month ago, we were looking at closing shop."

"And then the slavers attacked," Frank said. "A lot of things have been damaged. And with only a couple fabricators intact, the colony leaders have to prioritize what to build or replace. Which means everything else will have to be repaired."

"Which means you might be able to stay in business a while longer," I concluded.

"Well, yeah, but it's more than that," Tara insisted. "Life on a colony is hard. Trying to get up and running, become self-sufficient, maybe even figuring out a way to establish trade routes. Never mind endure random attacks from slavers and other criminals.

"And we have to do that all on our own. No one's gonna help us out. Maybe the Alliance, if they take a moment from setting up as many colonies as they can to remember we even exist. But the other races? They're too busy looking down on us as the new kids on the block, galactically speaking. Waiting for us to slip up. Laughing at us every step of the way. It's hard to keep your head up, you know? More and more, it felt like this beautiful world of ours was just a gilded cage. A pretty prison that would become our tomb. There were a lot of people depressed, let me tell you."

"But then you came along. Inspired us. Motivated us to keep fighting. Keep working. To persevere no matter how bleak the situation looked. You were literally a beacon of hope for us when we thought all was lost."

"After that, you might've thought we'd go back to the way things were," Frank continued. "But we didn't. We saw you all the time. In the vids. Over the comm systems. Walking amongst us in person. And every time we saw or heard you, we remembered. We remembered how we were still alive."

"It wasn't just me," I said, feeling a little uncomfortable. "Everyone did their part. Even you."

"But it never felt like it mattered before," Tara insisted. "No one seemed to notice. Or care. Thanks to you, that all changed. People know the name Elysium now. They know our colony exists. That we exist. It might not seem like much to you, but to us? To us, it means everything.

"Now there's so much energy and spirit and life here. Like someone opened a door and let a gust of fresh air in to blow out the cobwebs. And maybe a little of that was because you stood here alongside us and helped us when we needed it the most. When no one else bothered to lend a hand."

Oh. Um. Gee. Now I felt bad. See, at the time, I wasn't intending to lend a hand at all. I was mainly concerned with saving my own ass. It was just sheer bad luck and a piss-poor sense of direction that prevented me from getting to the spaceport on time. When the last transport left and I was stranded on Elysium with a gazillion hostile slavers, the only thing left to do was fight. And since I couldn't do it on my own—propaganda be damned—I had to enlist the locals and whatever Alliance soldiers shared my poor luck to help me out. Which meant the occasional speech or two. All for one and one for all, right?

Guess I never stopped to realize how they would interpret that. Naturally no one realized I was trying to keep my head on my shoulders. They thought I did it because I was some kind of… of hero. My God, they actually bought all the crap the media and politicians were selling them. They were staring at me with so much awe and gratitude.

Part of me wanted to grab them by the shoulders, shake them really hard and ask them what the hell was wrong with them. Why they didn't understand what really happened out there—that all this came about because I couldn't get off this rock in time and was just trying to save my own skin. I wished I could see myself through their eyes and understand what they saw in Charles Irving Shepard.

All I knew was that I had had a rough couple of weeks. But they had had a rough couple of months. Maybe even years. Kinda hard to complain when you thought about what they'd been through.

I'm sure I would've made some more discoveries, most of which would undoubtedly cast a disparaging light on my character, if it wasn't for the trumpet noise that blared from the fabricator. Frank scurried over to the console and examined the readings. "I've got it!"

"Is it contagious?" Tara teased.

"Funny," Frank deadpanned. "No, I mean I fixed the fabricator. Calibrations are all in the green. We're good to go. Now all we have to do is bring this to—let's see, where did they need this? Oh. Right. Warehouse 38."

"Why don't I take care of that?" I offered.

The thought hadn't occurred to either of the two civvies, judging by the shocked looks they gave me. "Oh, but I..." Frank started.

"That's kind of you, but..." Tara put in.

"You must have a lot of..."

"We couldn't possibly..."

I quickly intervened before things got really awkward. "Look, you clearly have a lot of work to get through." Which wasn't a lie—the room was packed with equipment of all shapes and sizes, in various states of disrepair. "And unless you're planning to burn the midnight oil, you don't have time to waste on things like lugging fabricators halfway across the colony."

Frank opened his mouth. "Well, actually, it's only—"

"Besides, it's not as if I'm doing anything right now."

"That may be, but—" Tara tried.

"Seriously, I've got nothing to do right now. You'd be doing me a favour."

They looked at each other again. "Well... I guess..." Frank said.

"If it's no trouble..." Tara chimed in.

"It's not," I insisted. "Really."

"Well, then," Tara nodded. "Thank you. For everything."

"You're welcome."


Well, this changed things.

My discovery that maybe people needed something to celebrate—even though I still really, really, really wished it was something other than surviving a slaver attack and drowning me in praise—meant that my plan of destroying that God-awful statue was a no-go. I'd have to bite the bullet on that one.

Yep, I'd have to endure getting trotted out yet again like some prize pig. Big, bright smile firmly screwed on, well past the point where my cheeks started screaming in frozen agony. Eardrums shattered for the umpteenth time from all the cheering and screaming and 'Shepard, I wanna have your babies!' Over-enthusiastic civvies clapping me on the back and shoulders, thereby exacerbating the bruises I'd gotten.

Then that goddamn statue would be wheeled out. Then the cheering and screaming and grandstanding would really kick into high gear! It was gonna be a frickin' circus on Elysium; with my ugly mug the star attraction! Both of them!

And the worst part was that there was nothing I could do! Apparently people looked up on me! Needed to be reminded of my exploits—or, at least, given a heavily redacted and creatively edited version—to bring them hope and happiness and good cheer. Oh if only they knew the truth. But sometimes, the truth wasn't good enough. Sometimes, people needed more.

So I'd just have to suffer through this hell because that's what a good little 'hero' does...

...

...then again, maybe there was something I could do.

With a sudden jerk, I came to a stop and let the ol' hamster wheels spin away. I had just come up with an idea. It still involved the aforementioned God-awful statue, but there would be considerably less destruction. All I needed was a fabricator. The one that Frank and Tara thought I was taking to Warehouse 38—wherever that was. The one that everyone else thought was busted.

Oh. Right. I also needed some raw materials for the fabricator to convert.

One thing about a colony is that there are always loads of crates lying around. Seriously, if I wasn't in the Alliance, I could easily make a living as a self-employed crate supplier. So I grabbed a crate and shoved it into the fabricator. A few commands here, a couple buttons there and—Presto! Change-o! I looked in satisfaction at the sheer amount of crap that came out the other end.

Then I remembered how large the statue was.

Maybe I'd need the other fabricators after all.


I won't bore you with the details on how I liberated/borrowed/confiscated/stole the other fabricators. Suffice it to say it involved a whole lot of waiting, which would be ridiculously boring to anyone who wasn't trained as a sniper.

I also won't bore you with how I got all the omni-gel I needed. Suffice it to say it involved a continual cycle of searching for crates, lugging said crates to the closest fabricator—which was pre-programmed to churn out the product I had in mind—and making sure the fabricator was tipped so all that product went where I wanted it to go. That, and rotating between fabricators for the sake of efficiency.

And I definitely won't bore you about how I frantically had to return all the fabricators before anyone noticed they were missing.

In the end, I successfully completed my entirely-voluntary mission. All it took was a lot of running around, a lot of lifting, a last-minute scramble to return the fabricators before anyone noticed they were missing and far too little sleep.

"Wakey, wakey! Up and at 'em, soldier!"

Oh, trust me, Lori. I was awake. Stupid internal body clock.

"Rise and shine!" Lori's voice blasted through the door.

Like I said, I had had far too little sleep. So I could be forgiven for not being my usual chatty self. "Hi," was all I said when I got to the door.

"Good morning, Lieutenant Shepard! Isn't it a beautiful day?"

Let's face it. Right now, anything other than monosyllabic grunts was a borderline miracle. "Uh huh."

"I can't think of a better way to send you off to whatever your next assignment is, can you?"

"Uh, uh."

I'd considered coffee, but nixed the idea. Not exactly a regular coffee-drinker. If I started now, I'd probably be bouncing off the walls. Or doing the potty dance every hour. So I decided to tough it out.

"Come on. Time for your big moment!"

"Yeah."

"Oh, Lieutenant. You can do better than that!"

Drug screen. Had to get a sample for a drug screen. Had to. "We should probably get to the warehouse," I said instead.

Lori yammered away during the entire walk. Something about straight backs and big smiles and speeches and all the people I had to meet and shake hands with—again. Hoo. Ray. Kill me now.

But as we got closer, and I started waking up, I had to remind myself not to smile. Don't smile, Chuck. Don't give it away. Keep it cool. Pretend you don't know what's happening. Be one with the poker face. All calm and innocent and unknowing until—"

"What the hell?"

Lori stopped and stared. Taking her cue, I did the same. Couldn't blame her, really. If I hadn't done it, I'd be quite shocked at the sight of a warehouse—walls, doors and windows—completely gift-wrapped.

"What... what's this?"

"I think it's wrapping paper," I supplied helpfully.

"But..." Lori trailed off and stared at me, then stared back at the gift-wrapped warehouse. "Who would do this?"

"Beats me," I lied. "But you gotta admit it's a pretty good job."

Lori just stared at me in disbelief, then walked up to the warehouse and ripped off a handful of wrapping paper. She stared at the blank wall that was revealed. Then she took a step to the side and ripped some more wrapping paper. More blank wall. Another step. Two handfuls of paper ripped away. Two more pieces of blank wall.

This went on for a good minute before she finally found the door control. She ripped off all the paper covering it, then proceeded to tear away all the paper covering the doors. Which, considering how tall the doors were, took a while. Being the oblivious grunt that I was, I helped her out. Even lugged over a couple crates so she could stand up and clear off all the paper. At last, the doors were uncovered. She activated the door control and moved in front of the doors, hands placed firmly on her hips. The doors opened...

...and Lori Grodin was promptly buried in an avalanche of plastic baubles.

Now keep in mind that I was still playing the innocent, so I couldn't exactly laugh out loud. I might've grinned from ear to ear though.

By the time Lori had emerged from the pile, I had recovered my composure. "Wow," was all I said.

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!" Lori screeched.

I shuffled towards the doors, gingerly put one foot into the pile and peered inside. "Well..." I said at last, "If I had to guess, I'd say someone filled the warehouse with plastic balls."

Lori stared at me, her eyes bulging out. "The entire warehouse?"

"Looks like."

"But that means the statue is..."

"Buried," I finished. And hopefully it would stay that way.


Who was I kidding? Of course it didn't stay that way. The veritable ocean of plastic baubles—each in an obnoxiously bright neon colour, just because I needed some light at the time—was emptied. The statue was unearthed, gradually and inexorably. And, to my mild surprise, it was moved to Central Square more or less on time.

So I endured another day of speeches. Another day of cheers and celebration. Another day where tales of my exploits were told over and over again, each retelling more exaggerated than the one before. Another day of interviews, handshakes and never-ending pictures of my exaggerated exploits. Another day of smiling non-stop.

Only this time, my cheeks didn't seem to hurt quite so much. Maybe it had something to do with knowing who was benefiting—really benefiting—from all this crap. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I had gotten my own small, admittedly petty, revenge.

Maybe it was both.