A/N: This begins the actual start of ME1.

Remastered 10-22-14.

THE SECOND ARC : This is an outrage!

'I'd just like to point out that while I doubted Shepard at first, I at least had enough sense to change my mind when I saw her do what no one else could. A lesson few seem to be able to comprehend, but one that has saved me, I suspect, from a broken jaw at her hands.'

-Councilor Donnel Udina, ' "Maybe Later" is Never the Right Answer'

"AT-TEN-SHUN!"

Forty-five sets of black combat boots crashed together. Forty-five backs went ramrod straight.

Arcturus Station was quiet, the view of the great beyond marred by the glittering silver crescent hanging motionless outside the docking arms. A complicated crane and gantry system nestled against the hull, poised, waiting. The ship was devoid of a name, waiting for its first crew to come aboard and take her into space, danger, and destiny.

Forty-five men and women stood in silent, even ranks on the dockside, stoic and prepared. Silent. Motionless.

"Present arms!"

The ten-man Marine squad crashed to a new stance, shipping the Avenger battle rifles in salute as the ship's officers approached, then neatly pivoted to face the crew.

Rear Admiral Chan Mikhailovich was not particularly happy right now. Christening a new ship for his flotilla was usually a happy moment, another battle won with those money-grubbing corp-kissers that passed for an appropriations board in the Alliance, or the idiots at BuShips.

But the amount spent on this staggeringly useless trinket that passed as a frigate was so mindboggling that it made him almost want to scream in frustration.

And he wasn't even going to get to command it. Intolerable.

And yet, appearances must be maintained. It isn't the crew's fault their superiors have their heads in their asses.

The crew and their officers stood, sharp and ready looking. Twelve engineers, every one of them both battle-tested and college graduates, commanded by Lieutenant Gregory Adams. Sharp and skilled, he'd been the assistant engineer on the Tokyo. Four years past when he could have made Lieutenant Commander, simply because he had pissed off the wrong Senator by eloping with the man's daughter. A shame. His features were even, almost bland, with flat brown hair and a dour, no-nonsense face.

Operations and Navigation, led by Lieutenant Commander Charles Pressly. A staid, quiet, dependable figure. Career Navy man, but had done a few years groundside. Brilliant navigator, good with battle ops. His eighteen man department was outstanding, all trained operators and most of them with fire control experience. His tired features and balding hairline were countered by his ramrod straight posture and broad shoulders. The brown eyes were alert, ready, almost excited. A man still passionate about his job.

Good.

The pilot, Flight Lieutenant Jeff Moreau. Complete and total asshole. Best damned pilot in the fleet, maybe in history. Test and simulator scores so high they were beyond theoretical. Piloted his way out of a class six solar storm without even scratching the paint on the Calais. Egomaniacal asshat, but tough little bastard. Even though the agony must be killing him, the kid was standing at attention without his crutches. The Rear Admiral gave the man a nod of respect, and the kid stood taller.

Crew like this given over to the fucking Council for who knows how long, for a goddamned joyride to pick up an interactive lollipop, just to hand it over to more aliens. I am going to skin Udina alive for this. Make a fucking rug out of his stupid, hanar kissing ass.

The Marine crew shipped their arms as Captain Anderson approached, uniform perfect, his dark face set in a gentle smile.

There was a hero in and of himself. One of the first N7 commanders ever, right up there with names like Ahern and Kyle. Brilliant career, service with the turians, even saving the life of the Primarch's son. A long and storied history of excellence. The fact that he was in charge of this mission must have been a bitter pill for the man to swallow.

Mikhailovich knew the rumors, that Anderson had been a Spectre candidate and failed. Mikhailovich also knew David hadn't ever failed at a single thing he put his mind to. He smelled politics, the rancid scent of scurrying slime-molds in good suits sucking up to things with three fingers and no sense of smell.

He hated politics.

Anderson at least looked good, sharp, ready to lead. Behind him were the rest of the command staff. The ship's doctor, Major Karin Chakwas, was unknown to him but highly recommended. The Marine Staff Lieutenant, Kaidan Alenko. Biotic sentinel, good leadership skills, quiet, but dedicated. The kid looked a little nervous, but his eyes were still bright with excitement.

And finally the centerpiece. The Butcher herself, all lithe power and arrogance as she sauntered along behind Anderson like a chained panther, or a contained wildfire. Icy eyes flickering over the crew, looking for weakness, sloppy postures, anything out of place, and finding nothing, a tiny cold little smile appearing.

The officers came to attention, saluting, and Mikhailovich returned it. "Captain Anderson, I present to ship's company, this twenty-second day in the year of our Lord, 2183… the Systems Alliance Space Vessel… Normandy."

As he said the name, an auto-launcher smashed a capsule of champagne out of the station, to shatter into a spray of vapor against the hull. At the same moment the paint gantry moved, the arms spraying out the nano-agent laced hull agents, and the name scrolled along the black trim of the silvery hull in bold, white letters."

Anderson saluted, and turned to the ship's station engineer, a commander who was now done with the ship. "Sir, I relieve you."

The Station Commander returned the salute. "Sir, I stand relieved. The Normandy is ashore. By order of the Systems Alliance Admiralty, command is transferred to 5th Fleet Command, 63rd Scout Flotilla. Captain David Anderson has the deck and the conn. VI, log the time."

A bosun's whistle rang out, and the master at arms fell into parade rest. "Puhrade… REST."

The crew matched his motion with machine like quality, and Mikhailovich sighed before speaking.

"Sailors, Marines… brothers and sisters. You were originally slated to join my flotilla, the 63rd Scout, and perform anti-pirate operations in the Skyllian Verge. These orders have been superseded, however. Arcturus Command has recently installed prototype stealth technology into the Normandy, making her one of the most effective, lethal insertion vessels we have. This technology is a human invention, but the Normandy is a joint turian-human effort."

No one made a noise, but some of the faces tightened in discomfort.

Good, he thought. Ship is a piece of tin, but the crew is solid.

"In order to facilitate your mission, you will conduct shakedown operations beginning immediately. Captain Anderson is your new commanding officer. Commander Shepard is your new executive officer. Further orders will be transmitted once on station. This is not a normal shakedown cruise, but I have faith that you will accomplish your tasks with utmost proficiency, and demonstrate the honor, commitment, and courage the Alliance Navy is known for."

"Make me proud, Normandy." The Admiral saluted, and the crew came to attention.

"FALL OUT and board by unit and division!"

The crew broke up, heading into the ship in segments, officers leading. Anderson and Shepard traded a single glance and Anderson raised an eyebrow, before nodding toward the direction of the ship. Shepard nodded and headed in, her stride cool and almost leisurely.

Mikhailovich frowned. It was clear Shepard and Anderson knew each other well, if just by a few motions they could understand each other. "Captain. A moment, if you will."

"Of course, sir." Captain Anderson's expression was neutral as he walked beside the Rear Admiral, as the last of the crew faded into the ship.

"You seem familiar with Commander Shepard. I can only presume you are equally familiar with her record?"

Anderson nodded. "I worked with her a number of times, sir, and gave her the nod and recommendation for N7 training."

Mikhailovich didn't know that. "I find that hard to understand. David, you've always prided yourself doing it by the book, doing what's right, figuring out a way to play the peacemaker as well as the soldier. I don't like aliens and I don't want anything to do with 'em, and yet you manage to work with them without compromising humanity. I've always admired that about you."

"Thank you, sir."

Mikhailovich held up a thick finger, absently noting as he did so that he needed to clean his fingernails. "But that woman is nothing like you, and nothing like what you train your people to be."

Anderson was silent for long seconds before speaking. "She has gone through things that would leave most people broken or dead. Mentally and physically. She will always do the actions that are best for the greater good, sir. She will always achieve her objective. She has no pity, no mercy, no weakness, that is true."

Anderson exhaled. "And she has never shied away from casualties, either. But she has always taken ownership of every one of her actions."

Memories flashed across Anderson's mind…

"Hit me."

The sobbing mother and widow looked up at the glacial features of the Marine, and then at Anderson in confusion. "Hit you?! I want to KILL YOU! You got John killed, you got his unit killed, for what? To get revenge on some slavers? To make yourself fucking look good?! So you could get a medal!"

Shepard stood there, unblinking, then unclipped her pistol. Ignoring Anderson's indrawn breath, she took off the safety and handed it to the wife of her former XO, dead with so many others on Torfan. "Then kill me, Mrs. Sanders. Make this a relief for both of us."

The woman stared at the pistol in her hand, then back up at Shepard. "…What the hell is wrong with you?"

Shepard said nothing for a moment.

"I'm broken somehow. I don't know how. Or why. I can't even be sorry about what happened to your husband, or say I wouldn't do it again. We completed the mission. A lot of people died so that more could live."

A pause. Muscles in her jaw flexing. "But some part of me knows what I do is evil. That I'm evil."

Those cold, blue eyes swiveled down to stare at Sanders's widow, who flinched, even though she had the gun now. "And they keep sending me out. They keep giving me men. Boys. Fools. They keep giving me tasks to complete that can't be done and saying to do them. And I do. And people die. And I can't even feel it."

Jessica Sanders had trembled, and Anderson didn't think she knew why. Shepard ignored it.

"So please. Take the pistol, and kill me. End it. End it for me, for you. End it before they make me do something worse."

There was no fear in the eyes, no weariness. Just blank emptiness.

Sanders swallowed. "They said you tried to save them." She takes in the woman, the heavy bandages, the cast, the bruises. "That you killed them all, all the batarians, even the ones who surrendered."

Shepard nods. "I did. I expect I'll be court-martialed, dishonorably discharged. Broken and thrown out. That would also be good."

And suddenly Sanders snapped, flinging the pistol aside and stepping closer. "So that John died for NOTHING? So he drew those slavers off for nothing!"

Shepard blinked, and the woman spat. "I can't feel fucking sorry for you, you're a goddamned monster. I feel sorry for everyone you have gotten killed in your career. I feel sorry for those you are in command of. But I'll never feel sorry for you."

Sanders stepped back. "I hope it hurts to keep on living. I hope they DO give you a fucking medal and make you wear it the rest of your life. I hope it never, ever ends, because it won't for us."

Shepard said nothing, eyes still. Then she slowly bent over and picked up the pistol, shipping it at her waist. "I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs. Sanders. I'll leave you to your grief."

She pivoted smoothly on one heel despite her injuries, walking without hesitancy or seeming pain. Anderson knew that, in her head, she still heard the widow shrieking, one of thousands now, all hating her, all despising her. All he could do was follow.

Anderson shook his head. "Chan, you can't understand that woman. But she's a good person inside. It just doesn't get much chance to show. Trust me on this."

Mikhailovich looked across at the ship, exhaling. "No choice but to trust you. The people who pushed this along are way beyond my range of influence, and technically she's out of my chain of command now, son. If you need me to back you and her up, though, just let me know."

The Rear Admiral handed the Captain a datapad. "Prior to transit to Eden Prime you are to report to Sesatven III and pick up a turian Spectre, one Nihlus Kryik. You will pick him up from his shuttle, he's been aboard the Alliance repair docks there for the past six hours. He will be observing and qualifying Commander Shepard during this process. The ship is fitted with a turian-sized sleeper pod, dextro rations, and some turian blood-plasma and medical crap in the med-bay. Try not to get him killed."

Anderson nodded. "I have some good history with Nihlus, we worked together in REACHBACK. We should get along just fine, and he's likely to be a lot more open-minded than Saren was." He grimaced at the name, then squared his shoulder. "I'll keep you in the loop, sir."

Mikhailovich snorted. "Be the first time I was in the loop on some shit like this, so don't stress over it too much. Get that overpriced tin heap outta my docks."

The Rear Admiral watched as the ship sealed, and undocked. He watched as it transited out from Arcturus, and continued to watch until it vanished into that distant night sky, before sighing and turning away, back toward his office, and paperwork, and mediocrity, and struggling against bureaucratic fucks.

TERMS:

BuShips: Alliance Bureau of Ship Standards – SA organization that develops all ship plans and designs

Deck and Conn: who is in command of the deck and the conning system, or the CO