Jack hated Shepard's apartment. Hated it with a passion.

She hated how sterile it all felt. How deceptively clean it was. In the two weeks he'd lived there, it hadn't changed a bit. The automated sanitation units worked silently through the night, pointlessly sweeping over flooring that never stained and walls that never marked.

Shepard had watched, smiling, as she poured a glass of wine onto the eggshell white carpeting. It soaked in. It bled. And ten seconds later it was gone. Her time in space – a lifetime, in fact – left her ill prepared to enjoy the comforts of terra firma.

Truth be told, this apartment, and indeed this planet, had one thing going for it. And that thing wasn't there, an absence that had become commonplace of late. Shepard left a note, fully aware that she had lifted his spare key. His sense of humour was lost on her increasingly short temper.

Out of milk. Cereal tasted dry. Don't open the toy.

That was not the worst of it. Jack realised something. It wasn't that it was so hard for her, or for Shepard, to leave their mark. Rather, the empty space enclosed within those four walls reminded her that they had no mark to leave. A captain without a ship was a pathetic thing indeed. Every bit as pathetic, she imagined, as a criminal and a pirate with an Alliance funded bank account and a cushy teaching job waiting for her just as soon as the smoke cleared.

However, the smoke was still rising. Every day. Higher and higher, suffocating the skies and poisoning the atmosphere. Before the war, Earth's industry had been driven by technological advancement and cutting edge scientific research. The crushing blow struck by the Reapers had meant the rapid construction of factories and warehouses all over London, as well as in countless other major cities, was suddenly necessary. Mostly to help in ship manufacture and repair although, from what little Jack heard when she pressed her ear to the ground, the Alliance was also unearthing age-old deposits of low grade fuel to replenish their fast diminishing reserves.

So, in a word, Earth was fucked. And it's saviour, past, present and future, humanity's finest son, was out buying milk for his breakfast cereal, the box of which featured a holographic cartoon goat who was winking at her from across the room.

Jack hated the feeling of helplessness that he seemed eager to thrust upon her lately and so began snooping around. Despite the locked doors, it didn't take her long to find something – in fact, it was flashing before her eyes on his answer machine. One missed call. One message.

"Hey, Shepard, it's Hackett. How you doing?"

Jack rolled her eyes and waited for the awkward silence to abate.

"Look, I understand why you haven't been picking up my calls. The stuff you've been through, I'd be more surprised if your head was in the right place. But I want you to know… no one has forgotten how much you've sacrificed. Or how important you are. This thing with the parade? You don't have to be there. I told them it was a bad idea. Too soon after the fact. Just… let me know you're alright. When you can. I'm worried about you. Hackett out."

Jack felt strange. Uneasy, almost. Not because she had pried and found amongst her loot her erstwhile and guilty conscience. No, this was something much more ridiculous. She had pried and found not something embarrassing, or revealing, but simply heartfelt and, ultimately, importantly, that she knew would fall on deaf ears. Shepard was not listening. Shepard was not home.

OOO

"Hey, turian," Jack barked at the alien, her heavy footfalls filling the alley with a foreboding echo. "Hey, I'm talking to you, bird-brain."

The turian merchant visibly tensed at the familiar sight of the tattooed human biotic. This, along with the battered suit of armour he wore, meant it was difficult for him to appear as anything more than a rat trapped by a much larger and more dangerous creature. Jack barely made eye contact and allowed her tone to speak for itself.

"It's been a week…" she said through her teeth.

"Six days by my count," he replied in a feeble attempt at nonchalance.

Jack raised a fist that was instantly surrounded in a brilliant blue aura.

"But then, what do I know?" he added quickly. "I'm just a tourist. Can hardly keep up with Earth's crazy day-night cycles."

"Don't get cute with me, Scrooge McDuck. I gave you two hundred credits seven days ago." She shook her head. "Was I not clear when I said either you get me a gun or I teach you to fly?"

"N-no," he replied apologetically, "you were clear. Perfectly clear. And, I mean, I'm a man of my word. When Corvus Minn promises something…"

"Get on with it," Jack demanded, interrupting him, the muscles in her jaw tensing as her fisted hand opened and laid flat before the turian's beady little eyes. "You already ripped me off. Don't waste your breath with the sales spiel."

"Well, you see… well." Minn's hand moved to the back of his neck, worrying the rough, leathery skin as he averted his gaze. "There was a slight problem with acquiring the item. So slight you might not even notice a difference."

Jack merely raised a brow.

"Just let me say that what you're getting here is a fine piece of craftsmanship. I mean, the very best," he added, trying in vain to hide behind a small sprinkle of showmanship. "This is a state of the art killing machine. Fires bullets faster than a speeding locomotive, reload time is… well… it possesses an efficient reload mechanism. You won't – what is it you humans say?" he asked, pausing briefly, his eyes searching the heavens for an answer. "You won't get caught with your pants down? Is that right?"

"Life, Corvus," asked Jack. "D'you like it?"

"Uh, well, yeah. I do."

"Then shut up."

Minn swallowed hard. "Point taken."

OOO

There was something they could not see – something of enormity, something garish and depraved. A red river ran through the heart of London, intersecting through the slums, through the financial district, through the alien shelters and the shipping yards. No stone was left unturned and no skull left uncracked.

There was a quarian in Chelsea, her visor shattered to pieces, her legs and arms broken, her mouth gagged. She was left there to die slowly, painfully, as the onslaught of infection overwhelmed her system.

There was a krogan in Battersea, his skull plate torn right off, exposing him to a fatal blow atop his head. The walls were painted with krogan blood and brain matter. Judging by signs of struggle and collateral damage, the krogan had lived through the ordeal – at least long enough to suffer mightily.

There was an asari in Westminster, whose mutilation was not incidental to her death but, rather, the other way around. Her tentacles had been… shaved. Shawn. There really was no word that did the act justice. Her cold, dead eyes gave Shepard hope that the damage done to the rest of her body had been done so post-mortem. It was only a fool's hope.

There was a turian in Greenwich, a solider stripped of his armour, stuck with a blade and left to hang by its neck from the rafters. It died with the same cold, impassive expression with which it lived but Shepard knew pain, he knew the kind of suffering that dare not make a sound, and this creature had begged to its gods by the end for that suffering to cease. Like all prayers, it no doubt went unanswered.

This mutilation was unique but the murders were not. Humans were being killed at a much faster rate but in a decidedly tamer manner. So distinct were the two styles that if one squinted, or ignored their better judgement, they could be seen as separate matters entirely. However, there was always an ego involved, the same ego, and a hunger to be satisfied – a calling card, as it were.

It was subtle, almost. Or as subtle as death could be. Each body was propped up, whether hanging or lying, into an upright position. The arms were then extended outwards and the head bowed, eyes facing the ground.

It was the sign of the martyr, that much he knew – a close approximation of figures from various religions and mythologies across the galaxy. They were paying for the sins of others, humans and aliens alike, but no matter how deep he dug, no matter how much he let obsession take hold, he could not find the why in all of this. Not even close. He saw only madness, and this was too clever, too precise, and too persistent to be driven by madness alone.

Someone out there was moving their pieces into place on the board across from, a cold, clinical detachment to this game. And yet Shepard was blinded by rage and disgust and paranoia. He did not wear them well. His pieces were lost to him and he feared, and rightfully so, the grave consequences of losing this sick, twisted game.

A future he did not want replaced by one he could not imagine.

Shepard was lost in thought and stirred only at the sound of the front door opening. This was followed by booted footfalls and then, eventually, the unmistakable sound of someone rummaging through his refrigerator. He shook his head and left the room, locking the door on his way out, then greeted the intruder in the kitchen, his shoulder leaning against the wall.

"Where's the milk?" asked Jack, her head buried in the fridge, her body bent at the waist.

"Must have slipped my mind," he replied mildly.

After a few seconds, Jack's emerged, apple in hand, energy drink in the other. She was smiling – it always worried him when Jack was smiling.

"How'd you get apples?" she asked through a mouthful of the fruit. "You lift it? The Alliance send you a nice fruit basket as housewarming? With the war and all I thought these things were worth their weight in gold."

"You didn't come here to talk about fruit did you, Jack?" he asked, watching her with a suspicious eye.

"Whatever," she replied, shrugging as she dropped onto his couch and kicked her feet up onto his coffee table, her heavy boots coming crashing down on its impeccable wooden surface and not leaving a mark. "Sleight of hand, right? I say fruit when I really mean something else. You say milk. No biggie."

Shepard turned to face her but otherwise remained rooted to the spot. "And what do you really mean?"

"Oh no," she said, shaking her head, "I'm not playing this game. I never win. See, when I say fruit I do mean something else. And I always do. But that something else isn't like your something else. That something else isn't a dead body on every street corner, and your big nose never far behind. My something else is nothing compared to that."

"Really?" Shepard's eyebrows lifted. "You think I have a big nose?"

Jack snorted. "Yeah. Huge. But you're lucky. It suits you. Makes you look distinguished. The kinda' nose you can stare down and scare the shit out of Reapers. But it's not your nose I'm interested in."

"So you like my eyes, then?" Shepard replied facetiously.

"No."

He tilted his head and smiled a lazy smile. "One extranet report described them as two dreamy pools of emerald ambrosia."

"I don't get you, Shepard. I never have. And honestly, it never used to bug me as much as it does right now." Jack whirled around in her seat, her frustration evident as she pointed a finger in his face as if it were the barrel of a gun. "But you asked me to help you. Point blank – Jack, will you help me. I wanted to say no. And you know why? Because you're a living, breathing shit-storm." She shook her head anxiously. "But, like an idiot, I said yes. And then, what? I hardly hear from you in two weeks. You're not my boss. And we ain't bangin'. So quit fucking playing games, will ya'? I'm so sick of this shit."

"I won't lie," he began quietly after a long and painful pause, "I have been… distracted."

"No shit."

"But I don't know why you're taking it personally."

Jack huffed suddenly and kicked the table. "Are you fucking kiddin' me? 'Course I take it personally. Are you gonna' stand there and pretend that if you had the A team here you'd be sneakin' out in the dead of night, on your own, to investigate every pinprick in London?"

"The A team?" he replied incredulously, although he had the good sense not to laugh.

"Yeah, you know. T'Soni, Varkarian, and your little bucket-headed princess."

Shepard sighed. "Why do you do that? You like Tali. Other than me, she's about the only person you used to talk to on the Normandy. You don't have to pretend like you hate everyone."

"Don't fucking change the subject."

"How is this fair?" Shepard snapped, lifting himself into a upright position. "Or don't you remember? Grissom Academy. We'd just pulled your ass out of the fire. You and your students."

Jack huffed. "Yeah. I remember. You helped. A little."

"And I asked you to come with me. I told you there would always be a spot on the Normandy for you. You shot me down. Point blank," he added, echoing her statement. "And now you're going to pretend like I don't trust you? Like I don't want you around? Hey," he said, coming up behind her, his knee gently tapping the back of the couch. "If there is an A team, you're on it, okay?" He gave her a lingering look and eventually began to smile. He couldn't resist. "So save your paranoid ranting for your biotics-anonymous meetings."

Jack picked up a nearby pillow and wacked him with it. "Fuck you. It was one meeting. And I only went because Kahlee Sanders practically begged me."

"Make any friends?" Shepard asked, still smiling.

"You're such an asshole."

"I'll take that as a no," he added, laughing softly. "So why are you really here?"

Jack picked up her apple core and threw it across the room. It was disintegrated in mid air by the sanitation bot. "I brought you something. It's in the fridge."

Shepard leaned in close and eyed her. "Didn't we have this talk? About the severed heads?"

Jack rolled her eyes. "Just look, will ya'? It might shut you up for two seconds."

Shepard approached the refrigerator warily. It wasn't his birthday and even if it were, Jack was unlikely to a) remember or b) give a shit, so a cake seemed unlikely. As he pulled open the door he was met only with the familiar and unexciting interior – there was an energy drink, some fruit, an abundance of protein and little else. Then something caught his eye, quite literally – it was silver and shimmering, with a metallic handle coloured like bone. Unsurprisingly, it was cold to the touch.

"You know, I was expecting something like a Predator. Maybe a Phalanx. I didn't think you were going antiques shopping."

Shepard lifted the firearm and looked down its sights. It was a cumbersome thing, a revolver with a long snout and a wide barrel. You didn't see guns like this anymore. Not outside of museums and old westerns. Whether it would tear through armour and kinetic barriers like modern firearms, well, Shepard was highly sceptical. However, at point blank range, with just a fine sheen of sweat between the gun and its target, it would do its job.

"You said get me a gun," Jack reiterated, picking at her nails nervously, although she wasn't entirely sure why it even mattered. "I got you a gun."

"That you did," Shepard replied, flicking his wrist, just as he'd seen done in the movies, and inspecting the fully loaded cylinder. "Did you take it for a spin?" he asked, teasingly. "Meet any little old ladies on the way over who looked at you funny?"

"No," she said rather haughtily, rising from the couch. "The only person I have the sudden urge to shoot is the guy with the gun. Figures, huh?"

Jack approached slowly and stood before him. It took him a moment to realise what she was doing and when he did he turned his neck and she immediately lifted his hair and began to fiddle with his biotic amp.

"She givin' you any trouble?" asked Jack.

"Well, it bled the other day. My ear, that is," he added, nonchalantly. "And every other night it hits me with these sudden, intense electric shocks. And then, of course, there's the constant headaches and light-headedness. Apart from that, though," he added, shrugging, "everything's peachy."

"You're such a baby, Shep'," she teased, "I saw the size of that piece of shrapnel they pulled outta' you. Thought after that you would have grown a pair."

Shepard rolled his eyes and pulled away. "And to answer your question," he added pre-emptively as he placed the gun on the kitchen counter, "no, Jack, there has been no change. Thanks for asking."

"You'll figure it out," she said, attempting to sound supportive, but she could hardly stomach the sound, "I've said it before, but… you're one hell of a biotic. Better than me. Better than any asari I've met. That shit doesn't just disappear."

Shepard's gaze was averted, drifting into space, and until he replied Jack thought that perhaps he wasn't listening. "But it does take a vacation? Strange that."

"Aw, you need another pity party, Shepard?" she sneered. "So soon?"

Jack now was staring right at him, searching out his gaze, but his wide eyes were bleary. Unbeknownst to her, they had been since he entered the room. He was elsewhere. Still, he responded.

"You brought it up, Jack."

She was fast – faster than he anticipated. In barely the blink of an eye her hand lifted, her fingers clicking in his face and sending him crashing back down to Earth.

"What?" she asked urgently. "What is it? Why do you look stoned?"

"I told you, I'm just… distracted."

Jack scoffed. "That's just a word. One you keep using. What the hell's the matter?"

Shepard smiled and, eventually, began to quietly laugh. But even Jack, inexperienced as she was when it came to reading human emotions other than lust, anger and shame, knew it was not a happy laugh. It was dark. Darker than such a gesture ever ought to be. "You remember what I told you? How I thought I was going mad…"

Her brow lifted. "Yeah, that. How could I forget?"

"I can't sleep," he blurted out suddenly, averting his gaze and allowing her to see only half of his worried and weary expression. "At all. I keep thinking – it's madness, but – I keep thinking all these terrible things. Like I died, and this is my own personal hell. Or that I was indoctrinated by the Reapers after all. That they used me as a puppet to win this war whilst my mind was poisoned with… with… this," he suddenly shouted the word, causing Jack to flinch and watch wide-eyed as he gestured the area surrounding them.

She took a moment to collect her thoughts. "What's so bad about this? Yeah, things kinda' suck right now, but they've been worse. A lot worse."

"Have they?" he asked, not missing a beat. "I do miss her," he added, pre-emptively answering another question. "And I do fear the worst. I dream these awful, awful dreams about her too. Like she's buried, and she's waiting for me, and I'll never find her. I don't know the way. And you get it, don't you, Jack?" he asked, eyeing her closely. "Because that's the thing about growing up without a home. No one ever taught you the way back. So you know one path and one path alone. Forward. And you take it. No matter how much you want to go home, to go back, you take it."

"I–" Jack opened her mouth to respond but faltered almost immediately. And it hurt. It really fucking hurt. Every time he showed her a scar of his as deep as her own, it was like a sucker punch. There was no preparing for it, no sense as to why he would share when she shared only the scars on her skin – but he did, and he wasn't afraid. Not of this, at least. "Yeah," she agreed finally. "I get it."

"So when I say I think I'm going mad," he continued, voice growing quiet, "you know it isn't a cry for help. And when you somehow contain you madness within one quiet room, like I did, you start to see clarity where there is none. You start to join the dots. I see possibilities, Jack. I mean," and he stopped mid-sentence, swallowing the lump in his throat, "I look at death and I see possibilities. That sounds fucked up," he added, trailing off.

"Just a bit," she said mildly.

"And it is. But… not in that way. It's like; I want to find this person more than I want to stop him. If I had a choice between putting a bullet in his brain and asking him why… then I would ask. Every. Single. Time. I would ask."

This all felt too familiar to Jack and what started as shivers soon began to make her skin crawl. It was not Shepard that disgusted her, nor what he had to say. It was the intimacy. The trust. The knowledge that he was falling into the abyss and had hold of her throat. She loved him like a brother, trusted him to a dangerous extent, but when he looked at her with those sad green eyes, when he spoke in that desperate, feeble tone, she wanted one thing and one thing alone. She wanted to run.

"That room," he continued, pointing over her shoulder to a door on the far side of the room. "I can't stop thinking about it. I can't let go. I know that only madness awaits me…" he trailed and she made to reply, but the look in his eye, a look that went right through her, turned her tongue to lead. "…but it's my madness. And I want it."

For the first time since she'd arrived there, she noticed a key hanging around his neck, just below the scar on his throat that had always fascinated her.

"I can't help you, Shepard," she said quietly. "None of us can."

And when she looked at him, she saw something that for years had stared back at her in the mirror and taunted her. He was wounded. He was suffering in a way that was neither lethal nor benign. It knew when to ease up, and how not to kill him, and it knew too when to twist the blade, when he could take the punishment and endure.

There was a voice in her head screaming.

Run.

"I can't stop," he said, shaking his head.

"I know," she replied, reaching up and placing her hands either side of his neck. "And you won't. Not yet. The world needs you. She needs you…" Jack paused and prepared her tongue for a foul taste. "I need you." Her hand moved to his chest and gripped the key. "And I promise – I won't let the madness take you." With a short, sharp pull, the chain around his neck broke and the key was hers. Shepard said nothing. He did nothing. She could feel his thunderous heartbeat reaching out to her, but the surface was eerily still.

Finally Jack surrendered to the voice screaming in her head. And she was gone.