To: ['mail-list-server: crew-normandy']
07:16:33 GST, 22/03/2186

Subject: War Summit Protocol

At approximately 19:00 GST, the Normandy will begin docking with representatives from the salarian, krogan and turian leadership councils. This will include a military entourage.

Dress code for the remainder of the war summit is Service Dress Uniform for all active crew in the CIC and Crew Deck levels. Full Dress Uniform will be required for anyone in immediate contact with war summit representatives in the War Room and surrounding areas. Crew located in Engineering and the Shuttle Bay may wear regular Service Uniform.

Guards will be posted outside Decks 1, 4, and 5 to redirect any war summit guests. War summit guests are not permitted outside of Decks 2 or 3.

Normal shifts will be observed.

Staff Cmdr Shepard, Annelise M
Human Systems Military Alliance

Dictated but not read


"Dictated but not read" my arse, Samantha scowled as she smoothed out a crease in her dress jacket in the Crew Deck women's washroom. "Dictated and read over and over" is more like it. The better part of the two day haul to Annos Basin had been spent endlessly refining that bloody email to the crew. Apparently, "Senior Comms Specialist" translated to "Master Email Writer" in the Commander's mind.

The whole ordeal had been irritating to Sam. Mostly because it wasn't even done in person. Shepard had been either scarfing down protein bars in the Crew Deck to recover her energy from so much biotic exertion on Sanctum, or up in her cabin doing God knows what. Sam had been tending to her shift, dutifully analyzing the QEC feeds in the War Room, when that first message had popped up.

[Message received: "Traynor, are you busy? Please respond ASAP. –A.S."]

Well, that could either be good or bad. And at least she instant-messages more coherently than Dr. Chakwas.

Rubbing her eyes, Samantha turned away from the set of elcor feeds she'd been mapping and brought up her Omni-tool's keyboard.

[Message sent: "I am available. How may I be of assistance, Commander? /Traynor"] Now I feel like EDI. "I am pleased to assist!"

[Message received: "I need to run a correspondence by you before I send it to the crew. Can you help? –A.S."]

Well, that sounds simple enough, Samantha had stupidly thought at the time. What followed was a haphazard string of bullet points on details the Commander wanted regarding the war summit. First it was just the dress code, which was horribly rigid.

Full Service Dress?! Bloody hell, I didn't even try my replacement dress blues on before I left the Citadel.

And I'd only worn those damn things once anyway at my graduation ceremony.

I'd just kill myself and get it over with. It'd certainly hurt less than standing in the CIC in heels for God knows how long.

So Sam had asked for more information and gone back to work. The elcor time-lapse was proving problematic, because Dekuuna and Ekuna's high gravity wreaked havoc on her algorithms. Consulting with EDI, Samantha managed to rig an equation to overcompensate for the data lapse, but it wasn't ideal. Digging around the extranet, Samantha had just found a suitable integration suite when her Omni-tool glowed again.

[Message received: "It's tomorrow at 19:00. And security needs to be stepped up. –A.S."]

[Message sent: "All right, ma'am. 19:00, full service dress, more security. Anything else? /Traynor"]

[Message received: "Did I say full dress? That seems excessive. –A.S."]

Your words, not mine. I flunked out of mind-reading in college, Sam grumbled inwardly. Apparently the elcor didn't just pass out encoding suites to anyone who asked, either. Even with a little thing like a galaxy-wide invasion going on. I miss my irresponsible college days where I'd just pirate the damn thing. But now everything I do is monitored and catalogued, and I have a feeling the Alliance might not be thrilled if I downloaded a server core-collapsing virus from an unverified source.

A long-form was dumped into Samantha's inbox, with a laundry list of overly personal questions to answer. Before resuming her actual job, she sighed and pondered a tactful response to Shepard. She even took a chance on being informal.

[Message sent: "I would agree, ma'am. Excessive and bloody hot. I don't fancy melting all over the krogan war chief's boots... Feet? Claws? /Traynor"]

[Message received: "Scratch the dress code, then. Can't have my crew passing out. Can you shoot me a draft to read over? –A.S."]

A simple three line email was easy enough to whip up and send over. The blank elcor request form still leered from her inbox, ready to be tackled. Is my grandmother's maiden name (on my father's side) truly relevant to the elcor embassy? Or my height and weight? What's next? My turn ons and turn offs? Brand of toothpaste? Cup size?

[Message received: "Sorry, I checked the Alliance regs. Need that dress code back in the email. And it's still a little too formal. Surely I have more personality than that. –A.S."]

Speaking of similar cup siz—Don't you dare finish that thought, Traynor.

"More personality?" In a bloody email? I could add the Alliance flag waving in the background. Or maybe get Allers to shoot an inspiring vid for it. What the hell does "more personality" mean?

Sighing deeply, Sam took another stab at it. A simple "Greetings fellow Normandiers" to start, a casual update, and a cheeky sign off from The Commander. With a spot of urgency for everyone to be on their best behavior. There. Now I have elcor diplomatic relations to smooth over with deeply personal information so the Normandy can have accurately calibrated QEC data. My first job at the Horizon Civic Center and my savings account at Beckmann Financial Savings & Loan are being ransomed for a bloody algorithm.

[Message received: "When have I ever called anyone a 'Normandier'? That sounds like Joker. No one wants to sound like Joker. Is that what I sound like? –A.S."]

And it went on like this. For hours. Draft after draft discarded, always with some excuse from the Commander: Too personal. Not personal enough. Change the dress code. Change it again. Where should security be? Is that enough security? Maybe we should have more? If only Ashley were here, she'd know, she was always the regs expert. Do we have enough dextro food for the turian guests? We really need to restock. Put in a reminder to go back to the Citadel as soon as possible. What time is it? Holy shit, is it that late? Send it already.

The bridge of Sam's nose ached from all the pinching it was receiving in frustration. Sam had doubled the dose of her migraine medication and it still hadn't penetrated the dull ache that was Collaborating with Commander Annelise Shepard on a Bloody Email. Even hours after the stupid message had finally finally been blessed by Her Highness and everyone had gotten on with their lives, Samantha's migraine persisted.

As her Omni-tool glowing brightly with yet another new message, Sam just about screamed. She had to count to ten before turning the dial on the interface. I am going to train Socks to enjoy the taste of human flesh, and I am going to unleash him in your quarters, Commander. I may not be an ace marksman. But I am a woman, and my revenge will be swift and brutal.

[Message received: "I appreciate your help with all this, Specialist. I couldn't trust just anyone with this. Joker would probably have everyone standing around in their underwear. Drunk. Thank you. –A.S."]

[Message sent: "If I may be frank, Commander… you're total crap to work with. Work for: fine. You can give orders like a pro. But as a partner, you're rubbish. /Sam"]

[Message received: "That's Staff Commander Rubbish to you, Specialist. I expect you in the CIC at 1900 sharp to welcome our guests. No melting or whining, either. –Shep"]

Buttoning up her formal Alliance jacket, Samantha smirked as she reread that final line. Six hours of back and forth and "dress it up some." All for a stupid email. And just think, you did say it was an honor to help the war effort by flagging the Commander's messages and mapping intel. You volunteered for this migraine weeks ago. An email and an algorithm traded for your sanity and personal information.

Oo-rah, marine. Or is it "oo-rah, yeoman" now?

Shit.

The women's washroom was starting to get crowded as more of the female crew shouldered their way to the mirrors to apply make-up. Lipsticks were traded, eyelashes were curled, and shirts were groaned over every time a wrinkle was spotted.

Ten to one the men are just running a razor over their faces and calling it good. Six to one their socks don't match. Two point five to one they just sniff at their armpits and have to think about the last time they bathed.

Checking the time, Sam and crew still had about 25 minutes before Go Time. EDI announced over the intercom that docking procedures were beginning with the salarian and krogan vessels. The krogan would be coming in through the Shuttle Bay while the salarians preferred the bow airlock entrance. The turian Primarch, Victus, had already received a contingent of a half dozen men yesterday and hadn't left the War Room.

Samantha ran a comb through her hair one last time and rotated her head in a semicircle to appraise her appearance. Pristine make-up. A glorious shade of lipstick. No clumps in my mascara. Hair smooth and glossy. Service dress uniform crisp and flattering to my figure. Knock 'em dead, Sam.

If there was anyone to knock dead, that is. Who did you want to go to bed with, again? The giant hump-backed lizards, the frog-people, or one of the scaly, bird-legged folks? Assuming any of them even have women in their entourage. I think the salarian dalatrass might be your closest bet. Aim high.

Go get you some, tiger.

"Lookin' good, Traynor," Specialist Ian Douglas whistled appreciatively in the Crew Deck hallway. Sergeant Benjamin Mason nearly bumped into Douglas, for he was a little stiff in his heavier uniform. Both men were following their Commander's orders to a T, well-dressed in their navy and gold-trimmed uniforms. Mason headed for the elevator while Douglas trailed Sam to the Mess Hall kitchen.

Sam smiled politely at Douglas's predatory gleam. Yea. Right. Not a chance, buddy. Engineer Rashad joined Sam at the skinny pantry hiding bottles of cold water. They toasted the war summit before taking a deep swallow. Then Douglas had to ask a stupid question.

"So. Traynor. What were you and Shepard doing in the Shuttle Bay night before last? We all saw you."

Sputtering, Sam coughed deeply on the refreshing bit of water now located in her right lung. Rashad had to pound Samantha on the back a few times to clear her airway, though she still felt twinges of pain in her throat and chest. And now I'm probably bright red. Glad to know that hour of meticulous make-up application was wasted.

Sam straightened and glared at Douglas, whose eyebrows wiggled suggestively. "What do you think happened?"

"Oh, I want to hear it from you, Traynor."

"She ravished me behind the crates."

"Really?!"

Samantha shot Douglas a withering look and rolled her eyes. "No, not really." Although...

Shut it, Traynor.

But...

No.

"I spotted the Commander skulking in the cargo bay while I was... going to see Allers. I just went down to check to make sure our fearless leader wasn't about to set the Shuttle Bay on fire with her mind. She barely said two words to me before the doctor showed up. Highly stimulating," Sam deadpanned. "We'll be braiding each others' hair and having slumber parties by next week at the latest. A fraternization nightmare in the making." Rashad snickered and elbowed Douglas in the ribs.

"See? I told you nothing happened. This is Traynor we're talking about."

Don't. Don't do it.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Samantha asked sharply. Why? Why do you do these things?

Morena Rashad threw her hands up in the air. The small, mousy woman was quick to apologize. "Oh, no! I didn't mean—I just… You don't seem like the type of person to take advantage of someone. It's a compliment!" Douglas mumbled a lewd follow-up regarding the things he'd take advantage of with the Commander, starting with her pert, perky—

"Some of us are trying to eat, Douglas. And last I checked, you're on calibration duty during the war summit. Maybe you should read up on the main gun so Garrus doesn't have to do all your work for you," Steve Cortez growled behind them. He was leaning against the Med Bay wall, chewing on a protein bar. Even though the Lieutenant was on Shuttle Bay duty and therefore exempt from the dress code, Steve was elegantly cut in his dress uniform. His cheeks glistened from a fresh application of after-shave.

Douglas saluted politely to the higher ranking officer, but he glowered at the rebuke. Samantha could barely hear his trailing-off mutter as he jogged to the Main Battery. Something about how just because the Commander wasn't his brand of cuisine, Cortez didn't need to ruin it for everyone.

Smiling gratefully at Steve, Samantha ventured over to him. She had another go at her bottle of water, though it still stung her throat slightly. "Thanks for the rescue, Cortez."

"Any time, Traynor. He's always running his mouth off. I bet he tells everyone back home that he rides Reapers like a cowboy."

"When he actually spends most of the day under the floor boards labeling cables," Sam agreed with a laugh-cough. Cortez motioned toward the mess tables, and kindly pulled out a chair for Sam before sitting down opposite her. Always the gentleman.

They sat in silence for a few moments watching crew members joke and laugh as they headed for the elevator. There were quite a few uniformed crew mixed in with those lucky enough to be off duty during the war summit, but everyone was still buzzing with excitement. The war summit was Hope to everyone. Proof that the Alliance was bringing everyone together and the Normandy was going to help overcome the Reapers. In just a few hours, the Commander was going to have a plan and the Normandy would be off.

"How have you been, Steve?" Samantha asked softly. She and Steve had been friends since the first day they'd met in the Alliance docking bay. They were both colony kids. Found their passions, his with flying and hers with QEC, and let the Alliance pay their way through college. He was older, more serious. But he was gentle, solid and stoic. Quick to laugh at her stupid jokes.

Cortez smiled lightly, but his eyes betrayed him. They winced with pain. There was also a subtle tightening in his jaw. He at least was courteous enough not to lie. "One day at a time, Sam." Where have I heard that before? "The Kodiak isn't quite as nimble as my Trident. But it's certainly never a dull moment with Shepard."

"What do you think of her? Of Shepard?" Sam didn't realize how curious she was about his answer. Steve had a rare perspective. One of the few crew members who got to see her before and after the missions. The good, bad and ugly.

Not ugly. I don't think she has an ugly bone in her body. That I've seen, anyway.

"Shepard's a piece of work, that's for sure, " Steve mused lightly. "Barks orders better than my old drill sergeant. But she's an odd one. I can't figure her out."

"How do you mean?"

He gestured with his protein bar after biting off another chunk. "Take Grissom, for example. I was back at the Normandy already when that Cerberus shuttle docked. One minute, Shepard was suggesting the students join the front lines as a biotic artillery squad. A bunch of kids!" Cortez shook his head in disgust. "The next minute, Shepard went to every single kid and checked on them. Their amps. How they were feeling. If they needed an energy bar or juice. Asking them if they had a tingle in their arm pits or neck and if so they should sit down."

"What's that about?"

Shrugging deeply, Cortez waved a wrist. "I guess it's a biotic thing? Robert explained it to me once, that biotics have nodes all along their soft tissue. Overexerting can create fissures in the lymph nodes if you're not careful."

It took Sam a moment to think how Steve's husband would know so much about biotics. He wasn't one, I know Steve told me that… What did Robert do again?

Oh right! On Ferris Fields, he was an Alliance administer at a pharmacy and drug center specializing in red sand addiction. Biotics love their red sand.

"That sounds terrible."

"No kidding. Anyway, she went to every kid individually. She was soft, kind, and even encouraging. Kissing their owwies but then telling them to suit up and die for the Alliance. She said later that everyone deserved their chance to fight this war on their terms. And who was she to tell them to stop?" Steve sighed. He didn't approve.

"Who was she? She's Commander bloody Shepard," Samantha quipped lightly. She knew the warning signs when Steve was about to fade into his sadness over Robert. She'd become decently adept at pulling him out of it, though Lieutenant Vega had proven to be slightly better.

I think Steve just likes Vega's rippling muscles. But his six-pack doesn't hold a candle to my rapier wit. Though he does know more about sports than I ever will.

Exhaling with a laugh, Steve agreed. "Commander bloody Shepard. Free-er of children and ass-kicker of Cerberus. That's the other thing. She practically gave those biotic kids hugs, but on Sanctum, Vega had to drag her ass onto the Kodiak. She wouldn't leave. The LZ was completely overrun, but Shepard just stayed there. Throwing Shockwaves, charging into clusters of troops, detonating Novas. Shooting until her ammo was out."

"That sounds terrifying," Sam amended her earlier statement. That explains her dreadful argument with Vega. He interrupted her revenge on Cerberus.

"How have you been, Sam?" Cortez returned softly. He didn't want to talk about Shepard anymore.

"One day at a time," Samantha repeated back. "Where do you think you'd be right now if you weren't on the Normandy?"

Cortez rubbed his hands together as he finished his protein bar. His fingertips stopped at the silver wedding band on his left hand, but he cleared the sudden emotion from his throat. "I probably would have volunteered for the Fifth Fleet to fly some of Hackett's birds. But I'm where I'm supposed to be, I think. I would have gone crazy staying at Ferris Fields, which is why I jumped at the retrofits in the first place."

"I never wanted to do the retrofits," Sam softly told her water bottle. I was harassed nonstop by Ventura for two months before I agreed to do them.

But, if I hadn't, I would have been on Arcturus when—

Stealing a quick sip to distract from the sudden heat in her eyes, Sam lightened her tone. "The environment isn't ideal. A touch too stressful for my liking. All this coordinating and planning and following orders. Also, bullets. Far too many bullets. Comms do not necessitate bullets."

"You're becoming a real marine, Traynor," Cortez grinned and leaned back in his chair. "Soon you'll be suiting up with Mister Vega and charging into battle with your computer held high. Or is it your Omni-tool? What is the weapon of choice for the aspiring Battle Comms Specialist-class soldier?"

Sam chuckled ruefully. "Laugh it up, pilot-man. And the weapon of choice for the comms specialist is her brains. Not quite as visible as you pilots with your bloody ships, but more important. I forget, do you need brains to pilot your ships? Or does the computer do it all for you now?"

Before the two could start a silly argument over whose job was more important, EDI's lilting voice came over the intercom. "Attention: the war summit is now officially in progress. Please return to your work stations. All CIC crew, please welcome our guests."

Cortez escorted Samantha to the elevator, though he politely declined to join her in the lift. She was going up. He was going down. Even though Sam was going to possibly have to play hostess at her work station, the anxiety of the situation had diminished. She glanced at the reflective wall in the elevator to check her make-up, but unfortunately there was still some redness to her cheeks from her earlier embarrassment.

So much for owning the room with my flawless complexion. New goal: not face-planting in front of the Primarch because my feet died in these heels.

At least you've got it easier than the poor sods in the War Room, Traynor. Xian's on War Room integration during the entire summit, so he's in Full Service Dress. And poor Campbell and Westmoreland have to stand the entire time while monitoring the security curtain.

Speaking of (thinking of?) Westmoreland, the young Private hurried past Sam just as the elevator opened. The young brunette's dress collar was a wreck, and she struggled to adjust her beret along with the assault rifle slung over her shoulder. At least I'm not the only one running late.

The CIC was busier than usual. Fewer crewmembers were loitering around the galaxy map and more of the stations along the outer edge of the room were filled. Eyeballing the room suspiciously, a turian and salarian officer stood protectively near the war room door. Diana Allers was off to the side, attempting to engage the pair in conversation.

Allers threw a nod of greeting at Sam before turning back to the unresponsive guard detail. Her camera drone hovered close by. Her normal low cut top was exchanged in favor of an elegant blazer with silver trim, but the miniskirt remained just in a different color. Glancing at her high stiletto heels made Samantha's feet hurt in sympathy.

Sam's console by the galaxy map blinked back. New messages for the Commander. And one for Sam. Her request to the elcor embassy had been denied because she had failed to answer one of the application questions. Son of a bitch!

"In case of emergency, contact: [blank]*

*Information missing. Application denied."

A few more choice verbal curse words were held back on Samantha's tongue when a blur of red and silver swept by. From the back, this woman was all curves as she walked while her dress whispered with grace and elegance. Unabashedly, the corner of Sam's eye roved upward, appreciating the craftsmanship on the gown and the supple curve of the woman's waistline to her shoulders. But her admiration hit the brakes when the sleek neckline transitioned to a set of curving blue head ridges.

Liara.

The asari doctor had paused at the entrance to the bow hallway. She had stopped Commander Shepard and was fidgeting over the human's formal uniform. Shepard squirmed slightly, but her untamed confidence seemed to have returned. She smiled lightly at Liara, and her hand wave suggested she had just paid the asari a compliment.

Shepard's loose waves of red hair were pulled back into a ponytail, though the asari had dabbed a thumb on her tongue to smooth over a few errant wisps. The Commander's uniform closely resembled Lieutenant Commander Williams', though trimmed with the gold bars of her slightly higher rank.

Still staring at the two women, Sam was dimly aware EDI had pressed an announcement for Shepard to hurry to the conference room. The Commander glanced at the ceiling and placed a hand on Liara's waist. She leaned in to speak close to Liara's ear. Where are their ears? Sam ardently wished she could hear what they were saying, for their body language was intense and intimate. Shepard gestured with regret to the back of the CIC while Liara nodded. Brushing past the asari, Shepard met Sam's eyes and flicked her fingertips up in a brief wave.

Sam tried to clear her throat and intercept the Commander in the way Liara had, but Shepard had already disappeared into the security area. She wasn't sure why she felt a brief pang of competition with the asari. It twisted up inside Samantha's throat and rekindled the wheezy pain from her earlier coughing fit.

Just as Sam turned back to her console, she glanced up and saw Dr. T'Soni watching her curiously. Her blue eyes flicked to the security door and back at the comms specialist. Her white info drone appeared at her elbow, spinning and whirring, but Liara ignored it and continued to study Sam.

A glow on Samantha's Omni-tool spared her from the awkward staring contest with Liara. Sighing quietly with relief, Sam flicked a finger over her inbox.

[Message received: "Oh, by the way, our war summit allies are all meeting in the CIC after. Could you send them off with a little speech? Doesn't have to be fancy, just a few words. Thanks. –Cmdr Rubbish"]

Oh son of a bi—

"In case of emergency, contact: Cmdr Annelise Shepard. Comm link IP: 012.7.31454.1-N2.

Miss Shepard would also like to be opted in to any and all elcor tourism, commerce, colony and marketing correspondence you may offer."


Ren's Confession:
I might be venting about some particularly annoying projects I've done in my career via Shepard and Sam's email snafu. Shepard is a really terrible client. If I had to work for her, I'd certainly be making fun of her behind her back. And possibly drawing unflattering cartoons.

I'm not saying I do that. ...often, anyway.

Also, it seems the motion for additional non-canon mission content, if reviews count as votes, passed with flying colors. I haven't quite figured out how soon I want to dig into that. I might also be willing to take suggestions.

That said, I thank you all for the overwhelming number of reviews on the last chapter. I've exchanged some very thoughtful conversations with many of you, and your ideas and kindness are motivating.

All right, enough feelings. Back to writing!