Russell Tripp 2: Voluntold

Written and submitted by thebluninja

Russell stood at attention, full Alliance dress uniform creased to within an inch of its life, medals gleaming brightly. He flexed his knees slightly, standing between six other people. "Listen up, folks," Master Chief Torres said. "The ceremony is in one hour. You'll have about twenty minutes to use the bathroom and rest your legs before we form up to escort the Captain out for the ceremony." He nodded gravely. "You all got picked due to your outstanding service records, and you're stepping out there not just to represent the best the SSV Orizaba has, but the best the Alliance has to offer. Dismissed."

Russell stood there for several seconds, just taking deep breaths, before opening his eyes and moving off to the head. They had a couple of carefully spotless chairs to sit on, and he sat down next to the only other petty officer in the room. "Nervous?" the petite redhead asked him.

"Heh. A little bit," he answered, taking a quick sip of water. "Russell Tripp, fighter electrician."

"Alecia Register, communications." They shook hands briefly. "I got picked for this because I managed to decipher some pirate encryption. You?"

"Repelled boarders with a soldering unit." She raised an eyebrow, and he sketched a cross over his heart. "Swear to God. Then managed to look good by volunteering to be a tour guide of the Hawking while we did that whole goodwill tour." Alecia snickered at him. "Knowing the 'children' you're escorting around are the same age you are was … interesting."

"That sounds cool. I spent my first tour on a frigate, patrolling with Fifth Fleet. Lots of boring, interspersed with occasional moments of sheer terror." They both fell silent for a second as the door opened, but it was only one of the chiefs on the honor guard with them. "Same for you?"

"Pretty much. Long hours fixing, or straight-up fabricating, fighter components so the team lead could install them." He shrugged. "What do you do off-duty?"

"I, um, do roleplaying games in my off hours." She flushed crimson.

"Cool, like Galaxy of Fantasy stuff, or are you actually old-school enough to own dice?" As far as Russell was concerned, this was a stroke of luck, he'd only been on board a month and hadn't been able to find anyone else with enough geek cred to hang out with.

She gaped at him, but her response was cut off by Master Chief Torres stepping inside the door and calling, "Attention on deck!" They both shot to their feet, the water bottle nearly tumbling to the floor, as he escorted in Hannah Shepard. The woman, their XO, looked … ragged was the only word that came to Russell's mind as they formed up. The officers were wearing gloves, to fold the flag, and the rifle bearers were already outside waiting, six Spectres from every race available plus an N7 operative from the Alliance. "Forward … march!"

Eyes straight ahead, he marched out into the artificial light of the Presidium, honor guard for the mother of humanity's greatest hero.

The ceremony itself went by in a bit of a blur, lots of long speeches while they stood at parade rest, but his back was straight as he took the rails of the coffin, walking at a calm and measured pace as they carried the coffin out. Russell couldn't stop his eyes from tracking sideways to the gorgeous young asari holding the flag, standing next to his XO. Shepard was banging an asari? Unbidden, the mental image of the two of them in flagrante delicto came to mind, and he was quite glad the tailoring on his dress uniform hid his reaction. He wasn't exactly religious, unlike his mom, but if Hell existed there was probably a special place for people who were thinking lavicious thoughts about the dearly departed.

The coffin was put down in a special room prepared for the occasion, where a select list of Shepard's closest associates could pay their last respects in private. Personally, Russell was just as glad to get out of there. He ducked outside, the rest of the honor guard beating him out the door by mere moments. "That was … weirdly intense," Register said from beside him. "You make any plans for liberty?"

"Not until tomorrow, no," he replied somewhat absently. "I didn't know how long this ceremony was going to last, and there's supposed to be some big memorial wake going on across half the Presidium."

"I don't blame them, have you seen the vids?" she asked, moving in his wake as he politely moved through the crowd. With no warning at all, a sudden spotlight was glaring in his face. "Whoa, what the hell?"

"Khalisah al-Jilani, Westunderland News. How do you feel at being picked as honor guard for humanity's greatest heroes? Does the presence of so many aliens, including the one claiming her mother's flag, show disrespect to the Alliance?" The three sentences were belted out so fast he had to actually stop and translate them in his head.

"Great, and no," he said shortly, smiling blandly at the annoying reporter as she waited for him to continue. Sighing, he closed his eyes for a moment, running over the stupid boilerplate the Orizaba's public affairs officer had made them all memorize. "Being chosen for Commander Shepard's honor guard was an incredible honor." Register had chimed in on the second word, belting it out in unison with him, if quieter. "Her service reflected credit and displayed the best the Alliance has to offer. Today's ceremony was a sincere display of the respect the galactic community has for Commander Shepard, and the rest of the Alliance, and is another important sign of our acceptance into the galactic community."

Disgusted, Khalisah just glared at them for a moment before switching off the camera. "Tell your PAO if I ever catch him I'm dumping a drink down his shirt," she grumbled, and stormed off, probably to go kick puppies or bite off bat heads or something.

"Personally, I think your first monosyllables were better," Register piped up as they kept walking. "Straight to the point, honest, and almost impossible to spin."

Russell just shook his head. "What I really wanted to do," he paused at a merchant stand, opened on one of the park spaces caught his eye, and detoured over to it, "was find something like this." He browsed the display for a moment, picking up what he thought was a turian gladius. "Then hold it up, and blurt out something suitably geeky, like, 'This is a standard short sword, it does d8 damage with double damage on a crit. How many HP does your camera have?'" He held up the sword in a vid-standard badass pose.

She burst out laughing at him, and he lowered the sword, carefully placing it back on the table. "You look ridiculous doing that in dress blues!" she squeaked out between laughs. He flushed, and shrugged.

"Are you talking about that reporter bitch, the dark-haired one?" the merchant piped up. "I don't blame you, though personally, I thought about saying something similar with this." He patted the pistol clipped to his belt. "She was trying to rag on me for cheapening Shepard's memory, or something, by selling knives and pistol grip mods with stylized Alliance markings." He held up a folding knife with a laser-etched sparkling split-chevron-and-stars logo.

"That's … actually pretty cool," Russell said as he looked at the knife. He and Register spent the next twenty minutes bartering with the man, and making various geeky references to each other, before he finally walked away, three knives richer and two hundred credits poorer.

"So, what are you going to do with those?" she asked as they ducked into a café. The place was half-filled with asari, but spotting their Alliance blues, the barkeeper waved them over to a small table near the back, just vacated.

"Well, I was planning to send one home to my mom," he muttered, sitting down and pulling up the holo menu on the table.

She frowned at him, brows scrunched up in perplexity. "Isn't that, like, a bad sign? Like you're trying to cut ties with the person?" She tapped her own order into the menu while he did the same.

"Yep," he said simply. When she started to glare at him, he grinned. "I thought you liked my monosyllabic answers."

"Only when they're aimed at nosy busybodies with a camera," she sniped.

Russell sighed. "I got a letter from my mom two days ago. Not an e-mail, an actual, honest-to-god hand-written-on-paper letter." Alecia whistled appreciatively. "Yeah. Cost her seventy fucking credits to mail it to me. Know what it said?" She hesitated, unsure of how to answer, but he kept rolling along, voice thick with disgust. "'Oh Russell, you need to get out of the Alliance and come home. You'll get contaminated out there with all those aliens, you should come back to a real planet and find a real woman and give me hordes of grandbabies.'" He paused, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. "I'm summarizing, of course, because she went on for five pages."

"Wow," she said sympathetically, "no wonder you joined the Alliance."

He sighed, looking away, and catching a few angry looks from other customers who overheard him. "Exactly. My mom hasn't left the city I was born in for more than a week since before I was born. She goes to the same ratty church she's attended since she started dating my dad, and basically acts like the universe should have stopped progressing and remained the same way it was in 2140 when she was a kid." He dropped his face into his hands, forcing himself to take several deep breaths. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to rant on like this at you, and everyone else in hearing range," he added humorously.

"Nah, it's ok. My brother's a big Terra Firma supporter, but he's always been an idiot," Alecia said.

He nodded, and looked up as an asari waitress brought them their orders. "Drinks are free," she told them, "paid for by that guy," she gestured to a nearby table with a human guy and an asari and a pair of asari children, obviously at least dating but probably married. Huh, that guy looks kind familiar, Russell thought, but I can't place the face. They both turned, raising their drinks in salute and nodding politely, receiving the same in return.

"Alright, before we both end up drunk and pissed off at our family, let's switch conversation topics," Alecia said. "Why wouldn't you think to threaten that reporter with 'Your GP or your HP?' It's much catchier." She grinned impishly, waving around her fork menacingly. Their laughter echoed through the café, a reaffirmation of life in the face of death.