"Individual commitment to a group effort – that is what makes a team work, a company work, a society work, a civilization work." –Vince Lombardi

14: Ghosts

The soft, metallic rustle of dog tags became the only sound in the room as Shepard pored over every one, committing each name to memory. They slipped through her fingers and fell onto the small pile on her desk. As she passed over each one, she silently mouthed the name etched in the metal.

Survivor's guilt overwhelmed her. Emily felt so wretched; it was like all the hurt from Kaidan's betrayal was hitting her in the face again. She could not help but think, I survived and they didn't.

She hadn't even survived—Shepard had died just like the rest of them, but someone had deemed that she was more important. But that wasn't true. She was no more important than anyone else whose dogtag she held now.

Early in her career, Shepard had met an asari pilot who said that the only people that could not accept that bad things happened to good people were humans, and she supposed that was true. Even now, it was hard to wrap her head around what had been done for her brother to deserve what he'd gotten at Mindoir…but that was another story. For now, she just stared at the dog tags, her gaze sweeping over the names. There were still nineteen of them, but she had no intention of returning to find the last one. It felt…final, as if having only nineteen meant that the SR-1 Normandy's destruction was only part of some sort of dream made vaguely into reality. Having all twenty of the dog tags felt like…she didn't know what it felt like. It was like finding all twenty dog tags would confirm the twisted nightmare that she knew was real all along.

She did not hear the door open behind her, but she felt the tags being gently tugged out of her hands. Shepard looked around without looking, knowing that there was only one person on the ship who would check on her at a time like this.

"Shepard." Garrus's voice was gentle. "You should stop."

She avoided his eyes. She didn't want him to see her like this. She felt vulnerable. She felt exposed. She would never admit it, but she wasn't sure if she trusted him. Not entirely. She trusted him with her life on the battlefield, and (somewhat) with her heart when off it. That was the word, wasn't it? She didn't trust him with her heart. Not really. A part of her was absolutely convinced that she was in love, but the other part was skeptical.

Finally, she raised her head from the desk.

"Garrus," she acknowledged him softly. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to check on you," he answered. "You haven't left your cabin since we got back from Alchera."

Her head snapped up. "How long as it been?"

"Two days."

Emily sank back down, burying her head in her hands. "Shit."

"Shepard…Emily…" Garrus paused. "Whatever you might think, I…" He stopped again, clearly hesitant.

"Garrus, spit it out."

"I just want to say that…I'm here for you. No matter what."

She was silent for a long time, staring at the dog tags. There were no tears—she was past the crying—but she felt moved nonetheless.

"Thank you, Garrus," she said finally. "I appreciate it."

ALCHERA

Arthur McMahon let his eyes rove around the scene, quietly taking in the almost untouched snow and the wreckage of the Normandy. Nobody had been here yet. The snow was only disturbed by his footsteps, and his sister's.

He followed them through the snow, retracing her steps as she wandered aimlessly about the skeleton of her former ship. She stopped several times, turned around, even sat down once or twice in the snow. Occasionally she stopped, presumably to pick something up. There were scuff marks that indicated that the snow around it had been disturbed, but whatever it was, there was no way of telling. The prints led him to the destroyed sections of the ship, where she spent some time there before leaving. A MAKO lay tipped on its side with a scratched datapad in the snow next to it. Gingerly, Art bent down and picked it up. It was the personal log of Navigator Pressley, who'd gone down with the Normandy. He read through its contents and couldn't help but feel a tug at his heart when he realized that his sister was the same person on the battlefield that she had always been, the same idealistic, passionate girl he'd known her to be.

Bitterness engulfed her. Somewhere, somehow, she'd gotten the better end of the stick. Instead of being shamed and swept under the rug, she'd risen above her past and been able to make something of herself. And what had he done? He'd just tried to follow his dreams, but the Alliance didn't appreciate musicians. No, they'd rather have soldiers, and it was better to be killed in action than sent home crippled. (His left hand, rendered useless, was a permanent reminder of that.)

Fuck this, he thought. Fuck it all. He kicked up some snow and continued walking, not following in his sister's footsteps anymore. A glint of something metal caught his eye. He turned and as he came closer he could make out the outline of something rectangular on a chain, partially buried in the snow. He picked it up.

Engraved on one side in tiny letters was a name. It was a name he knew all too well, a name that had made his life hell even before the batarians had touched down on Mindoir. His blood ran cold.

ALLEN SHEPARD

His mind was reeling. This was not possible. His father had died on Mindoir; what the hell was his name doing in the wreckage of an Alliance prototype ship? He couldn't believe that his sister somehow had something to do with this, but…there had to be some explanation for this. Someone must have planted the tag there. Someone must be toying with her, and with him. But—and this was the million-credit question—why?

He wondered, also, why she hadn't found it first. If she had combed the wreck as meticulously as her footsteps indicated, surely she would have discovered it. Why hadn't she?

Arthur picked up the tag and headed back to the shuttle. It was evident that Emily was no longer her stoic self. She showed herself to be nostalgic; she was becoming emotional, possibly emotionally fractured. Maybe she'd seen the tag and refused to touch it, but that wasn't like her at all.

This changed everything, he thought. It was time to get back to the Citadel and maybe try to make sense of this. It seemed like all the ghosts of his past had decided to come back and haunt him at the exact same time, and he didn't like it one bit.

A/N: I feel bad for taking such a long time to write such a short chapter. ): I'm running out of ideas for this story, if anyone has any inspiration please tell me! I will be eternally grateful. So, in a nutshell, I'm now taking requests for Shakarian. :D One thing is for certain, though. You will be reading about why Arthur and Emily never reunited, and exactly what their father did. Hint: Arthur got the brunt of the abuse.

I'd like to thank all of my little kumquats for their patience, but a shout-out to my usuals is in order: ITestedGarrussReach, Ember Filled Mist, Sathaeri, and Siha Shap. Thanks, guys.