twenty-five
Shepard did not think about how he carried Kat through space. He did not wonder how he had turned rock into gravel and dust and extracted the envelope of air he'd thrust underground several hours earlier. The sealed bubble of O2 that served as Kat's prison and transport. He did not consider the deeper concepts; his being wrapped around a person, his skin filtering the air. The shape of him altering to cushion her against the pull of acceleration and the turbulence of atmosphere once they reached Tungel.
He understood his physical limits; knew, instinctively—if a being of substance could claim such—what he could and could not do. He had begun to appreciate the fact he had not tested his mental limits and that, perhaps, they were more important. Especially considering his purpose, or lack thereof.
Maybe the arbitrary figure of 50,000 years no longer applied. Maybe, in taking responsibility for the most awful scourge the galaxy had ever known, he'd done more than reset the clock. Maybe he had broken it, which was a scary thought, as thoughts went. Shepard had never been without a purpose. Ever. Even when locked in a cell, he had done his best to retain his physical condition and mental acuity. Even when socialising, he remained sharp and alert. He did not know how to relax.
He had a purpose now.