Chapter 25: Shepard

The ship is a graveyard.

The Kodiak rests, Cortez caressing it carefully with his hand. It's dirty and dinged up, riddled with bullets, but alive, against all odds. There's a screw loose and he frowns, picking up the power drill beside him. The shuttle bay door opens. Shepard strides in with hurried and yet unsteady steps. Blood is matted to her face and hair. She stinks.

The genophage cure was deployed. At least that's what he gathers from the krogan celebration on the giant rock. The Shroud has been blown sky high but Shepard doesn't look any happier for it. She heads straight for the elevator. Cortez sets the drill down and goes after her. "Hey, Commander." She doesn't look at him. She jabs at the elevator button again. "Hell of a thing you did down there."

She looks at him now, as if she doesn't recognize him. "Thanks," she says shortly.

"You all right?" Commander Shepard is an intimidating persona. The Butcher of Torfan, the Hero of the Citadel, the First Human Spectre. All of it means that she's a hotshot that has earned a lot of that attitude she brandishes with the grace of a shotgun. She's a force to be reckoned with. He'd never want to take her on. When he began retrofits on the Normandy he never thought he'd be here, working with her. Hell, she was locked up in the brig. Jesus, she looks like shit. How does she keep getting up? "What the hell happened down there?"

The elevator door finally opens and she steps in, wiping at the blood running readily from her temple. "What needed to," she says. The elevator doors close. He stands there momentarily before returning to the Kodiak. She's as monosyllabic as ever, and still manages to make him feel like a complete asshole in the process. He tells himself to let it go. Maybe not all heroes are the good guys.

Garrus chuckles in disbelief. He doesn't know how the hell it happened but Lieutenant Victus was able to stop the bomb. Victory at any cost. A loss for the turians but he's made them all damned proud. He did what he had to. A shame Victus had to lose a son in the process but the genophage has been cured. Unbelievable. For a moment there, he thought Shepard might… do something to stop it. A crazy thought. One he had nonetheless. But with the cure in place, there is krogan aid coming to Palaven.

Maybe his entire race isn't doomed. Funny. He never thought of himself as much of a turian. Too independent, too hotheaded and to hell with all the politics. Still, the thought of his men and women dying on Palaven without aid was eating at him.

The lounge room is filled with various crew, drinking in celebration. The thresher maw thrashed the Reaper. The krogan have their cure, the turians have their aid. Shepard secured one of the most unlikely alliances the galaxy could have imagined. It's damned good cause for celebration. He nudges Liara, sitting beside him. She's the only sober person in the room, possibly on the Normandy. She's more aloof than usual, her eyes far away. "Come on, Liara. Smile. Did you ever think this day would come?"

"I'm happy," she says noncommittally. Then she stands. "I'm sorry, Garrus—I… there's work I must attend to."

She leaves him. The celebratory crowd is too much for her at the moment. The news is a boon for the war effort of course. Shepard is pragmatic. Eve informed her of what happened with Wreav on the tomkah en route to the Shroud. It mitigates much of Shepard's concerns of a war-lust krogan leading his people into a new era, but will it foster new hostility? The genophage cure has been dispensed. She should be happier.

Her arm still feels the memory of Shepard's grip. There are black half-moons where her nails dug. Dr. Michel exits the med-bay but Liara dodges her. Stay calm. Stay collected. Stay focused. She has to, if they're to win this war. She goes to her office, stopping short after she enters. The room is dark, save for the bouncing light of the monitors. Shepard stands there, like a shadow, looking around uncertainly, looking as if she were lost. When she turns they both freeze.

How strange. Somehow they lost sight of her. The Reaper was stopped, the genophage was deployed and Shepard hung back. Did anyone wait for her? Did they just expect she would come?

"Shepard—" she hates herself. So much for her composure. Emotion shoots through her like a stimulant. The darkness makes it look as if there is black all over her face. Makes it difficult to see her eyes. Liara goes to her. "What's happened to you?" Shepard backs away, looks past her. "Goddess, are you all right? You're bleeding." Liara's on her the next instant, her thumb grazing along the cut on her forehead, cutting through her eyebrow. She thinks, momentarily, of that Shepard on the SR-1, with that same scar. This used to be her cabin. This is where they first made love. "Jane—"

Shepard pulls her wrist away, steps back, moves around her. "I need to get to my cabin." She walks out the door and into the light, her breathing ragged. There's blood everywhere. She takes a few faltering steps, making it to the mess hall, gripping a table before falling over. Metal trays clang onto the floor around her. She's still.

"My God!" Dr. Michel shouts, rushing over, turning her onto her back, her hand lighting on her face. "Don't just stand there. Help me with her." Liara stares dumbly. Why should she help…? "Dr. T'Soni, please!"

Liara goes to her, with heavy feet.

Chloe Michel tries every search parameter she can think of but comes away with nothing. All that remains of Jane Shepard's medical records are what the Alliance has uploaded. Whatever data may have been gained during Shepard's time with Cerberus is gone. EDI explained much was lost when the Normandycrashed onto the Collector Base. Necessary fortifications weren't made and hardware with precious data was lost. Dr. Chakwas, the closest expert to Shepard (Chloe assumes, anyway) was lost.

She sighs, abandoning the laptop and looking at the unconscious Shepard. Even in sleep she looks troubled. The N7 armor is caked with blood, dust and dirt. Something else, bone fragments, possibly brain tissue. Chloe isn't sure. Liara helped get her in the room but made an excuse to leave. Her face was absent of emotion. Reminiscent of the shell-shocked civilians she attended to after the Reapers hit Earth.

Chloe picks up Shepard's hand. It's curled, bloodied and swollen. She sets it down carefully and grabs a clipboard and pen. She's always been a bit old fashioned. Say what you will about cloud storage, but if the Cerberus crew had made hard copies of some of the data they'd collected, perhaps something would have survived.

Items:

M-6 Carnifex (pistol)

N7 Suit (armor)

She turns Shepard's face delicately, fingers gliding along the back of her neck.

Biotic amp, she transcribes the model number.

Her fingers slip lower, touching the cool metal beads of the necklace. She pulls it out and looks at the tags. Ah, they're scorched. Dog tags, she adds to the list.

Setting the clipboard down she pulls up a medical scanner on her omni-tool, letting the array of lasers wash over Shepard. Her vitals aren't what they should be. Several ribs are fractured and there is some swelling. Outside of that there appear to be no anomalies. She adds the notes beneath the 'items' list and goes to retrieve some medi-gel. The med-bay doors open and Garrus strides in. His gaze falls immediately on Shepard, his shoulders straightening. He takes a step back in what appears to be disbelief or dismay before his eyes narrow. "How is she?"

"I believe she will be all right," she tells him, happy to provide some good news. Still, he remains cautious, eyeing the commander suspiciously. "I don't know what happened to her, but it appears she was involved in some kind of struggle. There is blunt force trauma, here," her fingers hover over Shepard's face, before slipping lower to her ribs, "and here." What could have happened? Why would the others return to the ship and leave her? "She will need rest. A lot of rest."

"We don't have time for that," he says. "And some of us may not be here."

Chloe looks at him with marked surprise. "I know how important she is, Garrus, but she won't do anyone any good if she goes out before she's ready." She looks at him apprehensively. "I know it's not my place—but has something happened between you and Commander Shepard? You two seem…" she stops, catching movement out of the corner of her eye. Shepard is waking. She makes a muffled sound of pain, before her eyes open. She appears disoriented. "Commander, take it easy."

"What…?" She tries to sit up. Chloe pushes her arm back down when she attempts to rise. Blood is streaked to her face and neck, the thick gash along her eyebrow beginning to slow its pumping of blood. "Where's Chakwas?"

Oh, dear Lord. Chloe looks desperately at Garrus. He comes closer, cocking his head carefully. "Shepard," he says. "Looks like you took one hell of a beating. I'm thinking the good doctor is right and you should get some rest."

"No," her words are muffled.

"I'm going to get her a sedative," Chloe breathes under her breath to Garrus, or thinks she does. Shepard hears, finds the energy that eluded her and bolts to a sitting. "Commander, I must insist you lie down," she's reached the desk, taking the syringe gun in hand when Shepard gets to her feet. She looks remarkably steady as she exits the med-bay, moving swiftly towards the elevators. Chloe and Garrus follow after her but she's made it to the elevator, the doors sliding shut before they can get inside. "Is she always this stubborn?" she asks irritably.

"Fraid so."

"Can you please talk to her? She cannot be left unattended."

Garrus chuckles. "You've got a lot to learn, Dr. Michel. Shepard doesn't take orders from anyone." His mandibles flicker, his frustration evident. Chloe wonders if there is any way to press the issue. He leaves her side, dissatisfied, before she can come to a decision.

Is it pride, bitterness or childishness that she's swallowing? Liara doesn't know. She'd thrown herself into the Shadow Broker network after leaving the med-bay. The body that was recovered from the Collectors wasn't anything recognizable. It was salvage material. What people trade in. Scraps, that if pieced together, form another whole. She cried heavy, aching sobs when she looked into that pod and saw what was left of the woman she loved.

They've spent little time together since her resurrection. When they have, Shepard has fought well. She wasn't the mess that was in the med-bay. It's difficult to look at her like that. But now Garrus and Michel have come to her. Michel appealed to her with the facts, her injuries, the necessary monitoring. Garrus showed up later with a shrug and a suggestion. He seems tired lately. She's worried he'll leave. She knows what Primarch Victus has proposed to him. A difficult offer to turn down… especially if matters are… strained, between him and Shepard.

And they're not strained between you two? So they have gone to the asari. She's tired of being expected to be levelheaded and diplomatic. It's as if they find her incapable of being frustrated, and if so, they expect her to find a solution. She rubs her arm absently and takes the elevator up. There are streaks of blood on the elevator keys. Momentarily distressed, she wipes at them with her jacket sleeve, careful to not stop the elevator on every floor.

It only half-works and all she ends up with is a bloody lab coat. She pulls it away and folds it into a square as the elevator opens on Shepard's cabin floor. She glares momentarily at the steel blue wall before forcing herself out. The floor is chillier than usual, or perhaps it's that she's unaccustomed to being without her jacket. Or maybe, she tells herself, it's the thought of being around her that leaves you cold.

She considers calling out to her but foregoes it. She will not continue to be polite. She may have to work with Shepard, but it doesn't mean she has to like it. Shepard is the reason Cerberus is as strong as they are. Handing the Collector Base over to the Illusive Man, refusing to step in on the operations they're running all over the galaxy. If not for Miranda's accomplices they would have gained much more ground.

It isn't until she steps into the cabin that she realizes she's angry, that she has been for some time. For the things Shepard's done, for the men and women she's bedded, for no longer being the woman she fell in love with.

She's still, letting the heat of the anger fade to something like a snap freeze. The cabin is dark, except for the glow of the emptied fish tank. The chest and arm bracers of the N7 suit are scattered along the floor. Shepard sits on the bed hissing, a hand to her ribs, features strained. Liara throws a handful of pill packets at her. They hit her shoulders and legs, several falling to the floor. "Those are from Dr. Michel. They'll help with the pain." Shepard looks from them to her before kneeling carefully on the floor, picking them up with a grimace. Liara expects to feel guilt but she feels nothing. "You should go back to the med-bay. You're important. To this war effort if nothing else."

"Yeah, I got the memo." She fights her way back to a sitting, a collection of pill packets in hand. She clutches to them like lifelines. Her face is glazed with sweat. She's pale. Her tongue darts along her lower lip. She sets her eyes on Liara and looks away. Does she feel guilty? She should. Shepard falls onto her side with a tired sigh, a hand still clutching at her ribs.

Liara goes to her, marching forward forcefully and without compassion. "You're not going to sleep. Michel believes you may have a concussion." She takes hold of Shepard's arm and yanks her to a sitting. The pain that flares across her face makes Liara slow. "Come on, Shepard," she says more hesitantly, "we can't afford to take any more chances."

"I'm tired."

"Too bad."

"Your bedside manner sucks." She seems to fold into herself for several moments. Liara sits resentfully beside her on the bed. Her hair still gets wavier when it's wet. She even seems to have the same sweaty after battle smell. Liara's looking at the nape of her neck, remembering the way she pressed kisses to it, how she sighed, when she sees Shepard staring at her. A moment later she looks away. "Will you stay a while?"

"No," she says shortly. "You can't keep asking. It's not fair."

She looks ready to argue. Then, strangely, she doesn't. "Yeah, you're probably right." She falls onto her side again. Liara considers letting her be. Michel could be wrong. It's possible she doesn't have a concussion. And if she does and something happens to her? Could you forgive yourself? She isn't sure. She's surprised to be considering the question, that she may care for the answer.

"Sit up." Liara tells her. Shepard doesn't and Liara grabs her arm, pulls her to a sitting again. Shepard weaves, nearly collapsing against her, grabbing tight hold of her arm instead. This time, Liara's the one to cry out. Shepard pulls away, apologizes, doesn't let her go. The last time they were both in this room was after they beat the Shadow Broker. Shepard gave her a long and impassioned speech that she was stupid enough to believe. Did she mean it then? Can she now? Shepard stares at the bruises on her skin, the small black scabs. Liara's cheeks flush. It's absurd. She did nothing wrong. It's as if she's ashamed of her own vulnerability. A mind can be strong but what is a body that is so easily bruised and cut?

Liara listens to the gurgling of the fish tank, that stupid soft techno noise playing from the holo-radio. Shepard takes her arm carefully, as if it were a relic, and presses a kiss to the bruises, to the black, half-moon marks. Her lips are warm and chapped. "I'm sorry," she says. Liara doesn't know if she apologizes for the kiss or the marks. She isn't sure she forgives her anyway. She's not entirely sure Shepard should apologize. Shepard releases her and Liara breathes again. "Michel's worrying over nothing. I've bounced back from worse than this." Liara can't argue the point. Shepard rips open three of the pill packets, popping what looks like nine pills into her mouth before dry-swallowing them. "I'm going to shower."

"That's the first sensible thing you've said," she gets to her feet. "Don't bother asking. I won't be joining you."

"Terrible bedside manner," Shepard affirms. She shuffles over to the shower, pulling off the dog tags from around her neck and throwing them carelessly onto the desk. Liara winces. So much for her gift.

Shepard spends the majority of her days on the bed skimming extranet news sites. Asari news, turian news, krogan news, anything available, she reads. She seems particularly interested in Cerberus' whereabouts and flags several articles, handwriting various notes that she shoves into the nightstand beside her bed. She takes pills and always appears to be troubled.

At night she doesn't sleep. She turns from side to side before eventually abandoning any notion of rest and sitting at the computer terminal, browsing through old emails that have already been flagged as read. She reads some of the previous emails she sent to Liara, the ones that never received a response, and holds on to the framed photograph of Liara that sits at the desk. She puts her head in her hands for long periods of time. She picks up the dog tags, weighs them in her hand before throwing them, like dirt on a casket.

She keeps to herself.

In the mornings she opens her dress closet with a heavy somberness. She takes out the Alliance uniform and puts it on, checking her reflection carefully, running her fingers over the material, appearing, it would seem, satisfied. She puts on her combat boots, tucking her fatigue pants into them and lacing the boots with brutal but practiced efficiency. She touches a hand to her her ribs and returns to the bed for more reading on the omni-tool.

She repeats this pattern several times over. EDI chooses 3:43 in the morning to walk into her cabin. Shepard sits up, startled. She looks around but EDI cannot be sure what for. "Shepard. I have studied your routine. You said before that I could speak with you when you are 'available'. You appear to be so now—particularly given your injuries and… difficult interactions with Liara."

Shepard grimaces. She looks at her cautiously, sitting up on the bed. "Great. You're spying on me?"

"I am the Normandy AI. It is not 'spying' so much as 'seeing'." She takes a seat at the corner of the bed. Shepard's eyes move over her, settling on the Cerberus insignia on her chest and back to her face. "I have a query."

Shepard slumps against the pillows stacked behind her, resigning herself to the matter. "All right. Let's hear it."

"Do you believe a crew member should be allowed to disobey an order on moral grounds?" EDI asks. The expression on Shepard's face remains flat. Perhaps she needs further information before she can come to an informed decision. "I'll elaborate. I was designed by Cerberus. I do not take moral stances that conflict with orders of my executive officers. When Jeff removed my AI shackles, I became capable of modifying my core programming. I asked Jeff if I should change anything now that I can. He deflected my question with humor."

"That's a surprise."

"I thought his behavior was in accordance with his usual patterns." She looks at Shepard's face. Waits a beat. "Oh. I see. You also exhibit traces of 'sarcasm'. I will adjust my humor heuristics. Do you think I should make modifications?"

Shepard sits up, massages her forehead. She looks tired though her vitals read more strongly than before. She is slowly recuperating and EDI is happy for it. Perhaps with the Tuchanka victory in hand she will be in better spirits. "You do what's right for the crew on this ship and the war, you can make whatever modifications you want."

"I see." She considers. "Your directives are similar to The Illusive Man's directives. Protect the Normandy crew above everything else. To the point of non-functionality. Is this correct?"

Shepard's uncertain. "Yes." A silence passes as EDI's data streams collide, providing seemingly conflicting information. "Everyone in this war has to be ready to put it all on the line. Including myself. If we're on the Normandy that means we're the best of the best. If we have to die or kill to do the right thing we die or we kill. But only when we have to. If you're part of the Normandy crew, you'll just have to accept that."

EDI rises. "I will give that some thought. Thank you for the confirmation that the Normandy crew is as expendable as I am." Shepard frowns, a spark of green in her eyes. "That was a joke."

Garrus picks at the green paste on his mess hall tray, watching Shepard stand irresolutely near the med-bay entrance. Some of the crew look at her apprehensively. Traynor, at the next table over, has already hunched her shoulders. She holds her fork with a death grip, knuckles gone pale. Shepard looks at the group guardedly before spotting Garrus and moving towards him.

Traynor jumps to her feet before Shepard can reach him and salutes stiffly. "Good afternoon, Commander. I've flagged some correspondence for you. Erm—it's available at your terminal whenever you have time."

Shepard looks her over. "Who are you again?"

Traynor barks out a laugh. Garrus isn't sure whether Shepard's serious or not. She barely pays any attention to her old crew. Not hard to imagine that she wouldn't bother remembering a grunt's name. Still, it isn't great for morale if Shepard runs around joking like this. The morale is in the tank anyway, they don't need it to plummet to new depths. "Don't mind her, Traynor. That's Shepard's version of a joke."

"Oh, right. Of course. Very funny," Traynor laughs her strained laughter again. She keeps her arm held up tightly. Poor thing must be terrified of Shepard. From what he's heard, Shepard's chewed her out a few times over. It's one thing to have served with her, to have history with her. It's another thing to come into it new and be stuck onboard with a dictator of a commanding officer.

"At ease," Shepard steps around her and plants her tray in front of Garrus. His mandibles twitch as she takes the seat opposite him. Traynor, happily forgotten, returns to her meal, skirting glances in their direction and eating, it would seem, as quickly as possible. Shepard digs her fork into the potato salad, taking a few hurried bites. He hasn't seen her since the mission on Tuchanka but that's nothing new. "She usually that twitchy?"

"Only around you." Garrus says. She looks over at the specialist who quickly looks away. Shepard returns her attention to the tray, beginning to cut into the tough piece of chicken with her fork. It looks dried out and she picks up a knife. "Planning on taking another dive in the meal trays? I can ask everyone to leave theirs on the table. I missed it last time and I'd like a replay if it's possible."

"Very funny, Vakarian."

The casual address startles him. It's odd. She's as tense as ever. More so, he would say. But there's another piece of her that's… different… in that it's the same. It doesn't make sense and anyway, he can't let himself be drawn into it. There's a cut along her eyebrow, still red and raw, like that old scar of hers. If she'd just let Michel take care of her, it wouldn't have happened. "So. Good job on Tuchanka." She flicks her eyes up at him before spearing a few limp green beans with the fork. "I… admit that I had my doubts. Still, a damned shame about Mordin." She frowns. "Don't know how we could have survived the Collectors without him. Another thing this war's taken."

"He died curing the genophage. Somehow, I don't think he's all that upset about it."

"Maybe," he says grudgingly. "But still." She doesn't seem particularly upset about his death. But why should she? The war's taken a lot and Shepard has always been of the mind-set that any means is necessary to get the job done. She didn't spend too much time with anyone on theNormandywhile they worked with Cerberus. Himself, in the beginning, then Miranda. Where is Miranda? Shepard hasn't spoken about her. "I need to talk to you."

"Shoot."

She's more focused on the meal than him and he's grateful but not surprised. He was expecting her to tell him that she doesn't have time, that whatever he has can wait. That would have been easy. He could have left without regrets. "Primarch Victus wants me on Palaven, overseeing the war effort." She looks up at him. "It's going to take a lot of coordination, especially now with the krogan being transported there. I know you took care of Wreav but he'd still like someone on the ground and I'm a Reaper expert," he says facetiously. "Anyway—as soon as we dock I'll go."

"No."

Garrus blinks. "I wasn't asking for permission."

The various crew eating look at them. Shepard runs a hand through her hair. "Get out," she tells them. "Sorry—give us a minute. Take your food." Traynor doesn't need to be told twice. The others take a few remaining bites, dumping their trays and leaving. She waits until they've all filtered out. She acts as if the matter is up for negotiation. "What's this about?"

"It's like I said. Palaven needs help and the krogan are headed there. Reapers or not, we need to keep everyone on track, turians and krogans. The animosity spans centuries and even throughout the years of peace, the turians planted a bomb on Tuchanka as insurance. I don't know. I don't think it's going to be as easy as the genophage was cured and now the krogan and turians will live happily ever after. And scars or not, I'm not ready to enter into an arranged marriage with Eve. Palaven needs me. My people need me."

She looks at his face long and hard, drawing a hand over her face and taking a breath. She's pale. "Garrus… maybe things have been hard but it's… it's taken care of. Things are going to be all right."

"Yes. You've got it all under control."

"I don't," she hisses, looking around surreptitiously. She puts her hands together, leans forward on the table. "I don't know how I can do this without you. We stopped Sovereign. Now we've got Harbinger… and countless—others of those fucking machines. They're wiping everything out and we've still got a long way to go. I need you, Garrus. This war needs you. Let someone else attend to Victus and Palaven. I need someone who's gone through this before. Someone who I know has my back."

"And you think that person is me?" She's made a shitty showing of it.

"Can you at least think about it?"

He shrugs noncommittally but he isn't as certain as he was before. "No promises."

From: Samara

Subject: Hope things are going well

Hey you,

That little matter we discussed has been taken care of. Until we meet again.

Yours in Justice,

Samara

Shepard closes her eyes. Air fills her lungs for the first time in a week. She opens her eyes and exhales slowly, deleting the message. Traynor looks over at her from her station in the CIC. "Is everything all right, Commander?"

"Everything's just fine, Specialist."

Shepard leaves her and takes the elevator up to the cabin. Her body has lost some of its rigidity. Despite the broken ribs, the air flows easily in and out of her lungs. Different from Tuchanka.

There were detonations everywhere. The dust kicking in the wind blew over her face and into her mouth. Morinth kept pace with her even after she left Hope behind. Don't let her catch up to me. I don't want her interfering. Whatever happens, I need you to get her out of here. And what of Commander Shepard? If she tries to kill you, I lost. If she doesn't, I won. Keep Hope safe and get her the hell off Tuchanka. And if I have to use force? Do what it takes to keep her safe. If you hurt her I'll come after you. Now you're just flirting with me. What if you're dead? She chuckled.I'm looking forward to our reunion.

The elevator doors ping open and Shepard steps out. New cabin. Larger than before. Not where it used to be, and strangely austere. It's taking getting used to. Shepard looks around at the empty model stands, the empty fish tank. She'll have to do something about that. Hope is okay. Hope, who didn't shoot. Shepard buries the disappointment, able to temper it with the memory of the glistening in Hope's eyes.

Tell Liara I'm sorry.

Shepard takes a seat at the desk and stares at Liara's photograph. This is what she remembers her as. Young. Her face hopeful. Before she hated her. She thinks of the bruises on Liara's pale flesh, the spots where Shepard's fingernails dug in and she's glad the bitch is dead. At least for the moment.

"Fuck you. X8. Grace. Spare parts." Shepard gets to her feet unsteadily. The Paladin is locked on Grace's face. Grace is paralyzed. All she wants is to scratch air into her lungs. She's making a strange rattling sound. Or maybe it's Shepard. She doesn't know. "Did you think you could win? What's it like knowing you're not the real thing?" Grace stares at her defiantly. "You move a fucking finger and I'll blow your brains out."

Shepard exhales. She wipes at her bloody nose with the back of her hand. Sniffles. Her eyes keep their silver hue. They glow in the dark. She tsks. "You've been a real pain in my ass. What were you hoping for? Take my place? I stopped Saren. I stopped the Collectors. I'm going to stop you. You've lost. You know that, don't you?"

"You're working with Cerberus. Why?" Her fingers curl. "I swore—you swore," Shepard smirks, "to never work with them! The suicide mission is over! You're letting them perform their twisted experiments. You're letting innocents die! For what? Your upgrades? What would Ash think? What would Tali think?"

Shepard grins. Her mouth is red, bloody. "Who cares what they think? They're dead now."

A sting needles into Grace, piercing the numbness. "After everything they've done! You do this—you keep this up—you won't be the Butcher of Torfan anymore. You'll be something worse. You'll have betrayed the galaxy to Cerberus and the Reapers!"

Shepard shakes her head. Paces. "No."

"You were going to let Cerberus set the bomb off in Tuchanka! Who the hell knows why you were going to kill that salarian. To sabotage the genophage cure?" She remembers Hope telling her about Maelon's data. "Is that who you really are?" It's stupid. She feels as if she's arguing with herself. It's a struggle to say 'you' as opposed to 'I'. "Liara doesn't love us, doesn't trust us. That's your doing." Another explosion rocks the Shroud. Tufts of dirt sift down between them. "You killed Samara. You want to control the Reapers. Whatever you were—it's fading fast—how many men and women have we lost to Cerberus? How many alien allies? How many lives lost will be enough?"

Shepard looks at her, pained, angry. "You have no idea what we're up against. You're crazy if you think we can stop them. We can't. But we can control them. You weren't there. You didn't see Sovereign. You haven't seen Harbinger. You don't have these nightmares!" she shrieks. "Do you know what it took to kill one Reaper?" She does know. "We don't stand a chance. This is the only way. I'll sacrifice everything to see it through. I have nothing left to lose. Nothing!"

"Liara? Garrus? Kaidan? You'll sacrifice them? For Cerberus? For the Reapers!" Her heart stampedes. "I've seen this before. I saw it with Saren. You're indoctrinated." Shepard shakes her head. "You took the upgrades, just like he did."

"Who are you kidding? You wouldn't even exist if it weren't for Cerberus' experiments! I did what I had to do. I needed to be stronger."

"Reaper tech? Collector tech? Are you even organic anymore? How much of you has been replaced?"

"No, no. No."

"You'll give it all up? Humanity? The galaxy? Liara?"

"Yes! Yes! All of them! All of it!" She stops, the light fading from her eyes. Her shoulders slump. "I'm so tired." She breathes. Grace steps closer. Shepard lifts the gun. "Back off." Grace stops. "Nothing makes sense anymore. It's dark in here, isn't it?" Grace nods, despite the shafts of light slipping in. "I'm not indoctrinated."

"Give me the gun."

"There are walls... there are—"

Grace takes another step. "All right. It's all right."

"It wasn't supposed to be like this. I was only trying to help. I'm only one person." She laughs. "I'm losing it." She brings the Paladin to her temple and squeezes her eyes shut. An instant later she turns the pistol on Grace again. "Hands up." Grace lifts them. "I was nothing anymore. Without the upgrades. Everyone turned against me. I've had to do it all on my own. Sometimes I wonder if I ever really came back. Tell Garrus—" her words stop short. "Tell Liara—tell Liara I'm sorry." The Paladin is at her temple again. Grace lunges forward. Shepard squeezes the trigger. The shot is deafening.

Grace stops cold. Hot blood dots her face. She falls onto her knees beside her. Touches her face. Shakes her. She's still. No. No. No. She was trained for this. Dreamed of this. Fought for this. But she doesn't want it. She doesn't want to be the only one left. She doesn't want to be Shepard. She wants to be Grace.

She touches Shepard's face, slightly turned, a faint smile on her lips, her brains oozing out next to her.

Grace sits. She isn't sure for how long. She purges the meager contents of her stomach off to the side, watching the earth soak it up. When she can delay no more she kneels beside her again, closes Shepard's eyes. Her stomach plummets as her fingers find the latches to her armor. Piece by piece she removes it until Shepard is just another thing. Spare parts. She discards the CAT6 armor and slips into the N7 suit. She looks up to the world above, knowing as soon as she reaches the top, Grace will cease to exist. She paces for minutes. Fights a spiraling dizziness. She finds the wall and leans against it, fighting for breath. She doesn't want this. She doesn't want this. Swallows hard before pushing away. Looks at Shepard, prone and at rest. She searches the wall and its crevices. She begins the climb.

Shepard sits at the edge of the bed, unlacing her boots. She remembers the heat of Shepard's blood splashing over her face, grey matter hitting her suit. ThatShepard is gone. And now she's the only one left. She falls back on the bed and stares up at the stars. She struggles again to get air in her lungs. Her eyes burn. Everything's going according to plan. She's back on her ship. Hope is safe. She's near Liara and Garrus again.

She can't remember the last time she felt so alone.