Shepard turned sharply, with a ferocity Vega had never seen there before, as though the sleeping tiger had suddenly woken up, found itself strong, full of energy and, above all, hungry. "Mr. Vega, the only way you go back down there now is if I kick your ass out the airlock. You can parachute back down there." Her voice was sharp, but more than that there was an implacable force, as though she had a steadying (or controlling) hand on his neck. "You can reroute from the Citadel. Do you understand me?"

Vega bridled, but knew when a fight was lost. So this was Shepard in her element. Even in the depths of feeling mutinous, he had to admit that this was what he had expected from her.

"I asked you a question, marine."

"Yes ma'am." The words jumped out of him; failing to answer her seemed impossible. He grimaced, turned on his heel and stormed off.

"Joker, give me open comm, please."

And just like that, the pressure of personality lifted.

"You got it, Commander."

Shepard addressed herself to the nearest comm unit. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is Shepard, Special Tactics and Reconnaissance. As you no doubt know, the Reapers have arrived en force in the Sol System. With the blessing of Admiral Anderson, I am commandeering this ship and her crew. We will are currently en route to the Citadel, where we will make contact with Alliance Command. I will keep you informed as the situation changes." Shepard shut down the comm. "EDI."

"Yes, Shepard?"

"Have we received more from Admiral Hackett?" Surely he'd had something up his sleeve. She'd seen the signs for months that something was being done. Nowhere near as much as she would have liked, but something…

"Try to establish communications with Arcturus once we drop out of FTL at the relay. We can afford a few minutes. If Hackett's alive, he'll be broadcasting something." Shepard licked her lips, adrenaline still pulsing in her veins. If he wasn't alive, she expected either someone else in the chain of command or—more likely—an autonomous broadcast for all Alliance personnel.

Something, stopgap orders or SOPs until the Fleet could rally and take stock of what they had.

"In the meantime," Alenko interrupted before handing Shepard a gauze pad soaked in antiseptic. Wincing, she began cleaning off her scrapes and scuffs. She hadn't realized how much minor damage she'd taken. "You think Arcturus is still there?"

"I don't know, Alenko." Shepard stopped cleaning her arm, seemed to withdraw so far into herself that Alenko produced a tube of medigel, popped it, and in a very businesslike manner, began to smear the clear gel over the abrasions. Shepard jumped and, except for remembering he had, at one time, been the team's medic, would have pulled away. "I don't know how the Reapers think."

It was, perhaps, best that Alenko did not answer at that moment. He certainly thought so.

"No, it's best if we go straight to the Citadel," Shepard affirmed, unthinkingly taking the medigel tube from him in order to anoint her other arm.

"Your stuff is here, by the way. Anderson had it moved back into the hold as soon as he could. Arms, armor, all of it."

Shepard exhaled relief. "Good—I didn't like the idea of running around in my BDUs while this mess is boiling over."

The master-at-arms' station was manned by a rather nervous fellow of square but light build, who'd been on the line of riflemen during the extraction.

"Relax, soldier," Shepard smiled grimly, finding the mesh underlay for her armor. "No one ever sees the Normandy unless they're looking out a window. You're safer with her than with any other ship."

"Yes ma'am."

Alenko clapped Shepard on the shoulder. "I'll take stock of the crew, let you know what you've got."

Shepard nodded assent and gratitude before returning her attention to the soldier. "What's your name?"

"Steve Cortez," he nodded to the Kodiak, "shuttle pilot and sometimes master-at-arms." His mouth twitched, as though testing the waters to see if smiling was all right.

Shepard manufactured a smile. "Good to have you. And I'm not 'ma'am'—Shepard or Commander is fine." It felt strange being 'Commander.' Then again, the people who associated with her the most hadn't really gotten out of the habit, either.

She had to smirk at the semi-memorable occasion during which Vega had called her 'Commander' in front of someone—she didn't remember who or why. The 'someone' disapproved the use of rank—since she was not entitled to it—and expressed that view. Vega, exhibiting a glint of wicked humor, had laughed, shrugged and played the 'big dumb marine, declaring that he thought 'Commander' was her first name.

He'd winked at her when the stuffy little weasel had slithered off and they'd shared a chuckle.

"Yes ma—Commander."

She forced herself back on track; it would be easy, now that they were relatively safe, for minds to wander, an attempt to find something more acceptable than reality. "You'll get used to it, Cortez. Do we have a place to secure the heavy weapons?"

"Absolutely."

"Let's get the load-out unpacked." She set her Collector rifle on the workstation, then frowned at it. "Got a place I can secure this?"

"Over here." Cortez did not take the weapon, merely opened a case built into the wall. In one of three foam-lined cells was a 'cutout' obviously meant to accommodate her alien weapon. From the look of things, the other two were for a standard-issue grenade launcher and a Cain.

She secured her weapon, watched Cortez add the grenade launcher, then close the door. There were other cells like that one built into the wall.

She approved the efficiency of it. She also approved moving the armory into the cargo bay—though what had taken the place of Jacob's workshop she didn't know and couldn't guess. Still, it was good to have arms and armor in a sensible place.