"What do you mean?"

"I mean that the Normandy will be sitting this one out," Hackett reiterated.

Shepard tried to form words in his mouth, but none came. He ended up looking like a goldfish trying to breathe in water.

"You've done a great job, Shepard. Nonetheless, the fifth fleet's got this one."

"But…" Shepard stammered.

Hackett exhaled deeply through his nose, flaring his nostrils. The real reason he wanted to take these Cerberus facilities was that this was a delicate operation; they wanted to capture researchers for interrogation and keep the base intact so they could investigate as much as possible. Shepard was a blunt instrument; you usually sent him at a target and they died. That did not fit the bill for this mission, so he would have his men do it instead. "Shepard, you've been invaluable, but your focus should remain on your main mission: finding Saren. Why don't you uh…" he had to think of something to get Shepard's mind off it, "take three days of shore leave. The Normandy's had some pretty tough weeks, and you deserve a short break." All soldiers love shore leave, right?

He was clearly being denied this mission, but for what reason, he did not know. If he had to guess, it was probably because he was personally attached to it. However, he didn't need a break. He was fine! "But… why?" he asked again. He did not like being stonewalled without an explanation.

Hackett was quickly losing his temper. "Shepard, it's an order. Hackett out." The conversation was now over. Shepard remained still, contemplating his next decision. Fuck it, fine. He quietly strolled out of the comm room and down the command deck, trying to figure out what he would do with three days.

"Joker, where are we right now?" he asked.

The flight lieutenant stretched, putting his hands behind his head. "Ya, I don't know. Probably floating somewhere in the middle of space," Joker said with complete confidence as he just stared out the window, not bothering to look at the map below him.

"Hmm. How nice you are to me will decide how many days of shore leave we've been granted that I actually allow you to take."

Joker was shocked, and he remained silent for a moment. And then he was ecstatic as the implication of the news finally hit him. "Shore leave! How long? Where are we headed? I'll fly us there right now, no questions asked!"

Shepard snickered to himself. Joker, not saying anything, that would be a god send. "That's what I was trying to determine. So, where are we?"

Joker looked down at the navigation screens. "We are in the middle of the Attican Traverse. Where do you want me to fly us: Citadel, Earth, or….?"

Shepard's voice caught in his throat. "Did you just say Attican Traverse?"

Joker looked back at the commander. "Um, yes. And why am I not liking the tone of your voice?"

He'd never had the chance to return, to make amends. He simply never had the money to afford a ship to a backwater colony. But now he was in the command of the Normandy, his ship. He could do anything he wanted, within reason.

"Joker, take us to Mindoir," he said in a solemn voice.

The pilot snorted at the suggestion. "What? Why on Earth would we want to go to the middle of nowh-." Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit oh shit. It had taken him a second to put two and two together. Shepard's face remained stoic, and Joker determined his best move was just to comply. "Headed to Mindoir, straightaway, commander." He didn't say another word.

Shepard stared out the front window, watching the stars streak by them. He was headed to Mindoir; home. He wasn't sure if he should be happy or sad. But he wanted to do this.

Most of the alliance soldiers and personnel were having dinner in the mess, discussing the day's recent news.

"Shore leave? Let's fucking go! Where we headed," asked one. Meanwhile, as they spoke, Shepard was walking down the staircase to join. It had been a while since he'd eaten with them, and he was hungry anyway.

"Well, um, from what I've heard, Mindoir," said another. Shepard paused on the steps, suddenly unsure of himself. Had he made a mistake? Should he just bring them to the citadel so they could all get drunk?

An uproar of confusion and anger ensued at the mention of their destination. "Why are we headed there?" "Did it get attacked again?" "Are there still going to be women?" "This is shore leave! He's supposed to do this on his own time!" "Where are we going to find a bar?" Shepard remained still, clinging to the handrail. His fears were being realized; he suddenly felt ashamed that he'd ever considered this, let alone ordered it.

"How about we have him join his family!" shouted one soldier in the upheaval.

Kaiden raised his hand to halt the conversations, but that didn't seem to be working. "Enough!" he said as he slammed his fist down on the table, causing plates and utensils to jingle. "Yes, it isn't ideal. But it's still three days!" The mess was dead silent. "Let him… have his piece. It's the least we could do." The silence allowed them to reflect on the things that had just been said, and some felt guilty. They all knew the commander had it tough. Most of them had the privilege of grouping up with both parents. And besides the crappy location, which was still uncontestable, they'd gotten three entire days of not working, even though most of them had only been on duty for a few weeks; being on a Spectre's ship, chasing Saren across the galaxy, they had doubted they would ever even get a break.

In the silence, Shepard remained motionless, hidden behind the wall from the oblivious soldiers.

One of them eventually raised their cup. It was plastic and filled with grape juice, but it would do. "Amen. I'll celebrate to that. Fuck the batarians!"

A small, sad smile crept on Shepard's face.

"Hooah!" they roared in unison. It would have been awkward if any of the aliens were here for that chant, so they were thankful for that.

Shepard had a confusing mix of emotions running through him. Melancholy, anger, disgust, regret. But most of all, confusion. He was confused as to why anyone would bother to cheer in his defense. He felt an odd sensation in his chest, but he shook his head, trying to disengage himself from the paralysis he had entered. Still afraid, he turned around and headed back up the stairs to the command deck. He couldn't bear to face them.

The Normandy had landed basically in the middle of nowhere, on the outskirts of a small town. Probably the only town. The cargo bay door began to lower, and Shepard held his hand in front of his eyes to block the harsh sunlight that was seeping through the ever-widening gap. He was dressed in basic civilian clothes as opposed to his dress uniform or combat fatigues: he wasn't here for the attention. A simple black shirt, jeans, a red fleece sweater, and combat boots. Yes, maybe the combat boots didn't count as civilian, but they were needed for the landscape. He took slow, deliberate steps out of the Normandy, lowering his hand once his eyes adjusted to the light. The Normandy had landed in a rather large clearing that barely fit the ship. It was surrounded by young, rather short trees. They had clearly been planted recently; well, recently in tree years.

He jumped down from the cargo ramp, landing in the soft mud that gave way under him. Yep, he'd definitely made the right decision to wear combat boots. He looked around him, gazing at all the different shrubs and flowers at his feet. Birds chirped high pitch songs, and other creatures foreign to him scuttled about. He scanned the area with his eyes. It was so unlike what he had imagined. He was expecting the aftermath of a war zone, with dead bodies littered everywhere. But it was thirty years later. Whatever had happened had probably been cleaned up, built over, or swallowed up by the forest.

According to the map on his omnitool, a village lay far in the distance, maybe five clicks away by his estimate. He could have taken the Mako and plowed through this place, but that would have felt like desecration. He stepped out of the clearing, pushing a branch out of the way as he made his initial entrance into the forest. Shepard had never visited somewhere without an ordered purpose. Most of his deployments had been in the name of war. Visiting this place was a first for him, both as a concept and in the fact that it was Mindoir. He took a deep breath, and for the first time in his life, he smelled nature untarnished by city air or the destruction of war. He peered into the forest before him, but all he could see was a mess of tree limbs and leaves. Here, the sun was less bright, having been blocked by the greenery, almost as if the vegetation was sheltering him.

Shepard continued to trudge through the forest until he could no longer see the glistening hull of the Normandy. He paused for a brief moment, forgetting that this was Mindoir. He was surrounded by a bevy of sights and smells and sounds, all so foreign to him. His semi-permanent scowl melted away as his eyes relaxed and his mouth crept into a small smile. He closed his eyes, trying to relish the feeling. But all he could see in his mind was people fighting; gradually, the chirp of the birds was replaced by the sounds of gunfire and the screams of people dying; the warm feeling of the sun on his skin was replaced by the sting of flames from a nearby explosion. Unable to carry on any longer, his eye shot open, but the feelings never left him. "Leave me alone!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, trying to forget his visions; but they persisted. He remembered where he was: Mindoir. I am never going to find peace here. It was a mistake to come. Despite his thoughts, he couldn't turn back. He was here, and he might as well finish his mission. What he was searching for, he wasn't exactly sure; whatever he found would have to suffice. He continued to walk through the forest, but the anger had returned to his face. Now, the beauty of the nature around him only deepened his anger. This is what had been taken away from him, what was supposed to be his! Every second he spent in it would only worsen his mood.

His feet ached. Without the adrenaline or stakes of combat, his body was tired from the long walk. And he still had one click to go. He tried to push a branch to the side so he could continue along his path, but it whacked him in the face. He hit the small tree, but it was rather flexible and so he did no damage. On the contrary, thorny hairs on the stalk he had punched pricked his hand. Damn it, he told himself. In the relative solitude of the walk, he had had a rather long time to think. To think about the galaxy, to think about himself, to think about the…future. He'd come to an impasse in his life; with most of the desire for revenge completed, what was he to do? Continue roaming around the galaxy, killing people?

He recounted the events of his life, dissecting them. His time at the orphanage, which felt like forever ago, and the reasons he'd run away. The years he spent on the streets, working for gangs and other criminal organizations; the things he had been forced to do during his time with the gang… Looking back, it was nothing compared to the other things he had done, the lives he had taken. But that man, in the dark basement, had been the first push over the cliff that had sent him spiraling down into the abyss. He continued falling for years, and he believed that he was already buried so deep that he would never get out.

He continued to remember. His training with the alliance, which had been relatively easy. The first deployment on a mission with his team; the hope he felt afterward each time he completed another mission with them and got closer to them. And how all that development had been robbed from him by Akuze.

Shepard could now see the ending of the tree line; he knew he must be getting close by now. Twigs occasionally snapped under his feet, making him feel like he was trespassing on something, as if he was a thief who'd snuck into a home only to be given away by creaky floors. But with each step, he could gradually see more and more houses in the distance. His patience grew thin and he started sprinting through the forest. He tripped on a branch on the floor, but he quickly got back and continued forward. It had been twenty-nine years; he had waited enough.

He cleared the tree line, and his sprint slowed into a slow walk as he gawked at everything before him. Several houses dotted the landscape, surrounded by fields and fields of farmland. He'd known Mindoir had been a farming colony when it had been attacked, but he'd never actually seen a farm before. The sun was high in the sky now, and it beat down on everything relentlessly.

Most of the crew of the Normandy had set up shop outside, stalking out patches of wilderness. Some built hammocks and went to sleep, while others tried to construct a crude volleyball court. It hadn't been what they were expecting for a shore leave, but being out here, breathing fresh air, sure beat being stuck on the ship.

Tali was walking around, pretty much at random, staring at the ground in front of her. While she was here, all she could think about was Rannoch, the planet her people had lost. This is what she had missed out on her entire childhood, and countless more would in the future. It wasn't fair! They deserved to have a planet of their own, where they didn't have to live locked behind these suits.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a flower. She had almost stepped on it but had seen it at the last moment. Her foot hovered over the flower for a second before she carefully took a step backward. She sat down on a patch of grass in front of the flower, crossing her legs. She tentatively reached out with her right hand towards the flower but hesitated. Was it right to do this, while so many on the fleet couldn't? She slowly retracted her hand. Tali wanted nothing more than to touch this flower, to feel it with her own fingers instead of through her suit; to inhale deeply and smell its scent without her respirator getting in her way. Screw it, she thought and reached towards the flower again. She delicately caressed the flower in her hand, rubbing its petals. She'd been dreaming to do this for a long time, like all the women did in those movies before they fell in love with the man of their dreams and lived happily ever after. But she thought that was unlikely to happen. The galaxy, as she was beginning to see during her pilgrimage, was a cruel and unforgiving place. If she ever found a pilgrimage gift, she'd return to the fleet and live out her days on a bunch of rusted ships, waiting for the next breach to kill them all.

"Hey."

In her surprise, her arm suddenly jerked away from the flower, accidentally tearing the flower off of the stem and damaging it. She let each of the petals drop to the ground, gently shaking them off her hand. It just wasn't meant to be. She turned to face the speaker who had interrupted her thoughts.

"Liara," she spat, her exotic tone hiding some of the displeasure that lay there.

He had continued walking down the road that ran through all the farms of the town. It was a rather depressing thing; he was just glad that it wasn't dry enough to kick dust into the air to ruin his clothes or sting his eyes. For the most part, he looked at the ground, only taking occasional glances of the places around him. But on one of the glances, he noticed something out of place in the acres of farmland and houses: a marble monument down one road. Curious as to its purpose, he began to walk towards it.

He'd been mulling over what Anderson had told him about revenge. He knew the common consensus was that revenge was wrong. But why is it wrong to inflict the same harm on those who had harmed you? The answer to this question eluded him. Why was he any less of a person for giving somebody what they deserved? Revenge is justice.

He reached the marble structure and stared at it for a couple of seconds. Large marble blocks were arranged in a semi-circle, and one block sat in front of them all. He read the engraving: 'In remembrance to all those who lost their lives.' Instantly, Shepard knew what this was for: the raid of Mindoir that had happened when he was only a small child. He approached the marble block and read the smaller inscription at the bottom. 'to never forget, to hold those who lost their lives close to our hearts.'

Shepard began clenching and unclenching his fists, anger flowing through his veins. Remembering his thoughts about revenge, he tried to justify himself; he'd done all those things for these people, so they could rest in peace. Liar! his mind told him, and he knew it was true. He hadn't done it for them, he'd done it so he could rest his conscious. He'd found those responsible, and he would continue to do so, but no matter how much he accomplished, he never felt like he'd done anything worthy of note.

He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket, walked around the central marble block, and approached the others. Seeing that words were carved into the marble, he started from the top of the left-hand side and began reading. However, as his eyes scanned the letters and his brain assembled them, he realized what all these words were. They were no words; they were names! He closed his eyes for a brief moment, ashamed at his ignorance. These were the people who he had been fighting for to get justice. For his parents! he told himself as his mind attempted to name them. Except, he couldn't; he didn't know their first names. He'd never bothered. Tears started to form in his eyes, sadness flowing off him in waves. He justified everything, even his life's goal, on avenging them, and he didn't know their names. The irony hit him hard. Realizing he needed to right this, he started to quickly scan the marble blocks, searching for something: Shepard.

He was so emotional, he didn't even realize the names were in alphabetical. So instead, he stood in front of each marble block for two minutes, scanning from side to side, down the rows, from the very top to the bottom, where the marble met a cement pedestal. It took him fifteen minutes to read through the names until he came to what he was looking for: Shepard. His eyes stared at the two names before he read them out loud. "Charles Shepard. Marie Shepard." He took a step closer to the memorial. He started tracing the delicate engraving of each of the letters that made up their names with his index finger. C.H.A.R.L.E.S.S.H.E.P.A.R.D. This is my father. M.A.R.I.E.S.H.E.P.A.R.D. This is my mother. He sunk to his knees and rested his head against the stone.

"Charles, Marie. Charles, Marie. Charles Shepard. Marie Shepard." He whispered their names over and over again, trying to embed them in his mind so he would never forget. A silent tear streamed down his face as he came to a realization: how much better his life would have been if he had died too and his name had been on that wall. If he'd died as a toddler, his last memories would have been of a family, of happiness, and of the ignorant bliss of childhood. He banged his fist into the stone, upset at himself and his life. Because he hadn't died; he'd escaped death and left his parents behind. He left his parents, escaped his death unfairly, all for what? So he could live a miserable life, alone and afraid of people, angry and distrustful of everyone he met? It would have been far better that he'd died alongside them.

Behind Shepard, an old man walked into the memorial. He wore a woolen jacket over a pair of overalls. On his head rested a brown fedora. Shepard didn't even notice him until the man rested a hand on his back.

"Son, are you alright?" he asked gently, in the weak voice of an elderly man.

Shepard's face whipped around to face the man. Who the hell was this intruder who had come to ruin his moment of solitude? Eyes red from crying stared back at the old man, and despite the sadness in them, anger was clearly visible. The old man looked down at Shepard's face, and his throat closed up. This face looked familiar to him, but he couldn't tell why, or where he'd seen it.

Shepard didn't respond, and the man didn't need him to. It was obvious why he was so upset. He'd probably done it enough over the first couple of years, but gradually, the display of emotions faded into a deep sadness that you could only see in his eyes. He could tell that the man before him on the floor was clearly an outsider, not only because of not being seen before in the town but because of his clothes. Well maintained clothing of rich color and soft fabric. It was no silk, but it was better than what the people around here wore, like his scraggy old jacket that always tickled the bottom of his neck. Eventually, Shepard rose to his feet and wiped the tears in his eyes with the sleeve of his fleece.

"What's your name?" asked the old man.

Shepard leveled his gaze at him, anger laced in his eyebrows. Why did he want to know? More importantly, why did he care, because nobody ever cared about him? "Start with yours, old man," Shepard spat.

"Marcus Orello. I've lived here for a long, long time." The man waited patiently for Shepard to respond.

"Commander Shepard."

Shepard. He remembered that name. It was not one he thought he would ever hear once more. "John. I never thought I'd see you again."

Shepard looked at him with utter confusion, a million thoughts racing through his mind. "I've never seen you before, old man. Who the hell do you think you are?"

A small smile crept on Marcus' face. "No, I don't think you would have remembered," he replied weakly.

Shepard started to walk away slowly, retreating from the man. "Listen, I don't know who you are. I don't know who you think you are. I don't know why you think you know me, because you don't. Just please, leave me alone!"

The old man met Shepard's gaze. "You're the son of Charles and Marie. They were the only Shepard's in town, after all. Welcome home, John," he said warmly.

Shepard shuddered at the use of his first name. He hated it when people called him John. "How do you know them?" Shepard demanded, getting more and more concerned by the second. His fear turned into anger, and he pulled the pistol from his waist, pointing it at the man.

The man continued to look at Shepard, unfazed by the gun. "I knew them because I was their neighbor. Now put that thing away before you do something you regret."

Shepard's hand started to shake violently as he lowered the gun to his side. "You…you knew them?" he cried.

Marcus nodded his head, not needing to use words.

Shepard's voice caught in his throat, and his legs trembled. "C-can you tell m-me about them?"

"Yes, I can. They were," he gulped, "wonderful people. But come, I will tell you more on my way home."

Shepard tucked his sidearm away, back into the waist of his pants. "I thought you came here to mourn?"

"I mourned, yes. And while that time has past, I make it a habit to stop every once in a while." He beckoned Shepard to follow him. "Now come, there is much you do not know."

Wrex had set up shop about a hundred meters into the woods. He brought with him his assault rifle, not believing he would need his shotgun here. He didn't feel like staying cooped up on the Normandy, and he didn't feel like mingling with the alliance crewmen either. He preferred the solitude; he'd already seen it all, and life was no longer a surprise to him. He'd had a lifetime of interactions with others; now, he just wanted to be by himself.

He set his rifle to semi-automatic and took aim at a tree. He squeezed the trigger, and a single bullet hit home, sending splinters into the air. He fired again and landed the shot with the same amount of precision. With a shotgun, you didn't really need to aim, just point it in the general direction. With assault rifles, you could always just hold down the trigger and pray. But there was always a virtue in knowing how to aim. He was a krogan, and his blood told him so.

He stayed like that for a while, taking sporadic shots at trees. Then, he just stared at his handiwork. Damaged and mangled trees surrounded him, with broken branches hanging by pieces of bark, or tree trunks peppered with holes that went clean through.

He heard a twig snap behind him, and he turned around, ready for an ambush. "Huh. What are you doing here?" It was just the quarian, hiding behind a tree, only her facemask visible.

Tali stepped out from behind the tree, caught. "Well, I just heard some noise in the woods, and I went to investigate. I found you, shooting all this," she said a bit sadly. What was supposed to be the beauty of nature was now a ruined mess of trees. "Why?"

Wrex stowed his assault rifle on his back. "Target practice," he growled.

Despite the chaotic state everything around them was in, she'd watched him hit every shot with deadly precision. "Do you think you could teach me?"

Wrex groaned rather loudly. "Why don't you get Shepard or the turian to help you. They'd probably be better teachers than me," he replied.

Well, Shepard was gone, and he was scarier than Wrex, all things being considered. And Tali didn't feel like dealing with a turian, given the disagreements between their species over the centuries. Now, she didn't consider herself as being manipulative. She found it rather cruel to do that to people. But this wasn't that bad, right? "But, I thought you were the best soldier, being a krogan and all," she said, adding a sad voice for added effect.

"I am!" he roared. "Uggghhh, fine!"

Shepard followed the old man to his house, which was a rather short walk from the memorial. They hadn't spoken that much during the walk, and that was fine with Shepard. He was barely holding together as is. They approached a rickety, old wooden fence. Marcus fished a key from his pocket to unlock the fence door and held it open for Shepard. However, Shepard hesitated, feeling out of place, but the man beckoned him to follow.

In front of him, Shepard could see a two-story house, also made of wood. It looked old and worn, as most of the white paint had chipped off to reveal the dull-brown wood underneath. Yet the structure looked sturdy. It had survived the years and would survive many more to come. Shepard walked down a small dirt path until he reached the steps.

The man turned around to look at him before he opened the door. "I built this house with my own hands after the raids. It's nothing fancy, but it is home." Home, what is home? Shepard never had a home; not unless you counted barracks or a dark street corner. It was a trivial, meaningless concept to him. Nonetheless, he walked inside. Shepard had never actually been inside one before. Well, that wasn't necessarily correct. He'd been inside homes before, but only during wartime, when he'd storm them to capture or kill all the occupants. Shepard had never gone inside a home to just be in it.

It was dimly lit, the only light seeping through in-between the cracks of curtains on the windows. A fireplace was against one wall, which Shepard thought was a hazard, but he didn't say anything. The lights turned on, illuminating the interior in a bright brown glow.

"Please, take a seat," insisted Marcus, who slowly took off his jacket and set it to hang on a rack. "Would you like me to take your coat?"

"No, I'm fine." He took a seat on a one-person sofa. As he lowered himself, he sunk into the soft cushioning, an alien sensation to the hard metal benches he was used to. He rested his hands on the leather, feeling its smooth texture, and how it contrasted his rough hands. Marcus took a seat across from him in an old wooden chair.

Initially, no one spoke, but Shepard eventually worked up the courage to ask a question. "So, you said you knew my parents. How?"

"Well, they used to be my neighbors" Marcus replied humorously. He pointed his finger to his left. "They lived right over there."

Shepard nodded his head slowly. He tried forming words, but they stopped on his lips. What was he supposed to say? "What were they like?"

His eyes looked upwards as he tried to remember, and a warm smile came to his face as it all came back to him. "I'll start with your father. He was… humorous. He loved to laugh, even at the smallest joke. He always found something to brighten everyone's day." He started laughing himself when he remembered the funniest thing: "And sometimes…your father would find something funny and laugh…even though none of us found it funny. But we…all ended up laughing because your father's laugh was so funny" he tried to say in between quiet chuckles.

Shepard's eyes looked down at the coffee table in front of him. He couldn't remember the last time he had laughed! He felt unworthy of being here. How could he ever have possibly been their son?

"Your mother was a beautiful woman, John. Your father always said he didn't fall in love with her because of her looks, but I never believed him. And she was a smart woman too, much smarter than your father. Everyone always wondered why she fell in love with a simple farmer boy when she could have gone to university. But I think that says something about her far greater than had she gone to college."

Marcus looked at John's face, and all he could see was sadness. A sadness that was mirrored in his own heart when he had lost everything too. But he saw something more there: the rigid jawline and cheekbones of his father and the blue eyes of his mother. At that moment, it truly hit him that he was sitting with their son, all these years later. "You know, you look so much like them."

John looked up from the coffee table, making eye contact with the man across from him. "Do I? Do I really" he asked in a quiet voice.

"Yes. I couldn't be surer," he replied. There was something that might more accurately answer John's question, but he would have to search for it later. He got up and approached the fireplace. Carefully, ensuring not to break his old body, he bent over and placed a log inside it. He then struck a match, and the log caught fire. Marcus sat back down. "And your mother, she was a great cook. I wish you could have tried her apple pies. She always brought me one every month, and I basically got addicted to them." He laughed at the old memory, but a slight twinkle of sadness was visible in his eyes.

Shepard was quiet for a long time, unable to think of anything to say. He stared into the fire, watching its flames engulf the log in an inferno. Eventually, Marcus turned to look at John, but all he saw was the fire reflecting in his eyes. "Before I continue," he interrupted, "tell me about yourself."

John looked away from the fire and back at the coffee table between them. His eyes traced the intricate swirls and patterns of the wood. "I'm a soldier in the alliance. Commander John Shepard. N7 special forces. I'm a council spectre too, now."

Marcus judgmentally shook his head. "No, I asked you about yourself."

Shepard was at a loss for words. "But that is me," he protested, but Marcus held up a hand to silence him.

"No, that is what you do. I'm asking about you," he explained.

"I…I'm a soldier. I don't know what else to tell you!" What kind of question was this? He asked me about myself and I told him. What does he want? Shepard was getting frustrated, and his hands curled into fists.

Marcus chuckled to himself. "Anyone could be a soldier. But nobody can be you." He looked towards the fire, collecting his thoughts. "You don't know how to answer this question, do you," he realized. He looked away from the fire, facing Shepard again. "What do you do when you aren't being a soldier? How would your friends describe you? Do you have a special someone or a family? These are the things that tell somebody about yourself," he explained. "Now try again."

And try he did. His mind tried to answer the questions but couldn't. The characteristics being described to him were almost alien, and the questions were something he had never considered. In resolute shame, he turned back to Marcus to admit his defeat. "I can't answer any of those."

Marcus brought his hand closer to the fire, rubbing them to warm his fingers up. "Then you must have a very sad life, commander."

Shepard could only nod his head. "Yes, yes it is," he tried to say, but it only came out as a hoarse whisper. The conversation grew silent again, but eventually, Shepard worked up the courage to ask a question: "So what about you? Do you have family or friends?"

Marcus' face contorted into a painful smile. "Yes, yes I did," he began with pride, "but they were taken away from me, just like your parents were," he ended with grief.

This made no sense to Shepard. Why did this man care about the people he kept around him if his family was dead too! "So why did you ask me that question, then? What is the point of bothering with people if they wall die? You said my life is said, but yours is no better!" he shouted.

Marcus waited a moment for Shepard to cool down. There was no point in trying to yell back at him, even if he still could. "No, maybe I'm just as sad as you. But I can still be happy when I remember them." His eyes turned watery. "Even if they are dead."

Ah, death. The funny question. The inevitable fact. "Why even bother with people, then? All I know is that everybody dies alone. I'd rather just keep them at a distance and avoid the pain."

Marcus rubbed the knuckles on one of his fingers, trying to ease the tingling pains and aches of old age. "Sure, everybody dies alone," he agreed. "But if you mean something to someone, if you helped someone, or loved someone, if even a single person remembers you, then maybe…you never really die at all."

Shepard started to laugh out of confusion. "What does that even mean, old man? My parents are dead, and they aren't coming back."

The ever-rebellious youth. Always trying to question wisdom. "Your parents, do you love them?"

"Of course, what the hell are you talking-"

"When you came here, you asked me a question. You asked me to tell you who they were, what they were like."

"Yes, and this has-" Shepard met Marcus' cold, hard gaze, one he knew well. He stopped talking.

Marcus nodded his head in appreciation of the commander shutting up. "I knew them…knew them well. So when they died, their memory, who they were as people, lives on with me. And now, it lives on with you. That is what's called love."

Shepard scoffed at Marcus' conclusion; he even felt a little bit offended at someone doubting his commitment to his parents. "I do love them! That's why I dedicated my life to finding the people responsible and killing them! For my parents, for what was done to them!"

"Your parents would not have wanted you to do this, to live for revenge and death. They would want you to live a happy life, to live for the happiness of others." You poor boy. " They would not have wanted this for you, never in a million years," he repeated.

"Then they shouldn't have left me!" Shepard roared in anger. But a second later, the full implications of what he had just said hit him. He couldn't believe he'd just said that, and his rage evaporated only to be replaced by shame.

"Then, you never loved them. You just used them to justify your revenge as you hunted people down."

John stayed quiet, too afraid to respond and hear what else came out of his mouth. His eyes started to water, and he put his hands over his face as if he were trying to hide himself.

Author's note: Yay, I can finally begin to turn him around now! I loved writing this chapter, and I hope you enjoyed reading it. I put a small hint in this chapter. Let me know if you figured it out, cause I am too evil to tell you it on my own. Also, do you want this story continued in third person, or do you want me to try first person?

The reviews really keep me going, too! Let me know how I'm doing or if u have any suggestions