Shepard was actually physically shaking with rage. It was bad enough that she dreamed about the Mindoiran woods more often than she had since the first few years after the event. It was bad enough to dream about Harbinger every so often and usually in a way that made her sick to her stomach. It was worse to hear this clearly Indoctrinated woman ranting about how the Sack of Mindoir and the Reaper War were both her fault.

This was personal rage and not something she was used to. So if she harbored any doubts about whether Harbinger really had hauled its rusty bucket ass to Mindoir to recruit people from that world to try to kill her…

…it meant the war was going exceedingly well.

Shepard fought down the rage at the accusations, the fear that someone among the un-Indoctrinated patrons would try to be clever and follow the same track of appeasement these poor tools were spouting.

"Fine, you want me?" Shepard asked, checking her shields and slipping her pistol from its holster. She cued her omnitool, manufacturing half a dozen tech mines. There was nothing for it.

"We want justice!" the would-be assassin's tone was a howl for blood, as if she was as terrified as compelled. It might help her cause, Shepard decided indicating that this claptrap was Indoctrination and not a real belief. "We want to restore the galaxy and that begins with killing you!"

Shepard closed her eyes. Suddenly, she was reminded of Thane the first time she met him, asking pardon for the life he had taken in spite of having taken it in cold blood. She shook herself. This was no time to get distracted—she could still hear Joker's labored breathing when the sounds lulled, which meant he was either too damn stubborn to leave or, which was more likely, he was too injured to do so.

But it also meant that EDI and those of the ground crew who could get here quickly would be on their way.

She was out of time, however. Stalling any longer left her certain that this pack of drones would go from simple 'assassins' to a real death squad and clear out the restaurant. She took a deep breath and lurched to her feet, throwing the tech mines with her off hand. Weapons fizzled as her pistol barked out.

Patrons scrambled to get away from the gunfire; her shields fizzled and popped as she sprinted forward, taking cover behind the bar, which was much sturdier than the table, which suddenly looked like Emmental*.

It was clear that Harbinger's pawns hadn't expected such a concerted response for one woman. "Fine! You want to play that way? We'll play that way!"

Shepard knew what that meant. She jumped up again, plugging the first merc she could see as she strafed to one side. She was down to six.

"Put. It. Down." The voice belonged to EDI, pistol in one hand, sword in the other. Every inch of her flexible features had been twisted into lines of anger. And, to punctuate her statement, she gave the sword a twirl.

Action exploded as one of the assassins turned away from the civilian he'd been planning to shoot (at the second leader's indication, no doubt) and leveled his pistol at Shepard, who danced back. His aim was so abysmal—

In the space between seconds, Shepard realized that this high-tech low-skill drone had discovered a new way to try to kill her and was actually trying that new way to try to kill her.

As EDI made short work of the first four assassins, the one with a bead on Shepard kept pumping rounds frantically into the plastiglass.

The plastiglass seemed to explode beneath Shepard's feet cracked, splintered, then gave out. She fell, with gallons of water and multitudinous flopping fish—and a shriek that clawed its way along her vocal cords.

She caught herself on a sign, stuck to it like a spider. Her shoulders yelped protest, but they remained in their sockets, and her fingers retained their ability to grip. She got one foot under her, then the other, and stuck the pistol into the waistband of her trousers. She'd need both hands.

"Shepard, are you alright?" EDI demanded.

As soon as Shepard tried to climb the sign it gave out. She wasn't sure if she stepped wrong, or if a handhold had failed. All she knew was that she was sliding down the sign breaking it as she went. The sharp shards cut into her arms and chest, leaving a trail of blood as she went.

Suddenly, there was no sign at all: for a heart-stopping moment she was out in thin air…then she landed on another surface, rolling like a barrel down a hill. She wasn't sure what gave out, all she knew was that it was a panel and that she managed to grab onto it. Her shoulders screamed again as her weight jerked to a stop. Her head reeled, and she found herself unable to guess exactly how far she'd fallen.

It felt like forever.

The panel gave way.

She didn't even move, and the thing stupid thing gave way.

-J-

Every inch of her sopping, scraped, bleeding body hurt. She tried to push herself onto her elbows but failed, so she rolled onto her back. She touched her stomach, drew back a bloody hand. She sat up, her head spinning horribly. Most of the gashes incurred by that shattered sign weren't deep, but they bled freely—partly because she was wet—and hurt more than they should.

Or maybe that was evidence of bruising…

She grunted as she got onto hands and knees, then tried to get onto her feet. One wrist screamed pain, clearly something was broken or crushed. Shepard took a deep breath as she tried to push back the pain…

It would be so much easier to just go…too sleep…

Sleep. The panacea for the ill and injured.

-J-

*Emmental (or Emmentaler) is the proper name for Swiss Cheese.