It was important to Shepard to have plenty to do. She didn't 'do nothing' well, and anyone who knew her at least suspected as much.
It was why she reached out to Palmer, Campbell, Westmoreland, and Traynor, arranging to meet each of them individually for lunch.
When she transferred to the original Normandy, all of the crew had been specialists, experts in their fields, cherry-picked for the post to ensure that the prototypical vessel worked to full capacity and, should anything go wrong, people on-site would be able to handle any problems, difficulties, or catastrophes that arose.
The SR-2 had been much the same: Cerberus staffed it with experts, people who knew their way around a ship and who wouldn't balk at somewhat unconventional tactics or orders that might not make sense.
The crews he had now weren't necessarily experts. They were more in line with refugees. Granted, they'd adapted to their new situation admirably, everyone finding a niche that suited his or her skillsets, which resulted in the well-oiled machine running of the ship that Shepard was accustomed to.
It provided Shepard an opportunity she hadn't had in years, outside of the ground team. She'd been a burgeoning talent scout while serving on the El Alamein. She hadn't needed to scout talent on the Normandy; she'd only needed to help hone and refine the talent already there.
So she settled particularly on Palmer, Campbell and Westmoreland, making them her special project.
Last time we got together, I did a lot of the talking. Now, it's your turn.
Stated three separate times to three separate people, the looks on their faces were almost the same: surprise, a sense of being startled, each wondering what she had to say that might be of interest by comparison.
In the wake of the surprise, Shepard paved the way, asking leading questions to draw out their original motivations for joining the military, their expectations of what service would be like, their hopes for the future—whether in the military or out of it—where they felt their talents lay. It was a slow process, like constructing a house of cards, requiring care and a meticulous attention to detail.
Unsurprisingly, Palmer and Campbell both expected to do a four-year hitch and get out—at least, they had before the Reapers came. Westmoreland hadn't been sure whether she wanted to make the military her career…but with the implication that if she got out, she wasn't sure what she'd do, either, so it was better to stay in until she figured it out.
However, their stints became exponentially more interesting with the advent of the Reaper War. While there was a lot to be afraid of, the fear seemed somehow buffered. They hadn't seen any of the really heavy stuff as yet—that was the ground team's business—just been on the fringes of it, everything buffered by degrees of separation and distance. But it was, at the very least, as exciting as the commercials!
Shepard had to chuckle the first time she heard this. Well, she couldn't argue, there. The Normandy's missions did seem to be the sort of thing recruiting would love to use, an adventurous montage suitably edited to fit some particularly inspiring musical track.
She got the distinct impression that Campbell and Westmoreland both had a bit of an itch to do ground team-type things, while Palmer was perfectly content to remain in her supporting capacity.
It doesn't seem like much, guarding a door every day, Westmoreland had sighed. I know it's important—Joker told us about the Collector invasion—but still. It'd be nice to do a little more, like on Rannoch.
Shepard quickly pointed out that, once the war was over and people could start digging out of the rubble, the crew's function would shift from 'crew, shipside' to 'relief work, planetside'—whatever planet they happened to be nearest.
She had to be the one who believed the war would be over, who believed that victory as possible, even likely. If she didn't, how could anyone else?
Shepard would never admit to anyone, not even to Alenko, that she couldn't really see past the end of the war. Everything seemed to come to a screaming blank halt with 'and then we killed all the Reapers.' The galaxy was putting up a good fight, but she wasn't sure how long it could last.
She wanted to blame this increased bleakness of view on simply being off the line, out of her element…but part of her wasn't sure. Maybe this was part of what Dr. Chakwas was concerned about.
But she hadn't discussed it with Dr. Chakwas, either. Whatever Dr. Chakwas might say, Dr. Chakwas needed her to be the strong one, just like everyone else did. The one who believed.
The word brought gooseflesh to her arms. It was what Hackett told her: she was an effective war asset because she could make people believe. And because they believed, they could do, even against insane odds or in ridiculous scenarios.
Are you okay, Captain? Campbell asked when Shepard's thoughts finally clouded her brow.
Just not used to being off the line, she answered with an easy smile she didn't feel. Since it's come up, how are you holding up?
It was good to hear words of confidence, bright rosy outlooks, the certainty that a victorious outcome was not in question. The only question in Campbell's mind (Palmer's and Westmoreland's too, when she asked them) was a matter of time: when would victory be achieved?
Shepard was glad they had that kind of faith; it meant they had time before it eroded. She believed in victory because she couldn't afford not to; she simply refused to countenance failure, defeat, as if by denying them consideration she could prevent them from becoming a reality. But unlike the servicemen, she was already wondering what that victory would cost, and who would be responsible for paying it.
It left her cold, fearful for those she loved.
