It was the first time in a long time Anderson had had cause to smile. But seeing Shepard, and particularly the stunned look on her face that he'd come to collect her team personally, was enough to put a big smile on the weather-beaten features. "Need a lift?"
"Anderson!" Shepard grinned back. She boldly walked up to him and held out a hand, surprising him with a one-armed marine-hug-handshake. "You've got great timing."
"And great aim!" Vega grinned. "You see that Banshee? Just—punt!"
Anderson nodded approval. There was an indescribable difference between the James Vega he'd scraped off an Omega street with a spatula, and the fighting man Shepard had with her now. It was a whole world of difference; the whole world of difference he'd hoped she'd be able to create. That was the kind of soldier who was going to rebuild the N-program once this was all over. It was a good foundation. "You're a sight for sore eyes. No casualties?"
"No, we're all here," Shepard answered. "Now what?"
"Now, we head back to headquarters and have a decent talk," Anderson said, sobering. "This is Maj. Coats, he's my number two." He knew Shepard would understand: Coats was his number two because Forbes was dead.
Shepard evidenced her grief at the loss of her protégé only by a tightening of her jaw, an increase in the tension around her eyes. But she was a soldier; she knew there would be time for grief later. Right now, survival and objectives were what mattered. It wouldn't help Forbes or honor his memory to put that memory above the here and now.
"There's only so much that can be safely discussed over radios; we're sure the Reapers hear everything not on the QEC, and ours got blown out about a week before we got here." He heaved a heavy sigh. "That's why everything's been in broad strokes."
"I wondered about that. EDI thinks she can keep her transmissions encrypted, for a while, anyway. So let's build a plan, then we'll share with the class."
Most of the forces would be spacecraft, but there would be those destined for the ground. Anderson didn't really know who, or how many, another reason he needed a good long talk with Shepard.
He wondered if soldiers relying on carrier pigeons ever felt the way he did: that communication was too slow, that it only came in fits and starts, and there was too much waiting between messages.
"Shepard," the synthetic Anderson had noticed in his first look at Shepard's team interjected demurely. "Admiral Hackett is broadcasting. Would you like me to play it?"
Shepard looked to Anderson, who nodded. "Please," she said.
"—from all quarters of the galaxy," Hackett's gravelly voice cut in mid-sentence. Discreetly, Shepard checked the chrono on her omnitool, then exhaled heavily. "But never before had we faced an enemy such as this. The Reapers will show us no mercy. We must give them no quarter. They will terrorize our populations. We must stand fast in the face of that terror. They will advance until our last city falls, but we will not fall. We will prevail. Each of us will be defined by our actions in the coming battle. Stand fast. Stand strong. Stand together. Hackett out."
"Hackett was always good with the motivational speech," Anderson observed lightly.
"His timing is spectacular," Shepard answered. Now that she was past being glad to see him, Anderson saw the toll of the war written on her face. Well, it was almost over. "Hopefully, the Reapers—the big ones, anyway—will focus on the galaxy shoving itself down their throats, and let the little ones fend for themselves."
"Something I've always liked about you. You're such an optimist," Anderson chuckled wearily.
"Dig 'til you hit daylight," Shepard answered. "What about you? Looks like it's been brutal."
Nice way to change the subject. "It's been touch and go since day one," Anderson answered with a long exhale. Some days he found himself staring at something—rations, his coffee, or just lying in his bunk—and wondering how he was still here, marveling at the fact. "Fortunately or unfortunately, the Reapers are more interested in population centers—makes me think they picked London as a battleground long ago. Not much left here except Resistance. I put out an order when we got word about the Citadel: if you can get to London, get here."
"You're not worried about Indoctrinated filtering in?" Garrus asked, frowning.
"Of course we are, but we need the able bodies. Outsiders are kept in groups, and discreetly kept away from headquarters. Our excuse is that we've only got so much space," Anderson said. "Fortunately, everyone's worried about Indoctrinated infiltrators, so if anyone realized why we're being so cautious, they're giving us a break because they feel the same way."
"Shit," Vega mumbled, sounding unsure whether to be appalled or not.
"Anyway, as long as we stayed away from major population centers it became easier to avoid direct contact," Anderson concluded.
"Any idea why the Reapers wanted London?"
"I dunno. It's an island smaller than Australia. Maybe defensibility? Hell, maybe they just didn't like the scenery and thought they could do better." He shrugged. Who knew how those synthetic hulks thought? Anyone who did know wasn't in a position to believed, so theories were all anyone really had.
"Any word on my missing shuttle pilot?" Shepard asked into the silence.
"Not yet, but I let the teams filtering back—and the scouts I've got heading out—know to keep an eye out for him."
Shepard nodded her thanks. He could see she would rather dwell on her concerns, but like a good N7, she put them aside in favor of what the mission required. "Where are we going?"
Anderson gave her a half grin. "The Underground. Best way to keep the Reapers from counting how many times we take a piss."
Shepard grinned back. "No one needs that kind of pressure."