Chapter 18: Morning Talks

The sun was shining when we stepped out from the tunnels of Utukku.

I quietly waited as the rest of the squad joined me. Tears trickled down the faces of several of them. I could feel them running down mine. In the distance, I saw a shuttle hovering over the ground, ready for a quick extraction and lift-off. I told Cortez to come down and pick us up.

We slowly walked towards the shuttle, weapons half-remembered in our hands, heads bowed. With a hiss of pressurized air, the hatch opened and we slowly climbed onboard. I turned around to take one last look at this hellhole. This abattoir where so many krogan—and rachni—had lost their lives. My eyes swept over the harsh, empty wasteland…

…

…and settled on a krogan slowly staggering his way out of the tunnel. His hardsuit was caked with gore and covered with blood—both his and the blood of all the monsters he'd slain. His eyes were slightly glazed. He took one step, then another. Then he collapsed.

I sprinted towards him, hoping against hope that I was wrong. But I wasn't: Grunt was dead. At least he had seen the sun one last time.

We solemnly rinsed and scrubbed the blood and gore off his body before taking him back to the Normandy. It seemed right that the funeral service should be held here, where he first woke up and was 'born.'

Later that night, I was making my rounds. It was so eerie. Quiet. And empty. Emptier than it should, even during this shift. A horrible, sickening feeling began gnawing away at my stomach. I entered the mess hall and looked around.

It was a bloodbath. Bodies were everywhere. Some were still in one piece, staring blankly into the distance. Others were… dismembered. Limbs strewn around like deadwood. Heads stacked in a row like bowling balls. The floor was swimming in blood.

And in the midst of this slaughter was Grunt. Jagged lines ran across his pale skin, glowing with an unnatural blue colour that was matched by the blaze in his eyes. Blood covered the lower half of his face like a mask.

As I watched, he reached over, ripped an arm off one of my former crewmates and took an enthusiastic bite. Fresh blood spurted out from between his teeth, streaming over his chin and down his neck. "Shepard!" he greeted me.

"Grunt?" I gasped. "Is that… what have you done?"

"I was hungry," he shrugged. "You got any more of these guys lying around?"

I was halfway to the shower before I realized I had woken up. From yet another nightmare.

Why was this happening? Why did my overactive imagination insist on concocting these scenarios of things that didn't happen? That wouldn't happen. That weren't real. Why? It wasn't like Grunt was truly dead. He was alive. Seriously injured and still recovering, but alive nonetheless. And while he might have had a prodigious appetite, he had never once displayed any sign of cannibalism. Plus, I hadn't watched a zombie flick or anything like that in ages. So why did I keep creating and subjecting myself to these nightmares?

Groaning in frustration, I turned on my computer. If I couldn't sleep, maybe I could at least get caught up with my e-mail. There was the usual amount of spam. A few news articles and intel reports on the state of affairs in the galaxy. Spoiler alert: they were all bad.

And then I saw a message from Grunt. I opened it. Read it. Then rubbed my eyes and read it again:

THas a goood fight ShUpurd. You cant hear em but I;ve goht ARLlakh co,rnpany chantin SHEPAR SHEPAR your name you know. as we down some ryNCOL to heal my woundS^&!( ryCNol!

Whear are yOu?

SHEPERD S HEPAURD SHEPARUD!

Um. Huh. I guess he was getting better. Though I suddenly found myself wondering who he was with, whether they were a bad influence, how late he was staying up and hoping he wouldn't do anything stupid that he'd later regret.

In other words, I wound up staying up for the rest of the night, worrying myself sick. (1)

The first thing I noticed upon arriving at the Citadel was that there was a lot more security. On a whim, I asked Avina, the Citadel's friendly neighbourhood VI, about it. "Due to recent events, official identification and weapons permits may be requested by C-Sec personnel for routine verification," she replied. I guess 'recent events' sounded better than 'a galaxy-wide invasion by the Reapers that Shepard warned us about but we didn't want to believe.' Not to mention less cumbersome.

They'd also added screening fields, similar to the one outside the War Room, to speed up processing at the security stations located in each docking area. "Citadel security screening technology uses highly advanced biometric authentication systems developed by the Sirta Foundation," Avina added.

Huh. As I recalled, the Sirta Foundation, after making a fortune curing various human genetic diseases and creating medi-gel, was this close to declaring bankruptcy. Things had gone downhill ever since their facility on Chohe was attacked by biotic fanatics three years ago. Guess things had turned around. Especially with all that free advertising.

"Please note that any attempt to circumvent Citadel security measures will result in immediate incarceration."

Why did they keep tempting me like that?

I guess the biometric scans worked, though, because I had no problem breezing through. Of course, any biometric scan would've identified me as a Systems Alliance commander and a Council Spectre, so I guess that would also have something to do with it. In any event, it seemed that the reality of the situation was finally starting to hit home. As much as TPTB might want to stick their heads in the sand and do nothing—well, half of them, anyway—they couldn't deny that things were not going well. The sheer influx of refugees had a way of bursting such bubbles. Apparently, they had repurposed one of the docking bays—E24, to be precise—to hold them all.

Any thoughts of further interrogating Avina and getting more polite responses were sidelined when I spotted a familiar face leaning against the rails. I hurried over to join him. "You finally made it off the Normandy," I said.

Cortez took a while to reply. "Glad I did," he finally said. "Even with the chaos of all the refugees, seeing so many ships in flight is comforting. Gets me thinking."

"About?"

"Well, for starter—hey, a turian frigate."

I followed his gaze. "You mean that one?" I asked, pointing with a finger.

"No, that one," he corrected me. "I think that's the PFS Havincaw."

"If you say so," I said. "Wonder what it's doing at the Citadel?"

"Looking for dry dock, I bet," he replied with a confidence that could only come from experience. "She's seen battle. Look at the waver in her drive core emissions. Alone, limping, looking for a haven. Maybe it would've been better to just go down fighting, like their families back home."

Uh oh. This was not the thinking I had in mind when I'd suggested he take some R&R. "Just to be clear, are you talking about the turians or yourself?"

"I should've been there," Cortez said bleakly. "With Robert."

"I'm glad you weren't. You'd be dead and we'd never have met."

"Yeah—that's one good thing from all this," he admitted. "I'm glad to serve with you, Shepard."

"Likewise," I returned. "You know, it's one thing to go down fighting. It's another to live to fight another day. Being alive right now, you can make a real difference. The lives of future generations rest on those turians' shoulders. On our shoulders. Nobody is giving up. Not those turians. Not me. Not you."

Cortez straightened up. Sounded like somehow I'd stumbled across what he needed to hear. Hell, maybe I needed to hear it too. "If anyone can pull this all together, it's you. And I'm with you."

"Good to hear—hey." Now it was my turn to get distracted. "Is that an Alliance cruiser? What's it doing here? I thought all the fleets were stationed elsewhere."

"That's the SSV London," Cortez identified. "She was decommissioned years ago. Look, no guns."

Squinting, I realized he was right.

"Refugees must have salvaged her from a shipyard," he guessed. "Geneva-class cruisers always had eezo cores like granite."

"People find a way to survive," I said, hoping Cortez would get the hint.

He did. "Do whatever it takes to see and fight another day." He dropped his head and sighed heavily. "I've got to let go. For real this time." He took a deep breath. "The refugees here have put up a memorial wall. They leave mementoes of lost loved ones. I was thinking maybe…"

I waited, but Cortez just trailed off. "What's stopping you?"

"Nothing. I mean… let me think about it."

"All right," I said. "We'll be here for the rest of the day. You don't have to come to a decision right away. Why don't I let you look at the ships for a while longer?"

"Thanks," Cortez smiled. "For listening and suggesting I come out here. That was a good idea, Commander. I needed this."

As I walked away, I couldn't help but overhear a conversation between a turian and an asari. Being the nosy person I am, I pretended to check my e-mail on my omni-tool as I listened in. "Okay, first deployment is somewhere near Palaven," the turian was saying. "Reports say not to depend on comms."

"I'll leave vid messages, then," the asari shrugged. "And you can do the same.

The turian hesitated. "Well… they said that due to concerns about signal congestion, we're supposed to avoid sending messages at all. They're trying to keep war data coming through, so every data packet counts."

"So how am I supposed to talk with you, then? You're just going to be silent behind enemy lines until the war is over?"

"No, they've got us on rotation," the turian reassured her. "We're mostly in fortified holding zones until strike teams clear an area. Then we come in and set up medical bunkers and supply depots, and then the main fleet comes in to occupy."

Sounded about right. Figured that the Hierarchy and the Alliance would do things the same way.

The asari reached up and touched his face fondly. "I'm not wearing commando leather, honey. What does that mean?"

"It means we'll be perfectly safe. They don't put engineers on the front lines."

"But you won't be able to talk to us," she fretted.

"Listen, honey… please," he said quietly. "This is how it has to be. Everyone's going through this.

Sounded like the asari was a civvie and she was having trouble dealing with her military boyfriend/husband/significant other going off to war. Her and millions of other couples, no doubt. "I know," she sighed. "And I'm sure you'll be fine. It's just so damn inconvenient. It's like… like we're pre-spaceflight all of a sudden."

"Pretty much. You should see what they've got us using for heavy munitions. It's all mass-produced Elkoss Combine crap."

Ah. The joys of using standardized basic supplies that were bought through bulk contracts. My reminiscing came to a halt when I saw the look on the asari's face. "Wait, munitions? Explosive munitions? I thought you weren't going to be on the front lines."

Oops.

"Not in hot-combat zones, no, of course not. But sometimes they need us to breach enemy fortifications."

"Goddess," she breathed in growing horror, "you said you were just going to be building emergency outposts."

The turian bowed his head. Clearly he'd been dancing around the cold, hard truth and had just been caught with his pants down. "I'm sorry, honey. I didn't want you to worry. Chances are, I'll never even need to put on armour."

"I know," she sighed. "And I'm sorry. I didn't mean to freak out. Guess that's what you get for marrying a civilian."

"Still the best choice I ever made," he insisted, leaning over and giving her a kiss. "Now, are you and the girls going to be okay? Combat pay isn't as much as I make at the dig site."

Dig site? Don't tell me: another asari archaeologist. What are the odds? (2) "We'll be fine," she said firmly. "The last thing I want you to worry about is paying the bills."

"Just don't go too crazy with new dance classes, okay?"

"I was going to drop those. I can't get the girls there on time and… I was probably going to pick up an extra shift at work."

"Oh." The turian winced. "Well, we'll make it up to the girls when I get back. Dance classes, biotic gymnastics, whatever they want." He paused for a moment. "Look, they're going to call for boarding pretty soon, so I gotta be quick. I've heard ads for a place called Sanctuary. It's supposed to be a safe haven from the war. I want you and the girls to go."

"What?"

"I just… I don't want to worry about you, okay?"

"Okay," she nodded. "I'll see if I can get a loan."

"I'll send a message for Niri's birthday," he promised.

"Wait," she frowned. "I thought you were supposed to avoid sending messages."

The turian grinned sheepishly. "It's a stupid rule, anyway."

As the course of the conversation quickly turned towards murmuring sweet nothings and a lot of kissing, I figured it was time to take my leave. I was curious to see where all the civvies were holed up.

Docking Bay E24 used to be a popular spot for cargo ships and freighters bringing various goodies for the Alliance embassy. Now it was a temporary housing area for all the civvies and refugees who'd come to the Citadel for safety.

Of course, Avina had a more politically acceptable way of phrasing it: "This level has been repurposed to accommodate the recent influx of civilians on the Citadel. It was formerly a high-security docking area reserved for Alliance embassy deliveries. However, Councillor Udina recently put forth a Council motion that it be converted to accommodate civilian emergency housing."

Really? Huh. While Udina and I were hardly the best of buddies, I couldn't help but be impressed. There was definitely a need for this housing. "How did the Council react?"

"The motion passed with unanimous approval. Since then, all major races have contributed to the funding required to maintain this area."

That would explain a lot: it looked very spartan and utilitarian, with metal and concrete everywhere, bereft of any paint or colour. In fact, the only thing that wasn't a boring monotone grey were the clothes all the civvies were wearing and the upholstering of the undoubtedly hard seats. But at least it looked clean and welcoming. To be honest, I was surprised it wasn't more crowded. I later found out the answer: Docking Bays E26 and E28, along with three cargo holds, had also been repurposed to handle the influx of refugees.

"Please ensure that you observe proper security protocols at all times while in this area."

"How many people are stranded here?" I asked.

"Any personal information pertaining to residents of these facilities cannot be revealed without prior authorization. However, be assured that the facilities allocated by Citadel Council are more than adequate for current requirements."

"'Adequate'?" I quoted.

"Absolutely," Avina beamed—nice programming touch there. "Furthermore, relocation requests are being given top priority. The Citadel is dedicated to ensuring optimal solutions for all."

"You mentioned security protocols earlier," I said. "Could you elaborate?"

"Due to the high influx of civilians and new streamlined processing measures, travel from this area is carefully monitored. These are merely precautionary measures to ensure the safety of permanent Citadel residents."

Really? Sounded more like a way to keep refugees locked up in one place, away from the fancy pants who lived here. I was about to ask Avina whether she'd heard about a bar called Purgatory when someone cried out: "You can't turn people away!" Turning away from Avina, I walked in the general direction of the argument. It didn't take long before I found the source of the kerfuffle. "Yes, we can," a frazzled dock officer said to an agitated civvie. "Tell your friends to move their ship out of the docking bay."

"Wait! Please, my family's on board," the civvie begged. "Just let them land. I'll pay!"

"This isn't about money. The Wards are already at capacity for refugees. There's just no room."

"You let asari in here earlier!" the refugee pointed out angrily.

"That's back when we had space!" the officer replied, quickly sidestepping the race card that had obviously been played.

"Where is my family supposed to go?"

"I don't know, all right? But they can't land here."

"Sure you can't squeeze in a few more people, Officer?" I asked.

"And who the heck are—oh. Commander Shepard. If that's what you think. I'll, uh, I'll find them some room."

The refugee couldn't believe it. "So my family can dock?"

"Commander Shepard says your family's cleared," the officer sighed. "Just tell them to hurry." She gave me a mildly irritated look. I couldn't blame her. She was undoubtedly under a lot of pressure, facing conflicting demands in this unprecedented situation. And here I was, waltzing in and forcing her to allow more refugees aboard the Citadel because she couldn't say no to a Spectre. I mean, there seemed to be enough room, but what did I know? What if I was wrong? What if I'd just pushed the population past the tipping point? (3) And even if the Citadel could hold more people, what if word got around? Would everyone expect such treatment?

I didn't know the answers to any of those questions. All I knew was that there was a guy in need, and I was in a position to help. Hopefully, my good intentions wouldn't screw things over royally.

Speaking of good intentions: I did have a reason for wandering over here besides indulging my rampant curiosity.

"Maintain, my brothers and sisters—we have faced adversity, and overcome. This is but a test!"

No, I hadn't found religion. Much less a batarian one.

"Remember the pillars of strength that hold our people high. Show the galaxy our resolve! I know that your faith is weak. Our government has fallen. Our home has been taken from us. But if you hold the pillars of strength in your hearts..."

I had, however, found some of those pillars that the batarian preacher was talking about. Or some artifacts that, according to some intel that Orion had provided, might be those pillars.

"Please... just don't give up."

It was easy to remember that humans weren't the only ones who had lost so much. At least we still had other worlds and colonies out there, even if most of them had been wiped out or evacuated. The batarians, on the other hand, really had lost everything. From what I'd read, it looked like the entire batarian race had been turned into refugees. In these difficult times, when so many tangible things had been lost, maybe what they needed was something intangible. I didn't know anything about batarian religion, but if they could hold onto their faith, maybe they could muster the strength to carry on.

Of course, they could be so desperate that some fringe wackos could twist their beliefs and turn them into crazed zealots. I guess I'd have to take a leap of faith and hope for the best. Honestly, after how I couldn't stop the Bahak system from getting wiped off the galactic map or stop the Reapers from smashing the Hegemony to pieces, a leap of faith was the least I could do. "Excuse me. I think I recovered your pillars of strength from the Kite's Nest. They're yours, waiting in Bay D24."

All four of the preacher's eyes widened. "Thank you, human," he said gratefully. "Right now, my people need any reminder of their faith they can get. We will hold the pillars close to our hearts... and persevere."

"That's all I ask," I replied.

The preacher wouldn't let me go without several more thank yous, so it took a couple minutes before I could leave. I'd wandered into a cargo bay—I later found out its official designation was Cargo Hold A—when I saw a familiar face. "Let's check on those medi-gel supplies," Garrus said.

"Yes, sir," another turian soldier nodded.

"And have we heard anything from the hospital?" Garrus asked.

The soldier shook his head. "The surgeons there are all busy."

"Keep on it," Garrus ordered. "Some of those wounded don't have much time."

"We just got a report that another ship made it off Palaven," a second turian soldier said.

"How many on board?"

The soldier paused tellingly. "Thirty or forty survivors," he admitted.

"That's all?" Garrus asked in disbelief.

"They said the fighting's getting worse."

"Well, let's find some room for them," Garrus said. "This is going to be home for them for a while. Have either of you heard about the food we were promised?"

"It's been allocated to the Presidium," the first soldier replied.

"Then contact Commander Bailey over at C-Sec. Tell him Garrus Vakarian would consider it a personal favour if he could 'reallocate' the shipment so these people don't starve."

"And if that doesn't work, tell him that Commander Shepard would also appreciate that reallocation," I piped up.

The two turian soldiers saluted both of us before leaving. "Thanks, Shepard," Garrus said quietly. "After everything that's happened in the last hour..."

"What's going on?"

"Victus and I convinced the Council to accept our wounded," he said. "Nowhere else to go."

"How bad is it?" I asked.

"More dead than injured," he said soberly. "Eighty-five percent killed in action. We'll need a morgue soon. Not a lot of flesh wounds when you're fighting Reapers."

"Casualties are that high?" I winced.

"Our front-line units are being wiped out whole platoons at a time," he replied. "A single Reaper can destroy nine or ten of them in one attack.

"Damn it." I shook my head in dismay. "That's not war. That's slaughter."

"They're called Reapers for a reason," Garrus said grimly, "and my people are finding out why."

"Do what you can for them," I said.

"Whatever that might be," he sighed. "A few of them might get back on their feet, but the rest..." he trailed off. "Sympathy is about all we can offer."

I mentally debated whether or not to ask before taking the plunge: "Any sign of your family?"

"Not yet, but I keep hoping. You?"

"Same."

"How are you doing?" he asked. "I'm starting to see some wear and tear."

I rubbed a hand over my face. "I won't lie—it's been rough. Sometimes it seems like... like I'm in over my head."

"Well, don't forget to come up for air," he told me. "There's a lot more war to go."

"You don't say."

"C'mere. There's something that you might want to see."

Curious, I followed Garrus to a nearby kiosk, if you could call it that. Basically an empty crate with a light, a barrel and a VI outside. A very familiar VI. "You are looking at VI model 1.7 AGB, Commander Shepard," it said. "Please see a store clerk to unlock a demo of this model."

The last time I saw a Shepard VI was when I was helping Thane out with his son. As I recalled, that VI was buggy as hell. I wondered if this one was any better. Seeing someone who looked like a clerk, I approached her. "You have a copy of a Shepard VI?"

"Huh? Oh yeah, the one based on that war hero."

Yes. The war hero standing right in front of her. I looked at Garrus in disbelief. He shook his head.

"We locked it after some kid spilled soda over the hardware," the clerk told me. "I'll unlock it, but we've only got the demo version working right now."

"That's fine," I reassured her.

She unlocked the demo version with her omni-tool and I stepped towards the ersatz version of yours truly. "Hi," I said eloquently.

"Good to meet you!" the VI chirped. "I'm Commander Shepard. Alliance Navy. Extranet says you're Alliance military."

"Well, yes—"

"Take care of yourself out there, officer. There's nothing this galaxy can't beat if we all work together."

Um...

"Except the Reapers. Ever see the size of one of those things?"

Now I wondered if there was another reason why the kid spilled the soda.

"My personality matrix can predict what the real Commander Shepard would say with seven percent accuracy."

Again, I looked at Garrus in disbelief. Again, he shook his head.

"I come pre-installed with a flight sim of the SSV Normandy."

Yeah?

"Got any pets? You look like a varren person."

This is where the seven percent accuracy would come in. Not that I had anything against varren, but I wasn't sure if I'd be going out of my way to adopt one as a pet any time soon.

"Always nice to see you."

Right. Guess that was it. I turned around to leave...

"Hey again."

"Hi?" I tried.

"Anyone ever tell you you're one hell of a looker, soldier?"

"Did I just flirt with myself?" I asked Garrus.

"You narcissistic, self-absorbed bastard," he smirked.

"Shut up."

"Don't be a stranger," the VI said.

"Garrus, I need you to be honest with me," I said.

"Sure."

"I don't really sound like that, do I?"
...

"Well? Do I?"

Garrus refused to answer that. In fact, when I mentioned I wanted to drop by Huerta Memorial Hospital, he practically shoved me towards the elevator. Coward.

On the way, though, I spotted a pair of civvies chatting. A human and a batarian. That isn't something you see every day, unless they were mercs, so I stopped to listen in. "Excuse me. What was your name again?" the human asked.

"Uh… Dekharr."

"Christophe Vasser. Good to meet you. How long have you been here?"

"I don't know. I'm not in the—"

Vasser didn't wait for Dekharr to finish. "I don't know how long it was since I escaped Lyon. Do you know Lyon?"

"No."

"Lyon is on Earth. A beautiful city. You should visit. I was on my boat when… boom! The sky went black. Dust and ash. A giant metal wall rushed down. I fell into the river."

Dekharr stared at him. "Do you humans ever stop talking?"

"When I climbed out, I heard screaming," Vasser continued without missing a beat. Maybe he just needed to talk to someone—anyone—about his experiences. "The metal wall started to move, and I realized it was a leg! Only one of the Reapers' legs! Can I ask… where were you when the Reapers—"

"Would you shut up?" Dekharr exploded. "I don't want to hear it! You humans think you had it rough? You know what happened on Khar'shan?"

Probably the same thing that was happening on Earth. Probably worse.

"M-my apologies," Vasser stammered. "I thought, since your homeworld…"

What? Had been turned into a giant wasteland? Yeah, there was no good way to finish that sentence.

"Stop! Just… stop!"

There was a long pause.

"I wasn't on Khar'shan when the Reapers came," Dekharr admitted. "I was above it."

"A ship?" Vasser asked

"Weather satellite. We were getting weird readings. I'm… I was network admin, so I went up to check the hardware. I'm unscrewing a panel when my radio goes quiet, then I notice these red dots on Khar'shan. Thought I'd just… stared into the sun. Then I saw the smoke. Reaper ships. They were destroying my homeworld city by city. Just… tearing through them like they weren't even there."

"Bastards." Vasser had an uncertain look, but finally asked "What will you do now?"

"Look for my wife. She was visiting family on Omega."

"I hope you find her."

"Yeah. Thanks." Dekharr looked at Vasser. "So… what are you going to do?"

"Get drunk, sign up with the Alliance and ask them for the biggest gun I can carry," Vasser said firmly.

Dekharr chuckled. "Nail a few Reapers for me."

"Right between the eyes, my friend," Vasser promised.

It was kinda heartening to see that. Humans and batarians had never really gotten along. Politics, territorial squabbles, that sort of thing. But to see two of them talking, even bonding, over their shared experiences was something. It showed that our two races had some common ground, or could find some when the Reapers were running amok across our homeworlds and turning our people into refugees.

Who knows? Maybe some good could come out of this. (4)

Avina had another terminal at Huerta Memorial. When she wasn't happily spouted directions to various sites and attractions, she was cheerfully advertising its qualifications as a multi-species medical facility, from rooms that could be modified to 'exotic' environmental requirements to the educational courses made available to the experienced staff.

She also explained that the hospital worked with 'prestigious medical universities from around the galaxy, offering internships to residents and nurses.' That I knew firsthand: Ellie had spent many years applying for an internship at Huerta Memorial, even before she got accepted into medical school. You should've seen the look on her face when she finally got accepted. If it wasn't for my Alliance-standard genetic enhancements, I'm pretty sure she would've shattered my eardrums or cracked my ribs.

But enough about Avina. Time to get to business. Between Orion and Miranda's team—who still refused to be called Charlie's Angels, much to my eternal disappointment—I had a lot of goodies on hand and a fair idea of who could make use of it. One such person was busy dealing with a pencil-pusher over the comm. "Yes, I know your stock of modified medi-gel is low but… no, you don't understand, this isn't for… Listen! My name is Dr. Emily Ravin. I am a surgeon at Huerta Memorial on the Citadel! We have several non-human patients here at this time and we need… No! Regular medi-gel won't work. We need the modified version for better absorption rates! Don't you dare hang up on me! This is a medical emergency! We can't wait forever… hello? Hello? Damn it!"

"Excuse me," I said.

She whirled on me, an angry look on her face. "What?"

"My name is Commander Shepard. I couldn't help but overhear your dilemma. Some… acquaintances of mine found this medi-gel formula. It sounds like you could make good use of it."

I transferred the formula over to her omni-tool. "Where did you find this?" she asked after a few minutes of poring through the data. Then she shook her head. "Never mind, it doesn't matter. Yes, we can put this to good use. Thank you!"

Then she got on the comm again. This time, the conversation took an entirely different turn. "Hello? Dr. Ravin again… No, it's fine. We won't be needing your supplies after all." Her tone became sweeter and more syrupy with every word she spoke. "You see, we've found a better variant of medi-gel that allows for even higher absorption rates amongst aquatic species. What's that? You'd like a sample? Why, of course, we'll be happy to send you one—just as soon as we finish sending samples to every other pharmaceutical company in Citadel space."

Turnabout's a bitch, ain't it?

Leaving Dr. Ravin to rub it in that company rep's face, I started looking for a certain patient. He'd signed in under a false name, as it turned out. But even in a multi-species hospital as large as Huerta Memorial, there were only a few drell patients.

Thane was busy doing some martial arts exercises when I finally found him. "Commander Shepard," he greeted me. "When I heard Earth was under attack, I tried to call. In fact, I'd been trying to contact you ever since you turned yourself over to the Alliance. None of my messages got through."

"Well, one of them finally reached me," I smiled. "Good to see you staying in shape."

"Kepral's Syndrome kills slowly," he explained. "With enough care and a healthy lifestyle, it can be delayed for a few years. Of course, my allotted time has come and gone. Now I exercise because it pleases me. What are you doing here?"

"Well, like I said, I got your message. Besides, a friend's here. Kaidan. He got hurt protecting me."

"The human biotic in intensive care." Thane coughed for a moment. "I saw the marks of an implant," he explained when I gave him a querying look. "We have spoken. He seems an honourable sort, though he is… troubled."

Yeah. That's one way of putting it.

"Your enemies may try to finish him off here. I will look out for him," he promised.

I clapped him on the shoulder in gratitude. "I appreciate it, Thane."

"I am near the end of my life," he said simply. "It is a good time to be generous. My disease has put most of my other plans on hold."

"You know, I'm back on the Normandy and I'm on a really important mission," I told him. "I sure could use you."

Thane shook his head. "I would not be as I was before. I need daily medical attention."

"Dr. Chakwas is back as my CMO. I think she can handle it."

"Even so… if I know you, you will want to fight the Reapers somehow. You need the best at your side, and I am not at mine."

"No one's saying you have to wrestle down krogan and break their necks," I said, trying one last time. "I'm sure we could find you lighter work."

He smiled. "I am at peace with what I've done in my life, Shepard. There comes a time when one must rest from war and conflict. It is not your time, but it is mine."

Well, knowing my luck, 'my time' would come all too soon. "Fair enough," I conceded. "I thought you might say that, but I had to ask. Are you still in touch with Kolyat?"

"Yes," he smiled. "He visits regularly."

"And the real reason why you're staying put comes out," I declared. The small smile that crept over Thane's face confirmed that. "How is he?"

"Staying out of trouble. Still doing community service for Commander Bailey—he got promoted, if you didn't know."

"Good. That's… that's good." I had to force myself to ask the next question: "Do you know how much time you have left?"

"I've been to several doctors," Thane shrugged. "My favourite gave me three months to live… nine months ago."

Damn.

"It is freeing to find no requirements placed on me. No responsibilities. No fears. It is a good end to a life."

I'd say. "Are you in a lot of pain?" I asked quietly.

"At times," he admitted. "The oxygen transfer proteins in my blood don't form correctly. Your human equivalent would be hemoglobin, I believe. As a result, my blood is low in oxygen. No matter how much I breathe in, I get tingling, numbness… and that is the best of it. As for my brain, I cannot track the damage. I just experience dizziness from time to time."

"You wouldn't have guessed that from all the boxing you were just doing," I said.

"Perhaps you caught me on a good day," he offered.

"I wish the best for you, Thane."

"And I for you. Do not grieve for me. I have good doctors here. Perhaps we will keep up via the extranet now that you are free. Until we meet again, Shepard."

Even when faced with his own mortality, knowing that he could basically die any day now—hell, any second now—Thane still retained his calm. His poise. His dignity. (5) I hoped I could match that one day.

At least I could do better than one of the women I saw. She was having a big argument with one of the receptionists about the name of the hospital. You see, calling it a 'Memorial Hospital' implies that the guy it's named after is dead. But that's where things get iffy. You see, President Christopher Huerta, the big head honcho of the United North American States of Earth, had a stroke in 2184. He was legally dead for almost ninety minutes before his brain functions were transferred to a VI. In 2185, Speaker Lisa Ford launched a court battle arguing that Huerta was dead since the stroke, that his term in office since then was illegitimate and therefore—by UNAS rules regarding line of succession—power would transfer to the Vice President. Which, conveniently, meant that she would become acting Vice President. The Alliance agreed to hear the case of 'Ford vs. Huerta,' and ruled in a 5-4 decision that Huerta's entire term in office—before and after the stroke—was still legitimate. Needless to say, it was a controversial decision.

I gave my two cents, for whatever that was worth. As I was walking away, I spotted another familiar face. She wasn't exercising or boxing, though. "Hello again, Commander," Dr. Michel smiled. "Here to see our patient?"

"How is Kaidan doing?"

"Very well," she beamed. "With the neural redundancies of his L2 implants, his concussion is nearly undetectable now. I still want to keep him under observation, but he should be fit for duty soon."

"This war's left a lot of injured people homeless," I said. "How's Huerta Memorial handling the extra load?"

"All the hospitals are struggling," she replied. "We get more refugees every day. Throughout the Citadel, triaging and finding open beds is our biggest challenge."

"How about supplies?" I asked.

"Things are getting tight throughout the whole medical network. Citadel reserves run deep, but they can't hold up forever."

"I'll go see Kaidan now. Keep up the good work, Doctor," I told her.

"You too, Commander," she smiled.

Of course, I only got so far before being sidetracked. There was this asari scientist who was talking and, well, you know me. Gotta listen in on other peoples' conversations. "Yes, I'm trying to place a call to Grissom Academy," she was saying. "They have biotic amp interfaces I may be able to adapt for asari use.

She paused while the person on the other side said something. "No, it won't connect," she said. "It says the station's communications system is offline." Another pause. "Of course. If these interfaces make our commandoes better on the field, I'll hold for as long as you need."

"Excuse me," I piped up. "Sorry, but I overheard you talking. Grissom Academy is gone. But, while I was there evacuating the last of the staff and students, I found this." I pulled up the amp interface schematics that Miranda had found and sent them to her omni-tool."

"Let me see… yes. Yes! These are tailored to human physiology, obviously, but with a few alterations, they should work for the asari as well. This is exactly what I needed. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

The scientist quickly got on the comm again. "Tell Matriarch Aethyta that our huntresses should have the upgrades waiting for them on their next shore leave," she said. "A human just gave me biotic amp schematics from Grissom Academy. I'd have to make some changes and run the simulations, of course, but I don't think they'll take long to scale at all. The humans made some amazing breakthroughs."

Chalk one up for humans. (6)

The little successes and victories quickly faded, though, after my next encounter or two.

You'd think I'd be used to the horrors of war by now. I mean, I'd been in and out of all sorts of horrifying situations. Seen and fought husks and the like. Bore witness to once-peaceful vistas that were not ruined and scarred by gunfire. But Huerta Memorial showed me another kind of horror: the one faced by patients who'd survived a battlefield, but not without some scars.

Some were obvious, like the Alliance marine who'd mistakenly thought he was getting out of here. "Well, we need to prescribe you another round of antibiotics," the doctor said.

"For when I ship out?" the marine guessed.

The pause was all the answer I needed. "I have some bad news," she confessed. "Your squad applied the medi-gel correctly, but infection had already set in by the time they found you. I'm sorry. I'm afraid we have to remove your leg below the knee."

"What?" The marine couldn't believe it. "But… I don't understand. It doesn't even hurt."

"It would if we took you off the painkillers, Lieutenant."

Damn. For all the things medi-gel could do, for all the miracles it could seemingly perform, there were still some things it couldn't do. A fact that this poor guy was now finding out. "You can replace my leg, right?" he asked urgently.

"Yes," the doctor admitted, "but clone-tissue replacement takes months. You'll need a prosthetic."

The marine's face dropped. "Oh no."

"I highly recommend talking to our resident psychiatrist before the operation."

"Okay, I need surgery," the marine said, clearly trying to get a grip on things, "but when can I get back to the front."

"You're not."

"What?"

"You have extensive nerve damage," the doctor explained. "Once we remove the leg, we can't install a prosthetic for at least five weeks."

"I told my squad I'd fly back next week!" the marine said angrily.

The doctor was apologetic, but firm. "I'm sorry, but that's impossible."

"I'm not sitting out this war in a bed!" The marine tried to get up.

"Lieutenant, listen to me." Something in the tone of her voice made him stop. "If you go back with a missing limb, you'll just be a burden on your squadmates."

"I'd never drag down my team!" he protested.

"Then the greatest favour you can do them is to rest after your operation," she insisted.

"After you cut off my leg, you mean."

"May I recommend an hour with our psychiatrist?"

…

"I'll think about it," the marine finally bit out.

Other scars weren't so obvious. They were more subtle. Like someone refusing to bathe. An asari who had a weird quirk for only talking to other asari.

"Can I have a gun?"

"I'm sorry, no."

"Maybe I could be transferred to another hospital then? Someplace unsecured. I could have a gun, then. Right?"

Then there were things like that. The kind of thing that gets the back of my neck tingling.

"And no humans. Wherever you transfer me, it shouldn't have humans."

"The humans are our allies. You don't trust them?"

"No, it's not that. I… How are my eyes? Wh-wh-what colour are they right now?"

It wasn't that surprising to learn I'd stumbled across a shrink talking to a commando—or huntress, though asari use the terms interchangeably—suffering from PTSD. (7) Apparently the huntress had been part of a group deployed to the human colony of Tiptree to assist with evacuations. One night she'd been spending the night with a human family. After chatting with a teenage girl, she'd indulged herself by having a shower—the first one in almost a month. In the midst of the shower, another asari, Neaira, came in. Someone who she'd have liked to start dating were it not for a medical condition. Maybe Neaira was an Ardat-Yakshi. I dunno.

Turned out the Reapers got to Neaira. Reaperfied her. "She reaches out, her eyes go black, and she touches one of the farmers, and he just… dies," the huntress said. "They panic, and she rips them apart. Sometimes touching, sometimes opening them up with biotics. The humans are turning into… liquid. And I'm there in my towel with no gun. And husks start pouring through the door."

The huntress fled with the girl in tow. They'd hidden for two days waiting for help to arrive—but it never did because the evacuation team thought that area had been overrun. Finally, the huntress realized she would have to get to a radio or some other comm device. The only one she knew of was back at the farm.

When they got back, though, she discovered there were still survivors from the farm. Taken prisoner, or so they thought. It was only when they tried to free them, and the prisoners raised the alarm, that they realized that they were too late. Anyone who hadn't been killed had been indoctrinated.

"The humans were in the way, attacking us," the huntress whispered. "I used my biotics. Flung them around like… I'd been horrified when Neaira tore the farmers apart, but goddess… I ripped them in half. And it felt good."

"There's nothing shameful about feeling an adrenaline rush during battle," the shrink soothed.

"I might've killed more than Neaira and those husks did. She wanted them alive. To turn them. And I…"

"And you survived," the shrink said firmly.

"We tried to run—again—but we were blocked," the huntress continued. "And the farm girl? Her leg was broken… bleeding bad. I knocked down a wall in a barn with a big warp field. I was so proud of that. And we hid."

"They must have searched for you."

The huntress answered with the first bit of professional pride I'd heard since this whole story began. "I'm an asari huntress. No damn husk is going to find me unless I let it."

"But the farm girl who was with you…" the shrink asked.

"Her leg was broken. She was whimpering. And Neaira… I saw her through a hole in the boards. She was coming closer, with those dead black eyes… and Hilary, the farm-girl, she couldn't stop crying. They were going to hear us..."

You can probably guess what the huntress did next.

Suffice it to say that the huntress was being discharged on medical grounds. With a medal for the intel she provided. She didn't care, though. As far as she was concerned, she couldn't be trusted around humans because she'd killed so many human civvies—indoctrinated or otherwise. More importantly, she was convinced that none of this would have happened if she had a gun nearby instead of leaving it in the next room while taking a shower.

"What colour are my eyes? Did they turn back after, or—could I get that gun now?"

Huh. For all the crap the galaxy had thrown at me, for all the burdens and responsibilities that had been thrown on my shoulders, at least I wasn't the only one. In some ways, these patients had it worse than I did. Losing a limb and being effectively sidelined from the war effort, feeling helpless to do anything? Suffering an unimaginable tragedy and being haunted and traumatized forever after? That could very well be me one day.

Sobering thought.

I made my way to Kaidan's room without any further interruptions. Well, except for catching some salarian's story about not begin able to find something or other. I was about to walk in when I heard him talking. "No, it's not that," he said.

"Then what is it?" With a start, I realized it was Anderson. Guess he managed to get a signal all the way to the Citadel. (8) "Looks like you've got something on your mind."

"I do," Kaidan replied. "It's… well, I worry. I worry that he's changed because of what Cerberus did to him after they got their hands on him. Or that he's still changing. I'm worried that he doesn't know it."

"I could say the same about you, Alenko," Anderson offered. "Ever since the Normandy was lost over Alchera, you've changed. The work you've done since Shepard was lost. The missions you completed. You've done a lot of things you never did before. Should I be worried that you changed? Because you have, you know."

"Really?"

"Really. You've become more serious. More intense, I suppose."

"Sir, I... I don't understand."

"What I'm trying to get at is... you have a set of facts in front of you. Information that, when analyzed, could lead you to any number of conclusions. How you analyze it, what decisions you come to, are all based on a choice."

"And that choice is..."

"Maybe you're right. Maybe Shepard has been turned. Maybe he is a sleeper agent ready to be activated. If anyone could do it, it's Cerberus."

"Then... you agree with me?"

"No, son. I don't."

"Why?"

Anderson didn't say anything for a long time. "Because going down that road means giving in to fear. Fear that you can't trust the people around you. Fear that you can't depend on the men and women who fought and bled and almost died alongside you. Fear that you can't afford to give them the benefit of the doubt.

"Fear's a terrible, terrible thing, Alenko. It eats away at you. It grows and spreads inside you like a cancer, perverting everything it touches. If you let it in, if you let it dictate some of your decisions, sooner or later, it'll dictate all of them. I choose not to go down that path.

"That's why, when those reports and speculations first came out, I chose to believe in Shepard. I chose to believe that he hadn't changed where it really mattered. No matter what happened to him, what circumstances he found himself in, what people he was surrounded by. I chose to believe that Shepard was still the same man who would defend the principles of the Alliance. I chose to believe that he would continue to embody the best that humanity had to offer.

"I believed in Shepard. I still do. Because, when all is said and done, I'd rather believe in the people I care about than let my fears get the best of me."

Kaidan didn't say anything. For once.

"Now I want you to listen to me."

"Okay."

"You're at a crossroads, son. You can choose to believe in your colleagues and your friends. Or you can choose to listen to your fears. But you have to choose. If you keep trying to navigate both roads, you're going to tear yourself apart. You and everyone you care about."

"How do I know I'm making the right choice?" Kaidan asked quietly.

"Just take a step back, Alenko. Ask yourself why you made the choices you made in the past. What you believed in. Who you believed in. Then go from there and see what happens. You're a good man, Alenko. I think you'll figure it out.

"I need to go now. But think about what I said."

"I will. Thank you. And… good luck."

"You too, son."

The room fell silent after that. Kaidan hopefully had a lot to think about. All thanks to Anderson. Not for the first time I marvelled at how lucky I was to have him in my life. He'd supported me right from the beginning, back when I first became a Spectre. He helped bust me out of lockdown when I had to go to Ilos. He championed my cause when everyone—rightly—thought I was dead and never stopped believing in me when news broke out that I was alive and working with—not for—Cerberus. And now he was still believing in me and trying to get others to do the same. Even though he was up to his eyeballs with work, trying to help organize the resistance on Earth, slow down the local Reaper forces and, oh, I don't know, stay alive.

Under the circumstances, I decided that visiting Kaidan could wait. It wasn't like he was going anywhere. Maybe some time alone would be good for him.

(1): This is similar to the scenario of parents worrying about their children. The parallels are quite endearing—and possibly amusing.

(2): While there are many occupations that could encounter dig sites, I admit that it's a startling coincidence.

(3): Technically that was true, as Citadel regulations were clear on the number of refugees allowed. However, the situations for which those regulations were made never considered mass evacuations from multiple systems in the face of galactic extinction. If needed, the Wards could—and would, as the Reaper War went on—hold many more refugees, though it would put a significant strain on C-Sec's ability to perform their duties.

(4): Shepard went to great extent to note such conversations. I believe it was his way of acknowledging the stories of other individuals who had been affected by the Reaper War, stories that might have been lost or ignored by other sources.

(5): I had only gotten to meet Thane for a short time, but I can attest to Shepard's observations. He was a remarkable man, considering his past and medical condition.

(6): And one for Shepard's knack for finding treasures in the strangest places and determining who could best make use of them, a talent he passed on to Miranda.

(7): A shrink is a colloquial term to describe a mental health professional. PTSD is an acronym for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, an anxiety disorder that can develop after one is exposed to one or more traumatic events. I would suggest that any readers interested in learning more conduct their own research, as I could not possibly cover this subject in an editorial footnote and do it justice.

(8): More likely he used his QEC to reach the Normandy, which passed on the signal to the Citadel in real-time.