SSV Normandy

Iridescent fire burst into existence, plasma so hot it put an average star's surface to shame. It vanished, only to reappear further along the Normandy's hull, guiding its passage through the empty vastness of space. While designed for stealth, the Normandy boasted high-quality propulsion systems, more than able to make the frigate dance if the pilot's skills matched its performance capacity.

Shepard forced an even expression, adopting a mild mannerism as soldiers hurried past, running to put the cargo hold in shape. Only one day had been needed for originally setting it to rights, despite Pressley's apparent efforts to overload the Normandy. Crates had been stacked from the metal deck to the ceiling, covering every bulkhead in the combined hangar/cargo bay. There had even been packages stashed in his own cabin, respectfully placed along one wall under the decorative, yet functional weapons collected there.

Shepard had no idea where Pressley had managed to acquire three full mech suits, Military grade combat gear, on the same order as a tank or gunship, was supposed to be reserved for higher-ranking authorities on par with the Terran Rangers, Elysium's Myrmidons, or the N7 ranked specialists. Atlas mech-armors alone were considered weapons comparable to orbital bombardment, an act outlawed in Council Space and met with severe penalties in the Human Alliance. But the suits would go a long way towards outfitting the Heavy portions of the squads; until now they'd shared hardware – changing out weapons from one core set to another like a well-ordered racing vehicle.

But it was over. He'd done it. The last survivor – even if it had turned out to be such a bittersweet discovery.

Garrus stepped up, protecting his flank from well-meaning marines. He threw the turian a grateful glance. Accepting congratulations felt good at first, but became wearing, especially on one as private as himself. But leadership did not allow for such niceties as 'shy.'

"Commander," Joker's voice resonated over the public speakers. How the man knew precisely where Shepard was felt like sorcery. "We're approaching the Relay. Ee-tee-ay ten minutes until jump. Mindoir Command signaled an escort is in position."

The frenzied motions increased, soldier and sailor alike redoubling their efforts to clear the cargo hold. Shepard could see Ashley in the midst, bellowing orders with the same force as a field sergeant – perhaps he could give her a field promotion? It would be appropriate, for both what she had done and for what was imminent. Alenko was due as well, but it would have to be later. Politics demanded compensation, and he'd play. For now.

Beside him, Garrus raised one ridged brow. "Your homeworld has military ships?"

A fierce grin struggled out of Shepard's stoic mask. He covered by gesturing towards the elevator, leading the way. "Mindoir is in the middle of the Traverse. The Batarians hit us once, and tried three times after that. A few like-minded individuals came together, and we devised a solution."

The dual-doors slid open before them, then shut behind. Steady vibrations indicated the engines operating at full power. Meanwhile, Garrus nodded approval. "Standard practice in the Hierarchy. Every colony needs to provide military support. Ten percent for beginning colonies, up to thirty as I recall."

The grin fought to escape once more. "Mindoir went a little further. You won't find a better-protected planet outside of the Core systems. You'll see."


"Glad you could make it Shepard," Joker took a moment to glance back. "Relay hop in two."

Silent, Shepard took up position behind and to the pilot's left. Large panels of durable armor plating slid into place over the canopy, standard operating procedure for Relay access. No one quite knew how the process worked, but any object accelerating past light speed needed maximum protection.

Outside on the viewscreens, massive vessels streamed past, through their hypnotic dance by the twin powers of desire and economics. A discerning observer could understand their purpose. Freighters were simple to recognize, massive bulks of metal and empty space designed for transporting goods from one point of civilization to another; their reserved transit route allowed an unending parade to cascade past like an avalanche, protective escorts coasting at their side. Above them, civilian traffic made its own way, passenger liners and pleasure ships alike. The civilian traffic traveled in two slower columns; large vessels creating dual-tiered channels while the smaller vessels packed three times as many per lane.

Ships smaller than even the civilian models caught his eye, dashing past in lightning-quick flurries. Quarian messenger-boats had become a new essential to Alliance commerce in the past few decades; if one wanted secure, swift transport, the quarians were turned to with increasing regularity.

"Three, two, one – and – making contact." Joker's hands twirled over auburn interface panels, moving with a velocity Shepard had rarely seen. Outside, the Relay's massive Element Zero-infused core strobed another vessel ahead of the Normandy. But a tertiary tendril snaked towards them, while electricity shed excess power along the massive construct's static discharge frame. A similar design had been created for the Hawking Engine, Shepard knew, but this was on a scale far above anything Humanity had done.

Stars blurred into lines, Newtonian physics grudgingly stepping aside for another reality.

In an instant of time, longer than eternity but smaller than a moment, Shepard could see both the end of the improbable tunnel and their position outside of it – nauseating in the extreme. Less than ten percent of humanity could perceive such a thing; there had been papers arguing for 'space sickness' and 'stellar-induced hallucination' before credible sources had begun witnessing such a thing. What it meant, no one knew. It existed, and that was all that needed to be known.

The moment ended, streaks of multi-colored light resuming their normal positions in the universe. But there were multiple dots moving in distinct, un-star like paths. The armor plates retracted, revealing the multi-colored stars in their full glory.

Joker looked outwards. "We're being hailed, sir. Captain Aldrin, of the Minsk it looks. Patching him through."

Before Shepard could react, a mellow tenor entered the cockpit. "—respond. Repeat: SSV Normandy this is the MCP Minsk. Please respond."

"Normandy here," Shepard straightened, hands behind his back. Joker tilted his head back, shrugging as he continued. "We read you loud and clear, Minsk. How goes the patrol, Leiton?"

A soft chuckle responded. "Stars above, good to hear your voice again. Nice and quiet, the way I like it. Looks like we're your escort back. Any objections?"

Shepard closed his eyes, a smile starting to grow. It was soft. Small, but genuine. "Not at all, Commander. Sync drives whenever you're ready."

"Roger that. Sending handshake, sync engaged. Ready to go home Commander?"

"Ready, and able, Leiton."

A faint blur grew around three of the distant points of light, growing larger. Shepard could make out details, the longer frame of a cruiser, its lethal outline highlighting against the fires of propulsion. Twin dots flanked the oncoming ship, of similar size but differing appearances. As they drew closer the lead ship's angular form became apparent, contrasting with the smooth lines of its protective companions.

The ships grew in size, becoming larger and larger until it was apparent each held twice the mass of the Normandy, albeit less graceful. Where the Normandy exhibited grace, they embodied purpose, an intent only confirmed by the presence of more weapon emplacements than a small pirate fleet. The implements of destruction slowed, turning to flank the Normandy. Its own engines throbbed to life in a deeper rumble than normal, Hawking engines attaining ascendancy. Shepard listened to the sound, enjoying the sound of home. Element Zero engines whined, in his opinion; betraying less a feeling of power than ubiquitous homogeny.

Silence held the cockpit as minutes dragged by. Ten turned into twenty, then thirty. Boots shuffled in the periphery, quiet tones muttering in the background. Downsides to living on a smaller vessel; no one could maintain privacy. Even the cockpit, designed to protect occupants from distractions failed in that regard. For true solitude one needed a private cabin, or a visit to Medical. "Not this week, not with Talitha there."

A new sound entered his range, multiple sets of combat boots on metal plating. Had a meeting been announced without his knowing?

Grumbling stomps heralded the entrance of one large krogan, followed by the slight, pitter-patter of quarian boots. Shepard knew they were made of diamond-hard materials, designed for all environments short of deep lava, but the petite alien struck him as the sort that just … scampered. Especially when compared to the massive krogan.

Another voice came up from further back. "Apologies, Shepard. I was looking at the Citadel artifact – where … are we through the Relay already? Are those military vessels?"

Shepard gave Joker a slight nod, waiting as the countdown timer danced towards zero. "It's been a few years since I came back. Always a few patrols near the Relay, a lot of high-value traffic, with the nano factories. Mindoir is one of three Alliance worlds that produces nanotechnology, and the largest of them all."

"Missile cruisers," a soprano observed. Tali, his mind identified. "And is that a Sensor variant? Auntie Raan said there were a half dozen sent to the Fleet last year."

"Mindoir Patrols travel in groups of three, usually either cruisers or destroyers." Shepard gestured at the trio. "Beijing pair and a Geneva, for the smaller groups. A pair of Reprisal class Destroyers if further out. More than half a Relay hop, and you start adding battleships and carriers.

"Ah?" The small quarian rose on her tiptoes, using the added inches to peer around a support strut. "So cruisers for the local defense? Why just them?"

He gave a shrug. "Cheaper. If they run into trouble, they launch a missile barrage and rabbit away. Only small vessels have a hope of getting past the stations anyway."

A deep rumble shook the deck, the eezo-enhanced singularity inherent within all Hawking engines making its thunderous push. The entire ship shuddered, inertial dampeners failing to suppress their motion. Shepard swayed with it, decades of practice turning habit into reflex. The aliens however stumbled; Tali clutched at the same strut she'd been attempting to see around, while Liara crouched. Wrex, however, lost his balance. A muffled yelp erupted just before the half-ton of krogan landed on the deck. Eyes turned towards the fallen pile of armor and too many limbs.

"While I like to think we've grown close," Garrus's muffled, dry tones came from underneath the krogan's bulk. "This is a bit much."

Shepard hid a chuckle, smothering the expression before the disgruntled pair managed to untangle. By the time the towering krogan and slender turian were upright, he'd managed to return his own focus to the starscape blurring ahead.

The pilot ignored all the activity for a change. "We have a beacon online," he announced to no one.

"Good," Shepard peered at the stars. "Almost there."

Indistinct parts of phrases drifted past, snatches of something about "immune systems" and "calibrations." It prompted a smile, while he was safely turned away; when the alien squad had first come aboard, they'd been reluctant to trust. Now they made small talk while waiting – not precisely friends, but more than the belligerent opponents they could have been.

Then he saw it.

In the distant starscape, one particular orb caught the light in a way no other could, uncounted eons of steady output emanating from a single object. Every star had its own appearance, ranging from the yellow glow of the Terran Sol, to the massive blue emissions of Alcyone in the Taurus constellation. Each star expressed a unique signature, similar in part but individualized to the finest measurements possible. This one stellar sphere bespoke familiarity.

"Shepard?"

He ignored the distraction, focusing every erg of concentration at the star. As the four ships drew closer, he could make out dim portions of its makeup, the visor on his eye scrolling information almost too fast to properly read. Highlighted points began to appear, scattered like beads discarded by a careless giant. A dense mass clustered within the solar plane, masses of red labels densely packed. Even this far out there were ships moving in a steady line, the most direct route to the main system and the riches therein.

"See something Commander?"

He diverted a portion of his attention, giving an absent nod. "Satellite feed. Getting an idea on how long it … will … take?" His voice slowed, an oddity resolving on the eyepiece.

"What's the Muspelheim doing here? It was on station in the Hades Gamma cluster," he muttered. "And the Bolivar? It's under way … what the hell?"

A dual-toned voice spoke up. "Speak Basic, Shepard. My translator is getting confused. Me too."

Shepard shook himself, bringing the present company back to mind. "Oh. Ah, think of them as a large dreadnought and a carrier. There were only a dozen of the first made, Armageddon class. One was deployed to Mindoir on a permanent basis. The SSV Bolivar is what we call a Super Carrier, Mindoir has four. But all of them were away from Mindoir last I checked. And the Bolivar is launching support? Joker, hail the Minsk. Find out what's going on."

The pilot threw a measuring gaze and, apparently deciding it was not time for wit, threw the necessary switches. Conversation murmured before stopping again.

"Commander?"

Shepard ceased his efforts at the pilot's odd tone. "Yes Joker?"

"Um, Commander Leiton says you have a welcome home escort. Something about the military commander finally coming back?"

Worry lines eased on Shepard's face, replaced by a look of dismay. "Oh. Oh. James you idiot."

The pilot twisted his chair. "Wha– ?"

Shepard reminded himself of the potential audience. "Never mind. Looks like we're going to have a bit bigger welcome than I'd thought."


Rushing air, courtesy of advanced circulation vents, blew at Shepard's short hair. Gene mods prevented the hair's uncontrolled growth, doing nothing to alleviate the chill forcing the back of his neck to prickle. Far ahead rose a fleet he hadn't seen fully assembled in over a decade, since Elysium.

The three cruisers tightened formation closing well inside standard protocol and rising above the Normandy. Other bright objects began appearing, pseudo-motion flickers coming to an abrupt halt, comparative to the cruisers, changing to an intercept course. It took several long seconds for Shepard to finally notice how traffic on the military portion had begun diverting in the Normandy's direction. Three more cruisers were the first to arrive, taking up position above and behind Leiton's group, forming an inverse triangle that mirrored itself.

"Um, Commander?"

He noticed his arms were folded, interwoven against his chest. "Yes Joker?"

The pilot made an exaggerated gesture of casual intent, but needed two tries to pick up the coffee-filled carafe sitting next to the control panel. Dark steaming liquid flowed into a mug, spill-proof edges widening at the object's approach. "The permits we have are all correct, I get that. But, are – are we in trouble?"

Two destroyers left the military lane, coasting into position above the Normandy. Drones, tiny specks next to the megaton bulk of the war ships, issued in a cloud from launch bays. His visor's tracking algorithms pulsed, tracing individual paths until he overrode it. The Normandy's own sensors were far more capable of the same feat; there was no need for replicating the action.

"No. Why?" He made a conscious effort to force his arms down, only for them to rebel and clasp each other behind his back.

"Well," Joker set down the ceramic container, lid sealing itself as his hand let go. Spills in the cockpit were hard on maintenance. "It's just that, well, I've never gotten an escort before. And there's some really heavy security here, we have a military escort, and there's a lot more coming. I mean, just listening to the chatter, we're the center of attention period – in a good way, I hope?"

A massive vessel dropped from a faster-than-light transition, long lines appearing in the void. Unlike the cruisers or even the destroyers, this vessel gave the illusion of being a remarkably well-sculpted planetoid. Weapon emplacements fore and aft matched the Normandy's length, themselves dwarfed by the massive railgun set as the warship's spine. From experience, he knew a small fighter craft could be crammed into the massive barrel, if left unguarded. But to have an Armageddon class battleship all the way out here?

His hand reached up, moving slower than a morally conflicted hanar, touching the intercom. "All hands, this is Commander Shepard. If able, adjust your screens to the forward sensors. That is all."

A second brilliant flash of pseudo-motion blinded Shepard for a moment. When he regained sight, a ship even larger than the last coasted before his eyes. Armored bulkheads, thick slabs of metal wider than a Kodiak-class shuttle were already retracting. Dots of light shot forth in a spray, too fluid for mechanical guidance. The dots spun like snowflakes, coalescing and spreading out, forming squadrons in tight formations. As the squadrons formed, their approach vector took a route just above the Normandy; each set of wings Shepard could see preformed a small waggle as it flew past.

Small blue dots on the tracking screen drifted from their clouds of ordered squadrons into regular points parallel to each other, creating a lane where before there had been none. Drones and fighters alternated among the points, sparks of reflected sunlight pointing a scintillating path aimed directly for the visible planet.

But it was only when the ships landing lights activated, blinking along their hulls that the true scope became obvious. The main transit lanes leading to and from the Relay slowed, lights winking on in a coordinated display.

"Dip me in tabasco and call me a taco," Joker's jaw dropped. "Commander, what exactly did you do to these people?"

"It was such a little thing," Shepard muttered, so quiet that the others had to strain. "I didn't even realize what I was doing. I gave them hope."


Mindoir Planetside

Dress armor did not count as standard armor in the Alliance. The knowledge made Shepard happier than he normally would be, about belonging to a less martinet organization, one that allowed him the freedom of true expression – within reason. Pauldrons belonged on modern combat armor just as much as they once had a thousand years before. Wearing a modernized armor comparable to what had been worn by the greatest warriors lent courage for the upcoming ordeal. Much like then, the hardware served as a symbol as well as protection. People loved symbols, no matter who wore them.

He paused, waiting for the elevator to open. The same moment gave time to take a deep breath, listening to the quiet voices audible through ship plating.

"'Ten-shun!" William's alto snapped over the susurration. "Captain on the Deck!"

'Show time.' Shepard stalked onto the cargo hold floor, a touch of swagger emphasizing broad shoulders and armor plating. All four squads – correction. All five squads stood at attention in the limited space available on the bay's floor. The Mako had been given a cleaning, it appeared, and sported decorative touches of silver paint, small silhouettes painted under the cannon position. Squads Alpha through Delta stood to one side, armor buffed into shape with the sort of zeal only soldiers stuck on long patrols could appreciate. The Specialists squad stood on the other side, more relaxed in their stance.

Firm heels clicked against the plating, ringing out like the footsteps of an avenging deity. Ashley William's armored form came into view, every inch at full attention. She marched to Shepard's side before stopping to exchange salutes.

He complied. Some formalities needed to be addressed.

As a pair, the two strode to the first squad.

"Sir, the company is ready for inspection!" Shepard remained unmoved, letting the squad leader serving as First Sergeant have his fun. As one, the squads went through the motions. Just ahead of him, the nearest soldier went from Ready to Port, Arms, and finally Order Arms.

Slowly they worked their way down the ranks, doubling back the next row only to pass through to the next squad, repeating the same formula each time. Each time the same commands barked out, followed by the click of metal and plating. Heavy Marines wore more armor, carried heavier weapons, as was their duty. But the Light Assault bore weaponry just as vital for any operation.

Stepping away at the last soldier, Shepard gave a slight nod to Williams, who turned, bellowing "At Ease."

The way she said it, he half-expected the squads to either fall over in relief, or stiffen into greater attention. Pressley might have been a better choice, but his role as Executive Officer remanded him to duties pertaining to the Normandy, not the marine complement. Besides which, the Williams line had been leaders since before the First Contact war; just her presence gave heart to the infantry.

After the inevitable rush of noise, he gave her another nod. "The squads are well kept. They are a credit to the Service. If I may address them?"

She gave a short nod, backing away two steps.

Shepard strolled towards the magnetic field near the bow of the hold, deliberate steps keeping the tension raised. Reaching a point where he could see all the squads at once, he pivoted on a heel, facing them.

"We have done," he began. "A great service. Geth, unnatural monsters, slavers and filth no longer trouble this galaxy, thanks to you."

Grunts of approval, tempered by faceplates met his words.

"We have chased Saren from world after world, beating him at every encounter. When he stops his flight, we will be there. When he turns to fight, we'll be waiting." More sounds of approval, this time accompanied by the sound of gauntlets beating against chestplates. "I've fought in every corner of the galaxy. There have been many at my side. But I will tell you now, there are no other soldiers I'd wish to have at my back."

The clapping grew louder.

"When I go into a fight, I am confident, because I know you are there. I know you have my back."

Whistles started to cut the air.

Shepard raised a hand, waiting for calm to return. It took several heartbeats, but quiet did resume its normal place. "The ancient governments of Earth had a practice of rewarding those who showed courage in battle, who proved their worth in the eyes of their superiors. I have sought to follow their example: Mindoir is a place I have helped become a world for veterans. Where those whom have served the Alliance may lay down their armor, but keep it just in case. Through the power the colony authority has granted me, I offer each of you a place on Mindoir. Whether you wait until you have retired, or want to transfer right now. I will see to it you have a place of your own."

A slow clapping began to grow once more.

"Today is a day of celebration!" Shepard raised his arms once more, lifting empty gauntlets towards the ceiling, "We will show Mindoir our mettle! And once we have done so, we will celebrate!"

Applause and cheers grew louder still. Shepard had to key in his link to the broadcast network. "I am hereby declaring a full day of leave on Mindoir. Enjoy yourselves, but respect the civilians. Many of them know what you have gone through, and most will help if you need aid. Thank you for your service. When we meet again, it will be to take down that traitor Saren for the last time!"

He held that position as the cheers rose to deafening levels, rebounding off the bay's metal walls, rebounding and colliding again and again. Beneath his feet, he could feel the tell-tale shudder of the Normandy's landing gear settling.

"Chief," he turned to face the magnetic field. "Parade formation. Specialists by me, Alpha through Delta in order. Let's give them a show."

A clear alto rose behind him. "You heard the Commander: Form ranks!"

Shepard felt the hanger floor shudder once more, the loading door dropping into position. Safe behind the metal hull, he allowed a single breath. 'Hold it for a count of five, let it out for a count of seven. Patience. This too will pass.'

The door lowered. Shipyards were designed to have vast stretches of open spaces, the better for accidents and explosions. Aerodynamics meant little in space, but sun-hot plasma vents required more care in atmosphere. Early colonists had been careful, but perhaps not careful enough. Here, the widening vision showed a vast artificial plain, clear of other craft. More interesting was the fact that he could see only a few transport craft with few or no individuals nearby – yet the sound of crowds still permeated the air.

Cautious, Shepard took a few steps. At the base of the ramp a uniformed man snapped to attention, arm raised in a neophyte salute.

Shepard returned it.

A broad grin seemed to be on the man's face; at least, that's the only reason Shepard could think of for having a man with so much glossy sheen on the jaw region. "Commander Shepard, sir! An honor to meet you! The transports are right over here, ready and waiting!"

A moment was needed for Shepard to process the series of exclamations. "Transport?"

"Sir-yessir!" The man seemed almost beside himself. "We're taking you and your crew to the parade! Biggest one we've thrown since that pirate nest got burned out ten years back!"

Shepard felt a need to flinch at the unbridled enthusiasm. "My crew? My squads?"

"Everyone that wants to come is in!" the young soldier responded brightly. His every motion indicated a preference to hover in place, should Shepard give a mere hint of wishing such a thing. "Ship crew, guests, everyone!"

He cast a slow glance back to where Navigator Pressley stood in the shadows. The man's face was unreadable as always, but the wide stance, arms folded spoke louder than words.

"One moment," Shepard didn't bother to salute as he rushed back up the ramp, arrowing in on the older man.

Pressley started to retreat, but froze in place, waiting.

Shepard came to a halt a few steps in front of the man. "Well?"

"No, not in a million years, no!" Pressley stepped back, as if such a small distance could somehow protect him. "Look, the soldiers? Sure. You? You've deserved this, son. But us? We've driven you around the galaxy, and that's it."

An exasperated sound broke free from Shepard's firm control. "Look, the Normandy has been helping as much as the ground pounders, you know that. Without you, the entire last few months would be impossible. You've kept my squad, kept me safe in extremely hostile territory. You deserve this. More than me, far more than me."

Stubborn, Pressley shook his head. "Sir, with respect. The squads were picked because you've worked with them in the past. The aliens … they've earned a spot, I think. But the crew has been with you only a little while. If there's another celebration later, I think we'd be comfortable with it. But right now, we're not. We talked it over when we were coming in to land – the entire city is shut down, did you know that?"

A faint pain jabbed Shepard. 'Did I neglect the crew that much? That they feel separate?'

"I … cannot force you, Pressley." Shepard tried to find his emotional feet. This was turning into quite the strange day. "I disagree, one hundred percent. But I'll respect your wishes."

Relief shifted the Navigator's body language. "Thank you, Commander. I mean, Shepard. In other circumstances, maybe, but not now."

Shepard made a slow turn, signaling the squads to continue. Descending the ramp once more, he made eye-contact with the soldier. "Five squads, full loadout. Think you can get us a lift?"

The answering grin seemed to rival the sun for brilliance.


Marching down the main street of Mindoir's capital felt right. Proper. Planned for in excruciating detail, a thought that kept the cold at bay during long nights. But what his plots lacked in their myriad combinations was the flood of memories. As soon as his boots touched ground, they roared out of nowhere, surrounding him in a haze of recollection like a fog only he could see.

'Focus.'

He rode in a next-generation tank; a vehicle with enough metal to rebuild the Normandy's engine room, the first terrestrial grade vehicle standard-equipped with a Hawking engine. Its rumbling pace felt slower than a glacier, yet the crowds streamed past in an unbroken line. Nearly five thousand Mindoir Irregulars marched behind, full dress uniforms shined within an inch of their lives. Behind them thundered at least three divisions of the Mechanized Infantry; fast-stepping Menelaus first, followed by the long-legged Epimetheus wielders, and punctuated by massive Atlas power armors in the rear.

'Right there,' his eyes dragged to a segment of road that diverted into a massive circle. Shops decorated in brilliant colors lined the sidewalks at the outermost side while a grass-filled interior covered the circle's center. But the epicenter held a massive sculpture, which captured his attention.

Part of it resembled a rounded disk, wide and broken, half buried in the soil. Its lower half held a polished sheen, reflecting the oncoming parade. Pave stones lined its base, running alongside what he knew to be thousands of lines of etchings. Row after row of names stretched from shoulder height to just above knee level, extending in columns across the fifty foot wide construct.

Its impact nearly destroyed Breiðablik, Mindoir's capital city. Every building within three blocks lay in rubble after the station's impact, what still stood after the raiders finished their initial assault. Edges remained too hot to touch days later. The main drives had ejected before atmosphere, thankfully, otherwise the planet would have been missing half a continent.

Shepard shook off the memory. The monument receded behind his transport, how long had he lost concentration?

"You alright, Shepard?" Garrus's voice came over the helmet link. He could feel the turian's concerned look.

"I'll be fine," he forced a smile, waving to the crowd once more. Semi-accusing glares scorched the back of his memories, disbelieving. His shoulders dropped the confident pose, for one breath. "Eventually."

A strange noise began to wail; thankful for the distraction, Shepard turned.

Coming along the side street, replacing an escort company, appeared to be one of the military bands. The emblem indicated an origin – they were from Vimur? His … what used to be his hometown?

Bagpipes skirled upwards in unison, shrieking louder than anything so small had a right to be. It was a haunting melody, aided by a drum line beating time. Shepard remembered that, remembered how the reenactors would come by the smithy asking for replica help. But these musicians were far better trained than what he remembered; lockstep movement, not a single flashing hand out of synch. Even the bagpipes rose and fell together, months of practice evident at the least. Their skill level had to have been high to begin with – these were no amateurs, or even the sort of amateur that laughed at professional efforts. These were musicians.

An old theme rose again while he was distracted. A melody rising and falling through the air, picking bits from memory and blending them with the present.

"You're too young," the man sighed. "I understand, believe me. No one wants those four-eyed bastards to pay more than me."

Shepard raised an eyebrow. The confusing jumble of features still made his head spin from time to time. But it lent anger to his argument, not that it helped change the recruiting officer's mind.

Fine then. The plans would go forwards despite this setback. Legal action had ensured the insurance payments in a timely fashion – James would have ideas. Mindoir would need infrastructure. Defenses. Political capital, Udina could help with that. He was a politician, not from Mindoir, but money could buy loyalty, of a sort. Enough to keep Mindoir's rebirth under control.

Wait. Udina.

Shepard came back to the present, and made a mental note: the ambassador needed to be removed from any position of power on Mindoir. How had he forgotten? Just because the man couldn't interfere with Shepard didn't mean he could be left in authority elsewhere.

The lurching of a velocity shift shifted his attention. The parade was slowing, coming to a halt. Why?

On either side, towering skyscrapers rose hundreds of feet into the air. Three stood over a thousand feet tall; one over ten times that. It brought a smile to his face; the colonial celebrations following its final emplacement had been legendary.

"Keelah, what is that?" Tali had been in the back, within view of the quarian squad assigned to the Normandy. They'd taken a strong liking to her; or felt comforted at the sight of a friendly face? It meant no trouble in any case.

He tapped the unseen icon on his wrist. "City center. The big one's the Gen Five building, tallest skyscraper on Mindoir. The shorter one to the west is GalactaCom, hub headquarters to one of the Alliance's largest communication services." He would have continued, but a beckoning gesture outside the vehicle prompted him to move. A uniformed man stood at the top of a multiple set of stairs, where a large desk and series of chairs filled with important-looking people sat. All were looking in his direction, clapping while the uniformed man continued motioning for his presence.

There was no graceful way to exit a heavily armored transport. Hanging by his hands felt too undignified for the occasion, which meant either a ladder or a showy entrance.

Nothing tapped against the metal monstrosities' side. That meant they wanted a show.

He could do that.

Gauntlets curled over the edge, subroutine of the Nightstalker armor mapping out his next move. They'd worked together so much now that the heuristic programming could predict his actions with a high-degree of accuracy. Now, as it had for several months, the suit responded at the speed of thought. A faint blue glow bloomed, if the trained eye noticed, reducing his mass by a considerable factor. One easy pull and he vaulted over the edge, twisting into an easy flip.

Shepard counted under his breath, timing. Half a heartbeat before landing, he rotated, landing on his feet, flashing a roguish grin for the cameras certain to be watching.

The tail of one eye caught a small squad collectively take an involuntary step back. It was a small step though, easy to dismiss if observed from a distance. The one in front gave an apologetic smile, waving a hand at a metal construct trundling towards the transport. "Sorry sir, a bit of logistic issues. Ah, don't know if you've been briefed, but the mayor and a few others are here to welcome you back. Even, ah," his voice dropped low. "Some special guests."

"Oh?" Shepard extended a hand, grasping the surprised man's hand in a firm grip. "Smile lad, cameras everywhere. Any hints?"

The officer grinned widely, a touch more than necessary. "Big money. GalactaCom's CEO was planetside, and the Alliance sent a few reps. Scuttlebutt has you on the outs with a few folks, so they did a scramble-scramble and got ol' ell-tee Zabaleta over. Better go sir."

Shepard managed a partial grimace before the honor guard ushered him away. The small wheeled contraption creaked to a halt, unfolding into a set of stairs. Shepard felt his cheeks flush for the first time in years – the showmanship hadn't been necessary after all. But then he was off, climbing upwards once more.

Planners had gone all out, he noticed. A rich, red runner hugged the steps edges, no chance of a stumble over loose edges. It was a literal red-carpet treatment, one that the colony hadn't done since the re-founding, so far as he could recall. What made it worse was the bevy of young women throwing colorful vegetation and inviting gestures. Not that he minded the hubbub; what red-blooded male mocked attention from attractive women? But there was no point – he couldn't see their faces, couldn't tell what was real. Not without excess effort, which could be better spent on more productive things.

Ignoring those facial cues tended to dampen relationships.

Finally reaching the top, Shepard took a moment to witness the array of diplomats rise to their feet, applauding.

'Is this real? Not an alternate dimensions or drug-dream or something?' Shepard felt a vague sense of unease. He'd cultivated good relations with Mindoir politics, essential for someone so central to the rebuilding, but none had ever been what he'd call friends. 'Publicity. Wait until after the event, then claim to have helped.'

One portly man in a suit spoke in an animated fashion to several other men, in clothing of equal magnificence. Silk, or the artificial equivalent, seemed to form the main base, expensively cut. In his estimate, the fabric alone would have fed a small family for a month. Adding the gemstones, precious metals and nano-tech modifications and the assumed cost ballooned.

It almost made Shepard feel inadequate, until he recalled the Nightstalker gear could fund a small colony for a year. More, if sold to the right people.

Then a face stuck out from the crowd of people gathered behind. A face with dark hair, green eyes and a beard. He recognized it, could see it. The sheer exhilaration derived from just being able to see granted a power nothing else could. Then a thought struck. Trepidation filled his veins, a rush of ice-filled fire. If his brother were there, that meant … no.

No.

Deliberately Shepard studied the man's face, ignoring the only other face visible in the sea of shifting ovals. After a moment, he studied unrecognizable faces as well, deriving nothing from their amorphous collection. Random sights of eyes, noses and the occasional mouth meant little. Seeing it all together, that tiny spark of recognition, it was a dangerous drug. Endorphins changed bio-signatures, altering heart rates and blood flow, visible to any competent spy.

That had been close.

Bustling forwards like a stylish plush toy, the mayor proceeded to ignore his own pudgy appearance, hand outstretched. "Commander! Welcome home, welcome home!"

Defaulting to standard protocol, Shepard gave a crisp salute. "Sir. Thank you, sir."

"None of that sir from the Lion of Elysium! Call me Amos, please! Here, stand over here, everything is ready. The media insisted on being present, can't blame them really. Incredible what you've done, really marvelous. Are we ready? I believe we'll be live in a few minutes. Of course we're live now, but only the desk cameras. Did you see the floats earlier? Great parade this year, splendid you could make it on Founder's Day."

Shepard felt his eyebrows attempt to vanish into his short haircut. When was the last time he'd checked a Mindoir calendar? 'Founder's Day, forgot about that.'

"There will be a question session I'm sure," the mayor went on. "Of course, the travelling you've been doing, the work out there. My word! Such sacrilege! Who does the Council think they are? Ever fear, we're all behind you! Unfortunately there will need to be a brief interview, can't help it! But thirty minutes, that's what I told them. If she goes too far, just give me the wink and I'll –"

Another voice, quiet and insistent, muttered over the mayor's excited speech. 'Mikes go live in five, four, three ….'

Shepard gave an invisible sigh. Really, he should have expected this. It had been on the list, but ignored until now. At least Liara was with Talitha, her presence would only exacerbate the media's aggression. Combined with whom inevitably sat with his brother … that would make things worse.

A reporter, dark-skinned and bearing an attitude of pure aggressiveness stepped closer, teeth glinting. "Commander Shepard, Khalisah al'Jilani of Gee-Seven news, thank you for taking the time to speak with us. Let's go over your history; the Raid nearly fifteen years ago where life changed for you. You were a blacksmith, according to records my station has discovered. Tell me, did you ever see yourself standing where you are today, fifteen years later?"

A sigh fought to escape. But he held strong.

The next thirty minutes rushed past in a blur for Shepard. As marching bands heralded their presence through the power of sound, and floats overwhelmed with sheer size, question after question was hurled his way. Their delicacy felt like mel'claw toxin, a subtle poison produced by soft-bodied organisms on a planet filled with teeth. Each query led to another, twisting back like a cross-examination. Shepard had run actual interrogations less thorough. When had Gee-Seven acquired a former spook? 'Intelligence,' he reminded himself. 'Respect the name, if not the people.'

The reporter leaned back, lazy motions reminding Shepard of a satisfied cat. "Last question Shepard. You've been long regarded as man of mystery; your home world is widely regarded as a rival if not superior to Eden Prime because of your influence. What are your plans for the future here? Has anyone special entered your life?"

Quelling irritation at her presumption, Shepard donned a smirk. "Well Khalisah, I'm sure you know the reputation organizations like Westunderland and the Terminus Truth-Seekers have to say about that. Suffice to say I'm working to take down Saren, and preparing for the inevitable counterstrike."

"Counterstrike?" Her shoulders stiffened. "You mean, the batarians will try again?"

"Ms. Jilani," Shepard deepened his voice. Most people responded well to more reassuring tones. "Saren, the batarians, any of a hundred pirate gangs. I am from Mindoir; it is my home. While they've tried to strike at me directly, they've failed every time. Mindoir is a prosperous colony, with heavy defenses and a productivity beyond passable. We've fought against the Verge for decades, and they don't forget an insult so blatant as independence."

The woman seemed calm, but he could detect the panic underneath. "But – but how can we prepare? What do we do?"

Shepard could see the politicians in an uproar; this was not on their plans for a celebration. Mental calculations ripped across his mind. "Do? What we have always done. Be vigilant. Be wise. Most of all, enjoy moments like today. Family. Friends. Those are what evil wishes to steal away." He shook his head. "Look at me, pontificating. It's Founder's Day! What Earth would call New Year's, if I remember the old calendar aright."

The body language of the reporter seemed confused, but she went along with him. "Indeed. Well, thank you for your time, Commander. I'm sure all on Mindoir wish you the best in your hunt for Saren."

"My pleasure," Shepard gave a practiced smile. "My pleasure indeed."


Evening

Shepard knew his brother was near when a faint smell of spearmint wafted through the air. The dim lighting made it impossible to make a proper identification, but only a few had the access codes to this particular spot. The musical rumble of a trained baritone reduced any further doubt to ashes.

"Persuasion through confusion?"

He smiled. A genuine one this time, and rose. The features of his brother's face swam into focus, glorious in its entirety. "Wasn't exactly planning on it. But this way they'll be prepared for the worst. I hope."

A face identical to his own gave a skeptical look. "Everything?"

Shepard pondered the question for a moment, thinking over everything in the recent past. "Not quite," he admitted. "These ... Reapers … are more powerful than I'd feared. Weapons that can end entire civilizations. Which reminds me, did the new Research department appreciate my, ah, donation?"

Gun-metal blue eyes crinkled at the edges. "Enough Prothean tech to exhaust the most dedicated historian. Weapons designs in a new direction – we're going to need a new factory for that. Or many factories."

"And Operation Matryoshka?"

His brother sucked air through his teeth. "It's online. Found a few asteroids that'll work. The planets you've suggested are undergoing analysis … STG dropped by a few after you went past. They're definitely watching you."

"Talk to Emerys then," Shepard responded. "He has a few already set up. More resources than factories. Hope that doesn't change, but I think it will."

James frowned. "I don't trust that man. If he's a man."

"He's done right by us, Jim. Gave me a beaut' of a rifle too."

A deep laugh roiled up from the other man's gut. "Karl, anyone that gives you a good weapon is acceptable. You're not paranoid enough."

Shepard rolled his eyes, a faint smile on his lips. "Only happened once, and I still got him in the end."

"After blowing up half of Torvus's marigold supply," his brother countered. "They had to start a new fad. What are they famous for now, nasturtiums? Fits. Nasty folk."

"Semantics," Shepard shrugged again. "Point is, he has resources, and hates slavers. Hasn't double-crossed me yet."

"Aye. Yet."

Both men looked out on the night scene, visible through a massive window. New Breiðablik stretched out towards the horizon, lights glittering an inverse imitation of the stars above. In the distance, clouds moved slowly across the horizon, kept far from the city. Even the Council races could perform minor weather manipulation, but the older Alliance colonies had developed the science into an arguable art.

"Nice night out."

Shepard bent at the knees, lowering his center of gravity, relaxing in the chair's soft embrace once more. "Aye."

A low-flying craft made a slow arc, red and white lights blinking. He watched it make its turn, re-orienting towards the spaceport once more. "The Normandy alright?"

"Saw to it," his brother mimicked his actions, and fell into a chair, programmed cushions detecting the incoming mass and responding appropriately. "The Veteran's Association is throwing a party for the crew. Out on the edge of town. Can't really blame them, it's been a while since they've had a chance to preen up for off-worlders."

Shepard grunted again.

"So," the other man paused to take a sip from a tumbler produced from a cabinet Shepard hadn't bothered checking. "I noticed your ship has a lot of supplies. A month's worth, more if you leave a few folks behind."

"Mhmm." Shepard turned his gaze down towards the streets, watching the low-flying vehicles speed past their ground-based kindred. It felt like home, no matter if the view changed from the old town.

"Anything you want to tell me?"

He tore his focus away from the comforting sight, letting it rest on the equally heartening sight of a face in focus. "I want to, Jim, but I can't. You know that."

"We've been through a lot together," his brother observed. A layer of irritation laced his next sentence. "I've given you everything you've asked, Karl. Everything. I've managed your companies, gone on missions, run interference for you, founded research centers, turned GalactaCom into a literal galactic power … you know I can be trusted. You know how much I hate your going out and doing these things."

"We've talked about this," Shepard began.

James interrupted. "Yes. And I agree. The logic is sound; no need to rehash old fights. But this is the end, Karl. The. End. Lily has her sister back, thanks to you. You know she didn't mean what she said. Not back then and not now."

"She shouldn't have said it," Shepard felt years pile on his shoulders, dragging them towards the floor. "She shouldn't have done what she did either. But I can't say she was wrong. There's only one thing I can do, Jim. I hurt people, and I'm good at it."

Ice tinkled the sides of a bottle. He silently denied the proffered glass, turning his face back to the window. "Saren is the last. Then I'm done. I can come home. Retire. Maybe take up lawn care."

Gagging sounds twisted his attention to his brother. The man held the crystal in a clutching motion, eyes wide. Expensive alcohol covered the front of silk vest, spreading far enough across the floor to apply a light spray against the window. Coughing assured him everything was well, at least in regards to physical health.

James caught his breath, coughing a few times. "Wrong pipe. Lawn care? You? Maybe if they were lawns to kill!"

Shepard winced.

"Aw hell, sorry Karl. But you know what I mean. Even before you were always playing with swords, looking up every dangerous plant out there. You remember mail-ordering a breeding trio of venomous vine-lashers when you turned fourteen, right?"

"Most young men like to read about dangerous things," Shepard realized he was sticking out his lower lip. He drew it back in. "I just had a few advantages there."

"Hm. Fair enough. But you take my point. Before long you'd be test-firing the new toys R&D has been cooking up. Fun things they have." Another sip, more careful this time, drained what remained in the tumbler. Dark eyes caught Shepard's look of interest. "Heh. Knew that'd spark interest. Yeah, the boys have a few things Eden Prime dug up. Once their team went south, they shipped over everything out here. I bought the whole thing, all of it. Bidding against a lot of folks in the Traverse took a hit on the quarterly earnings, but worth it. Energy weapon schematics, a power core design, even a few data-energy translations. Speaking of technology though, what about the Normandy?"

He cocked his head. "What of it?"

"You gonna steal it?"

Shepard gave a soft laugh. "Heavens, no. The Normandy is a good ship, but it's still prototype."

"Oh really?" His brother set the tumbler down, interlacing his fingers in an eerily familiar pose. "Cutting edge hardware, top-of-the-line design. Stealth capabilities over anything the Salarians have. Enough data processors on board to run a shipyard."

"You heard about that?" Shepard tried to look surprised, but failed. "It can pump thermal waste directly into the Hawking engine, but that just makes more power, more waste out the other end. It's armed with a pair of Aitan class batteries, a dozen point defense GARDIAN turrets, and has two mass accelerators. Maybe enough to perform ground support, but nothing to take down a capital ship, much less a Reaper if the Eden Prime Archives are right. It needs more teeth, not just processing power."

"It's a mobile operations center," James argued. "Security through obscurity; what's the point of stealth if you keep hopping out of it? You only need the thermal sinks when someone's inside a few klicks. Out in space, nothing can see the heat waste of a ship so small."

Shepard gave a tired smile. "Two classes then; an attack class, and a command version. Add them to a fleet, and you can bring new dimensions to space combat."

"Ach." James growled. One hand drifted towards the half-full bottle, before clenching and moving back. "Fifty fleets. Fifty sarding fleets, that's all the Alliance has. Maybe twenty thousand combat vessels in the Alliance, not-counting fighters. The turians triple that, and the salarians keep selling everything they know to everyone they can. The Council has maybe a hundred thousand ships? Give or take a few thousand. Not nearly enough. Not if the Reapers are as bad as you say."

Shepard brought his own hands up under his chin, thinking. "We need time to prepare. Decades. Centuries, if possible. But I don't think we'll get it. We'll have to think exotic, add quality to the shot locker, not just quantity."

An agreeable sigh met his words. "Aye, we have quite a bit o' that. Can't rightly say I've seen nanotechnology in the Prothean archives. Been spending a lot of time reviewing what we have, too. Been … a busy year."

Shepard gave his brother a long look, evaluating everything he could see. "You should go home. She needs you more than I do."

A torn expression faded into view; mask finally torn away. "She might, but I don't get to see you that often either. Lily knows it, I'm sure she doesn't mind. She's said it often enough."

"Her sister is home," Shepard gestured at the door hidden in shadow. "I'll keep it together for a few more years. Talitha has been through something worse than Dante's Inferno. Go. Be Lily's Virgil, help her get through this."

James inhaled a long, slow breath, holding it. Then he exhaled in a sharp breath. "Fine. You made your point. But only because you're getting better."

Confused, Shepard watched as his brother rose, striding for the door. It was only when he had a hand on the doorknob that the man looked back, pride in his eyes. "That's the first time you've said my wife's name since you joined the Alliance, Karl. Trust me, you're getting better."

The door hissed open, then shut, complex mechanisms sealing the room once more.

Shepard turned back to the window, watching the lights once more, thinking. Perhaps there was more to be thankful for than he'd thought.


A/N: Happy New Year! This chapter comes courtesy to you of Fall and Christmas Break, which allowed me to leave my thesis for too short a time and write the things I love to write. Well, the fun things I love to write. I also have made an account for my Harry Potter musings, and a few other tales. Check out ChucktheElf (11003559) if you want to see more. As always, massive thanks to Nightstride whom has beta'd for me since the beginning of my career on FanFic, despite his own life.

Feliz Navidad, Happy New Year, and good night!