"It's the children the world almost breaks who grow up to save it."

― Frank Warren

Miranda hovered over her subject, ensuring that no IV lines crossed or tangled in the event of another fit. Splayed out in a med-bay was the Great Commander Shepard, now a benign sight in the shadow of the austere woman reading his latest EEG. During the initial memory restoration, the commander suffered several grand-mal seizures, delaying resurrection efforts further. Miranda often felt like this entire project was a pipe dream. Yet, they had achieved the impossible.

He was alive.

In light of that triumph, restoring his memory seemed trite. A revised concoction of aducanumab, cholinesterase inhibitors, and nanite-laced stem cells coursed through his veins. Certain of its impending success, she placed him in a medically induced coma before starting treatment. The last thing they needed was another rampage, and considering his history, she'd be a moron not to expect a violent outburst.

How the Illusive Man foresaw this guy defeating the collectors, was beyond her. She spent a year learning of his dismal and depressing life. The man had obvious, psychological scars. Not to mention the horrific physical damage. That level of trauma would disfigure the most sound mind. And he was already teetering on the brink.

When they first wheeled his asphyxiated corpse in, she worried her task would prove impossible. Failure terrified her, so she pressed onward. Perfection wasn't just an ideal to her, it was an identity. And she employed methods that would make even the most hardened veteran squirm. It was ironic really. That a few years earlier, the very beings who blew the Normandy to pieces traded tech that would restore the commander. His cells were grown from the fetuses of a hundred dead clones. She rebuilt his entire skeleton, fusing bone with cybernetics then grafting cloned-tissue atop it.

A few scientists grumbled that what they were doing to him was monstrous. That wasn't her concern. Fear of failure drove her onward, unwilling to accept the slightest blemish on her project.

But none of that was her problem. His memory, on the other hand, was a primary concern. With the press of a button, she pushed him deeper into the abyss, allowing him to dream and remember the events that molded him into the man he became.

Hours After the Raid
Mindoir 2170
John Shepard

He failed by inches. His father laid dead at his feet, a sacrifice whose sole purpose was to give him a chance to save her. Inches had separated them. Inches. Jane's eyes were wild, terrified, as she scrabbled against their armor, screaming, hand outstretched trying to grasp his. Her frantic shrieks as they beat him bloody would haunt him for the rest of his days.

Eventually he went limp, fooling them into believing they were wailing on a corpse. He didn't dare move. Didn't even breathe as their throaty voices grew fainter, the distant march of boots evaporating, leaving room for other sounds. Screams erupted all around him. Neighbors and friends calling out to loved ones as they were dragged off. The sounds of rape and gunfire. Death and horror encompassed him. It took every last bit of willpower to drag himself from the muck. He rolled into a ditch and crawled to the sewer.

A massive ship loomed above. The AML Amstridian. And in the distance, a tiny doll struggled, arms and legs flailing helplessly as they dragged her by the neck. That's all she was now. A scarcely identifiable blot on a canvas. If it wasn't for that vibrant, red hair he'd have no idea it was Jane. They threw her in a cage like an animal, like a fucking animal.

Yet, that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was the swelling feeling of helplessness as the ship lifted off, carrying her into the unknown.

He laid in that rank tunnel for hours, flitting in and out of consciousness. A dead rat floated by at one point, scarcely registering at the corner of his vision. Bones were probably broken, many most likely. But he couldn't feel it. He couldn't feel anything. Every inch of him was numb. Shaking and retching from adrenaline. Mindoir was far away, as if he were looking at it through a telescope – a cold, distant star in space. Leaves rustled every so often. A rusty weather vane creaked in the wind. The sounds of a dead colony.

Night eventually came, and with it the familiar sounds of crickets chirping. Fireflies dotted the landscape, a sight often enjoyed as they sat on their back porch, Jane running around capturing them in a jar. Now it was all wrong. Empty and wrong.

It was the hum of engines he heard first. The vague outline of shuttles as they crept along the horizon. Blue and white. Alliance colors. At first the notion of rescue didn't really register, later, when he was older and wiser, he'd realize that shock had silenced him. But he was still a boy, unaware that the following days' events would turn him into a very different man. He laid there quietly, listening to a human barking out orders. As they progressed into the colony's heart, something changed in the soldiers' tone. Distressed shouting. Shrill voices. Phrases like 'oh my god' and 'these poor people' carried through the darkness.

He laid there silently while thick, rubber boots marched across their land, flattening crops in their wake. They searched for any hint of life, growing defeated as they crossed the corpse of Mindoir. He watched, detached, as they zipped his father's body up in a black bag and loaded him onto a stretcher. Watched as another bag was carried out of their modest farmhouse. Something about the finality of it sunk deep in the pit of his stomach. And it shook him from the depths of shock.

These were soldiers. And he knew which ship took the colony. "I… I'm in here." At first his voice was shaky, barely more than a whisper. He swallowed, breathed in, and forced the words out, louder this time. "I'M IN HERE."

He felt more than heard a gaggle of boots squelch to a halt. Something had changed in the air.

The leader's voice rang out. A sharp sound in the midst of devastation. "Hey! Hey! We've got a survivor."

His hands grasped a small stone and began clanking it against the tunnel walls, listening as the boots approached, following the sound.

The prospect of rescue, for whatever reason, is what breaks the dam. He feels as the tremors violently take over. The agony that was every breath. The weight of it crushing him, as he laid on his belly vomiting into the crook of his arm. His whole family was dead and Jane was.. was… it was unthinkable.

"Son, it's alright. We've got you. It's alright." A gentle hand came to rest on his shoulder. "What's your name?"

"John. My name's John." Shepard took a shuddering breath. "I know the ship… that …..that attacked. I saw the name printed on the side…. Please you.. you're soldiers…" He choked as the pain threatened to swallow him whole. "...Please my sister..."

The commander bellowed over his shoulder, words echoing in the claustrophobic tunnel, "can we get a damn medic in here?" Before turning his attention back to the badly beaten boy. "I need you to hold still. Help is coming."

"She's alive…... They took her alive. Please."

"We'll get your intel to the captain, but right now I need you to hold still. Alright? Don't try to move."

"It was the AML Amstridian. They took everyone they didn't kill."

Strong hands, so much stronger than his, pulled him from that rank pit and laid him atop a stretcher. He was ferried across the landscape, up a star-ship's ramp, and into a medbay.

In the flurry of activity, the soldiers' words didn't escape him. They muttered among each other, eyes darting from their corners, almost as if they were scared to look at him. They were in utter shock at finding someone alive. By the time the doctor arrived, crisp, white lab coat clashing against the dismal atmosphere, he knew that he was Mindoir's sole survivor. No one had to tell him that. He could see it in the way they moved, in the way they stared at him, in the way they twitched. There was no fear on their faces, only sorrow.

A nurse stared blankly. Staring, staring, staring at nothing. The doctor practically had to smack her with a clipboard before she sprung into action. She started an IV, and injected a syringe full of painkillers into the port. His thoughts dulled. The sharpness subsided. And he closed his eyes.

"He's waking up." A voice floated from somewhere above.

The doctor was by his bedside within seconds, poking and prodding. Once satisfied with the exam, they left John to his misery, heavy sedatives and painkillers numbing his thoughts.

A few hours later, the commander came to visit. Dressed in bright, Alliance blues with swarthy skin and deep brown eyes, he dragged a chair to his bedside. It was same man who pulled him from the sewer. "My name's Anderson." His casual tone made it sound like they were meeting on the steps of Golden-Fields High on a perfectly ordinary day. Nothing was ordinary. Nothing was okay. And the man's uplifting demeanor grated on him.

"My sist-" Shepard started, only to be cut off.

"Shh. Shh. Shh. The Captain is on the horn with Alliance command. You've done your part. Now let us do ours." Firm hands pressed against his shoulders, forcing him back into the bed. "But, I thought you might like some company. The doc is one of the best, a bit lacking in bedside manner though. So I figured, you could probably use it."

He laid back then, unbridled hope racing through his mind. The Alliance was on it. They'd fix everything. They'd get Jane back. They'd get them all back. After all, the Alliance was the best of the best and sworn to protect the colonies. Those bastards would rue the day they ever set foot on Mindoir. The commander would find the batarian that dragged Jane off and smash his skull in. He certainly looked strong enough. And the image of such an encounter brought a smile to his face, as he drifted to sleep.