A/N: This is a direct continuation of chapters 90 - 92. Just an FYI since I know it took me awhile to reach this point.

Anderson leaned back, nestled between two pillows, waiting for 05:00 ship time to roll around. Sleeping past three was a luxury his aging body disallowed. Every morning he woke far too early, with far too much to do before he'd be capable of closing his eyes again. Apparently, saving the universe came with a truckload of monotony. He spent the past hour reading up on salarian culture and political practices, daydreaming between the lines. And now that he was finished, there was a part of him that wondered exactly how much was absorbed. His mind hardened like a stone, unwilling to consume another drop. He snapped the laptop closed. The deal with Dalatrass Esheel had been struck months ago. And Kirrahe could fill him in on any cultural nuances he was lacking.

Without anything to fill the time, he drifted to thoughts of Shepard – finding him skulking around a sewer like a rat. His government failed that kid time and time again. But as they say, if you want something done right, do it your damn self. That was the last time he played by the rule-book when it came to John Shepard. He was determined to save that kid, come hell or high water.

2171 CE
11 Months After the Massacre of Mindoir
San Francisco, CA

He was deployed when local law enforcement failed to reign in the gangs. It was a simple task, if a bit extreme. The Alliance adopted a scorched earth policy when it came to thugs threatening council delegations. Over the past few months the West Coast gangs organized, and bombed two high value targets with their new-found unity. Nothing like the introduction of aliens to ally the most disparate of groups. There were no casualties from the bombings, but the property damage numbered in the millions. Add to the fact that Earth was still adjusting to the universal currency, and one had some very irate politicians on their hands. So far he, and his newly minted partner Kahlee Sanders, spent months wiping out the Crips and the Bloods. Their crack dens were nothing more than haphazard piles of rotted wood now. A few surrendered, choosing prison over death. But most fought until the end, broken dreams dying in broken homes.

All that was left were the Tenth Street Reds – a gang formed shortly after the ceasefire order in 2157. It was comprised of a bunch of xenophobic nutbags intent on destroying any off-world presence. The founder, Reuben Carroway, was a classic sociopath. He'd recruit from the dregs of SF, preying on the cities' most vulnerable citizens, radicalizing them, then sending them off to wreak havoc in his name. In 2164 he successfully bombed SFO, killing hundreds with his suicide runners. The brass was convinced that the fiasco was the pinnacle of Carroway's career. Success had recently graced the Reds once more however. And their unsettling precision caused them to blip back onto the politicians' radar. Last month, the small-time gang successfully annihilated the Civic Center, causing both the surrounding roadway and bullet-tram to collapse in on itself. Over nine-hundred million credits in damage. It was a miracle no one was killed. If he didn't know any better, that was intentional – a gas leak was announced mere hours before the bombs went off, forcing the surrounding area to evacuate. But Carroway was not known for his compassion. The man reveled in chaos. So the theory didn't make a lick of sense, even if it was one hell of a coincidence.

"My god," Kahlee muttered, flashlight piercing into the murky black. "All this right under our feet. Are you sure we're on their trail? I have a difficult time picturing anyone navigating this place."

"They're here somewhere. We've eliminated every other route leading from the wharf to downtown."

Anderson paused, fingers gliding across the door to an old, WWII bunker. Rugged stone turning smooth against mankind's chisel. They'd spent the entire week trying to map the sewer beneath the Golden City – a treasure trove covered in shit and piss – only to come up wanting. It was an intricate labyrinth with seemingly never ending halls and corridors. Every time he thought they'd unraveled its mysteries, he'd find another level, another coil to explore. Their discoveries varied from the mundane to the fascinating – his particular favorite was an old submarine, crusted in rust, a victim of time – the omnipresent and merciless master that knew no nation, color or creed. It came for them all. Even old relics from half forgotten wars. All he'd need were a few days and some paint cleaner, then he could see what they truly had. It was a travesty that all this history was left to rot. Still, their goal was to find the Red's drug and bomb smuggling routes, then flush them out. And thus far, the only life they encountered was the occasional trash panda.

They continued in silence for miles. Eventually coming across a manhole. Everything in the sewer system was mutable, changed as the tide ravaged its bowels. This had to be a recent disturbance. He called for a halt, hand forming a fist, then silently pointed out the faint, but discernible, shoe prints. Kahlee nodded and they eased their way down.

As they descended, the smooth cement turned jagged. More natural. But the harshest angles had been eroded by millennia of ocean tides. When their feet touched solid ground once more, they found themselves in a much larger tunnel. The ceiling pitched, almost like a cathedral. Craggy rock in an oddly artificial design. That's when he heard it – human voices. They switched off their flashlights, flicking on their night vision goggles in the process, and crawled through the inky black. Only pausing when four men came into view, each lugging dense, metal containers. If the soot on their fingers was any indication, those crates were filled with black powder – the same crude, yet effective, substance used to ignite the explosives around the Civic Center.

Anderson smirked and leaned into Kahlee, a sharp whisper against her ear. "Got 'em." Rifle in hand, he inched forward. Through the scope, he could make out their faces. Young. Very young. Yet, one caught his eye. Tawny brown hair. He rubbed the back of his head with a familiarity that struck him. At first he couldn't place it, the tickle of recognition dancing just out of reach. And then the boy turned, as if sensing him, and it was all he could do not to gasp. John Shepard was in his cross-hairs. His face harder. A few lines had emerged where there had once been youthful pudge. But it was him. No mistaking it. He relayed a few silent orders to Kahlee, indicating the switch to non-lethal rounds, before flicking the lever on his own gun. When they engaged, the kids scattered and hit the floor remarkably fast. But they were no match for two highly trained Alliance soldiers. They subdued all but John, who rolled from the fray and fled before Anderson could grab him. He slapped cuffs on the trio, then launched himself into the tunnel where John disappeared. It wasn't long before he caught up with him. And the kid was impressive.

The chase went on for fifteen minutes, winding through the bowels of San Francisco. Shepard dropped every bit of cargo and debris along the way, attempting to trip him up. Still, he was no marine. And eventually Anderson caught the back of his shirt. John bucked, tearing the fabric from his hands, and they fell into the muck, grappling. He could've ended things easily. One move and he could break the kid's arm in two, but he wanted to avoid injuring him if possible. "John!" Anderson tried to catch the boy's attention. "John it's me! Stand down." His answer was a knee to the gut. Nearly knocked the wind out of him too. But he didn't have time to marvel at the kid's reflexes. And when he managed to grab onto each wrist, he wasted no time in pinning them behind John's head. "You done? Get it out of your system?"

John's lip curled as he glared at him, recognition setting in. "You. Course it's you. Can't have anyone standing up to the aliens now can you?"

"Is that what you think you're doing?"

"Get off me!"

"I do that, and you'll run again."

"I know when I'm beat."

Anderson hesitated for a moment, studying the look on John's face. Shifting his weight only when he was convinced that the kid wasn't about to bolt. They sat side by side in the muck for a time, waiting for something that wasn't going to emerge on its own. Anderson came to know that there was more than a marine in him that day, that he had a patience for this boy that he never knew was inside of him. Still, after twenty minutes of silence, enough was enough. "So… I'm waiting John. What the hell are you doing here? The Civic Center, were you a part of that? Trying to turn into a damn terrorist?"

"Don't call me that."

"John?" Anderson sputtered incredulously. "Don't call you John?"

"I go by Shepard now. Someone has to keep the family name alive." His voice. So bitter. So angry for someone so young. "And I'm here to fight back. To teach the aliens that humans won't just lay down and take it. Not like your pathetic Alliance is gonna do shit about it."

"Is that what they told you?"

"They don't have to tell. They do. Every time aliens try to make their way onto our planet, we'll be there. Every inch they try and take, we'll be there. We want the aliens off of Earth. We want our colonies protected! And we're the only ones willing to do it. Yeah the Civic Center was me. We have to send a message. Violence is the only thing they understand."

Anderson let that sink in for a few minutes. First the Alliance failed him. Then the foster system. They failed him the same way they failed countless other kids, but John had been teetering on the brink after the raid. Did they even try before shuttling him off to a group home? This was a kid who had no one left. No one. Could he really blame Shepard for the path he took? There was still plenty worth saving in him. He may have bombed the heart of San Francisco but he timed it meticulously, ensuring there wasn't a single death from the blast – that hadn't sat right with him during this whole chase. It wasn't like Carroway. The more death and destruction the better for that thug. And by the time he spoke, his mind was made up. Somehow, someway, he was going to pull Shepard from the hell he created. "You think the Reds give a damn about what happened to you? Or your sister?"

Sullen, hard eyes glared back. Darkness where there had once been a light.

"They're using you. They're using what you've been through to sway you to their side. Kid, if you want to fight slavers, I can help you fight slavers."

"You want me to join the Alliance?" A scoff. A roll of the eyes. "Fuck that."

"You're throwing your life away. That's all you're accomplishing down here. Don't mistake our short-handed, ill-prepared navy for apathy. We need guys like you. Guys who know what humanity faces in the galaxy – how tough things really are. This isn't what your parents wanted for you -"

"Don't you dare to presume to know what my parents wanted." Shepard's voice cracked with youth. His roars echoed throughout the labyrinth. "Don't you dare!"

Anderson kept his tone level, refusing to take the bait. "I saw the boy they raised, the values they instilled in you. I didn't know them, and I'm sorry for that. But no loving parent wants this for their son. And I know for a fact they taught you better. I know who I saw that day. Come with me-"

"I don't need you." He cut him off again, hands clenching a rock, absentmindedly dragging it through the slime. Sinuous lines soon to be erased by the encroaching muck.

"The fact you're down here in the first place tells me you're still a boy. Lost and angry. Lashing out. I don't blame you, but those aren't the actions of a man. Someone needs to be looking out for you."

Shepard stared ahead, the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching as he grated his teeth. At least he seemed to be listening. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

"You think you're making a difference with these guys? You're an errand boy for psychopaths. The only thing they're loyal to is a quick buck. They'll kill, steal, do whatever it takes to look out for number one. That's not who you are. I saw that much back on the Einstein. Want to grow into a man your parents would be proud of? A man you can be proud of? I'll show you how we measure worth."

At first he thought this was it, Shepard was done with the world. With society. That he wouldn't reach back for him. But then he spoke, so quietly. He could scarcely make out the words. "I failed her. I failed Jane."

"How on Earth could you be responsible for what happened on Mindoir?"

That same despondent look shadowed his features. The same look Shepard had after learning there'd be no rescue for his sister - for any of Mindoir's children. He shuddered with every breath. A hiss of pain. And if Anderson wasn't mistaken, those cheeks were damp with more than the surrounding sludge. "N-not what I meant. There was moment...I had my gun on one of the batarians. The one holding her... and I... could've shot. But it would've killed her... I didn't know. God, I didn't know that was the only way to save her. That no one would help us. No one was coming." He threw the rock against the tunnel walls. It clanged and echoed down, down and through. An empty, hollow sound. "Every minute," He choked, "Of every day I wonder what she's going through. Right now, while we sit here talking, I wonder what those filthy things are doing to her. She's almost ten now. She should be running around building forts, and annoying me with all her pets. Those damn pets that always managed to crap on my stuff or tear it apart or eat it. I know what happens to batarian slaves, particularly the human children. I wish I didn't. I wish I could get it out of my head but I can't. There's nothing left inside of me. Okay? I have no worth or whatever to measure. Just that. It consumes me. Every fucking minute, it consumes me." His voice was higher, more shrill. The boy was crying in earnest now. "And I shoulda shot her. I wish I had. It would've been horrible but it wouldn't be this. . . this. .. is so much worse than death. This will never end."

Not knowing what else to do, he wrapped an arm around Shepard's shoulders and pulled him close. Shoe on the other foot, he would have wished for the same thing. And this kid wouldn't accept anything less than honesty. There were no words for this. So, he did the only thing he could - save the one that survived. "Come home with me. I'm not so bad. Hell, I even host taco Tuesdays for the local cadets. Maybe you could meet some better quality friends before you're enrolled in the academy. I have a few connections, might be able to get you into the officer program. I'll set you on the path." He gave John's shoulders a quick squeeze. "Y'know, you're not the only one who's lost everything to batarian slavers. We have entire platoons dedicated to the threat. Can you really tell me the Reds top taking the fight directly to the enemy?"

John deflated at that, head hanging. The kid was smarter than his decisions, and he could almost see the cogs turning as he slowly gave in. There was another hour of arguing in that dank mire, quite possibly the worst place to have a heart to heart with an orphaned, adolescent boy but it was what it was.

Then, finally, Shepard saw the light. He turned to him, an earnest fear creeping behind his eyes. "It's not like the Reds will let me walk away. Once you're in – it's for life."

"I'm an N7. I say you're out. You're out."

"And the cops are just gonna let it go? I… sort of destroyed downtown."

"I can keep your name out of this whole fiasco. You... made a bad choice but given the circumstances, a forgivable one. They'll put you away for twenty, thirty years over what happened in the Civic Center. And I'm not about to allow that. Your life with the Reds ends here though. It ends today. We can talk about it more back home. I'll also help you file the paperwork for emancipation from the state. Immediately. Social services screwed it up once, I don't trust them not to get it bent a second time. I'm not losing track of you again kid. You have my word on that."

And so Shepard agreed. Even when his friends turned on him, he didn't rise to their jeers. They threw every name in the book at the kid – rat, traitor, pig fucker – but Shepard didn't react. Didn't even try and defend himself. He walked right out of that sewer, gaze dead ahead, and Anderson knew, before laying down the law, that he had nothing to worry about. Of course, he still emphasized a zero-tolerance policy on any contact with the Reds, drugs, or even alcohol in his house. But John complied with the ease of someone relieved at having boundaries set upon them. Something familiar to cling to perhaps – a lost remnant of family life. In fact, Shepard did everything asked of him and more. Turned his whole life around in a matter of months. Anderson was damn proud of that kid, of what he accomplished. Had he told him that? Had he ever told him how proud he was before he died over Alchera?

Try as he might, Anderson couldn't remember. And that fact brought no small amount of grief. But it was still early, too early for the ship to wake. So he allowed himself to stew in it – his regrets – until his alarm announced it was 05:00. And the daily grind began all over again.

A/N: A few revisions:

Chapter 12 now correctly reflects Sciffy's age to be much younger. (Originally she was stated to be around 11. Chakwas now guesses she's about 8 or 9. But it's merely a guess, nothing conclusive has been stated about her age at this point.) I hadn't finished fleshing out Jane's timeline/background when that was originally written.

Chapter 36 had a few details rearranged to properly reflect a conversation between Garrus and Shepard at the end of ME2.

Anyhow, I split this chapter in half as it was becoming massive. Plus, the next one involves a ton of math. And I want to spend more time combing over things. Then there's chapter 104, which has been written for 6+ months and I need to make sure everything is in order. I am way too excited to post that one so I'm trying not to get ahead of myself. Hopefully, I'll have the time and ability to go over them both this week.