Chapter 15: Holding Pattern
Command Deck and Crew Deck, Normandy SR2, before Dossier: The Warlord. CW: ungenerous opinions about the foster/ward system from Ashley Williams. Published 7/2/22, last updated 7/18/22.
Care warning: ungenerous opinions about the foster/ward system from Ashley Williams.
Command Information Center
Shepard resettled her knee as it twinged a warning and pressed a key.
The static in her ear stayed constant.
"All right, you son of a bitch. How about…"
She panned ten degrees west. The signal peaked.
"Gotcha. You're up, Joker."
Silence.
"Joker!"
"Crap! Sorry, Commander, muted myself. I'm here. You find another one?"
"Yep." She reached for her coffee and grimaced, setting it down. Lukewarm and watery.
"Marking the coordinates. Do your thing, EDI."
"Yes, Mr. Moreau. Probe away."
"All right, you're good."
She huffed out a breath and kept scanning.
Main Battery/Gunnery Officer's Quarters
Garrus shut his eyes, opened them, and stared at the screen.
The message was still there.
INTERNAL COMPILER ERROR
He tapped in another command. More lines unfurled, trotting out details.
INTERNAL COMPILER ERROR: SEGMENTATION FAULT
$ gcc segfault.c -g -o segfault
$ ./segfault
Segmentation fault
Segfault. Really?
Another window popped up.
You have encountered a segmentation fault.
"You said that," Garrus muttered.
This may be due to incorrect input.
"I know, damn it."
Please contact Technical Support.
"I can't," he told the screen. "I'm stationed on a ship funded by terrorists and the thing I'm writing is classified."
Also, the shell he'd used was technically still in beta on Palaven.
He looked at the output again.
Damn it. Damn it. Of fucking course.
Garrus sighed and pulled up the code.
XO's Quarters
Miranda closed her console, rolling her head on her neck, and wondered what other people did when they crossed off the final item on their daily docket at 09:37 in the morning.
They were in orbit around Neith, catching some R&R before they hit Korlus in the neighboring system. Shepard had been cleared for light duty and had spent the last two cycles learning the newly installed Argus Scanner. "I've got no problem sitting this one out, but the shield upgrades take priority," she'd told Jacob when he suggested a different ground team handle Okeer's extraction. "Too many close calls. Not one member of my team comes under fire again 'til they can maneuver out of cover."
After processing the last medical bill from Kenzo, she thoroughly approved of the decision.
She flexed aching hands and woke her omnitool. Her clerical duties had seen a 93% decrease in frequency since the commander's discharge. In acknowledgment of the pragmatism of keeping Cerberus apprised of their progress, Shepard had authorized a limited status report to the Illusive Man every seven cycles. The effect was significant, freeing up two to four hours a day in her schedule.
It was also a recent enough development that she hadn't managed to fill the gap with other recurring tasks, which left her here, well before noon, slightly bored and looking for something to do.
A message scrolled through her notification marquee: Jacob, soliciting her assistance with a funding request. Miranda stood and began gathering the materials she'd need. It was as good a use of her time as any.
Command Information Center
Shepard checked the strip again.
Audio output normal. Visual read normal and hovering at ten percent.
"Christ," she muttered.
"What?"
"I said, 'Christ,'" she repeated, rotating the image by ten degrees and starting over. "You answer to that now, Moreau?"
"Uh, I have a god complex, Commander? Not a messiah one."
"I remember. According to your own resume, you're the best damn helmsman in the Alliance fleet."
"Nah, I updated that after Cerberus recruited me."
"That so?"
"Well, think about it. Illusive Man said they were recruiting the best in the galaxy for your team, and guess who they asked to pilot the ship."
"Dunno." She stifled a yawn and reached for her coffee again. "Heard our helmsman was an AI. Not really sure what you're doin' here."
"Aw, cheap shot."
"Yeah, I know."
Main Battery/Gunnery Officer's Quarters
Garrus couldn't find the error.
It was probably some classic eyes-glazed-over fuckup, a mistyped pointer or an open parenthesis without its mate lurking in plain sight. Too bad the code was hundreds of pages long at this point.
That was always the situation. It was never a nice, short program to proof by the time you hit segfault. You only ever realized once you'd been writing for six hours straight, churning out statements and dereferencing data in some sort of fugue between sleeping and waking, while the heat death of the universe set in and your cooked brain rolled right past Rule fucking One of coding, which was to compile every few steps and save yourself the personal hell of having to identify one rogue character in a literal wall of diacritics and numbers.
Maybe he'd get lucky. Garrus scrolled to a random section three quarters in and skimmed through.
No joy.
He sighed. He could learn from this experience, but he wouldn't. It was too easy to find a rhythm and keep it.
Still, it was definitely unfair and someone else should have to deal with it. Shame Tali was off working for the Migrant Fleet.
"Fine," he told the screen. "You sit there and act like a child. When I come back you'd better be ready to talk."
He turned and left the battery.
Command Information Center
"My feelings could have been seriously hurt if I had any. I think you owe them a little something for the scare."
"'A little something'? You talkin' to me or your porn collection?"
"Come on, Commander. You know I only watch that stuff when I've got a hand free."
"All right, Flight Lieutenant. Let's pretend to keep it professional now, 'kay?"
"Suit yourself. But now you really owe me."
"Yeah? How's that?"
"You feel better now, don't deny it. Pulling rank always makes you feel better."
"...Y'know, I sorta do."
"Yeah, I know you too well."
Command Information Center
Miranda looked up from her datapad as the elevator opened.
Commander Shepard was at the CIC. In headphones, for some reason, jacked into an operator's station at the array of consoles that ringed the galaxy map. Neith's mineral readouts and topographical data flashed across the screen.
She'd caught her unaware. A coffee mug sat on the console to her right, her dress jacket and the cane Chakwas had issued at discharge bundled beside it. She'd stretched out her legs, shoes propped on the workstation that would have been occupied by a neighbor to the left if the bridge weren't deserted.
Not for the first time, Miranda wondered if the Alliance attracted personnel with a predilection for aggressive manspreading, or created them.
Shepard cupped the headphones in both hands and leaned forward, staring at something on-screen. "Do me a favor, you piece of shit, c'mon…" She manipulated the controls. "Found one, Joker." She listened, then snorted. "Not even close. I'm only twenty-five percent done here."
Miranda hesitated. Before Shepard's injury, she'd have passed by without engaging. She'd come to analyze telemetry with Jacob, not converse with the ship's captain. But with the commander in medbay until recently, they hadn't spoken one on one since the incident in the battery weeks before. Better to do this now.
She stepped forward. "Commander Shepard?"
"Please." Shepard fiddled with the interface, and Neith's image scan rotated a few degrees clockwise. "Your job looks just like this, 'cept you're stuck across the bridge. Imagine if you were s'posed to be kicking down doors and got chained to a fucking desk."
Miranda moved into her field of view. "Shepard."
She looked up. "Lawson. Back in a sec, Joker." She swung her feet down and swiveled away from the station, pushing the headphones off one ear. "Sorry about that. Hard to hear over the feedback."
"It's not a problem, Commander. How is the Argus Scanner working out?"
"Lot better than our old setup." Shepard glanced over her shoulder at the readouts. "I can get away with ten, fifteen degree strips, so we're saving time. I appreciate you puttin' in the request."
"Any time, Commander." She fingered her datapad, wondering how to broach this topic, and was spared the initiative as Shepard sat back and surveyed her.
"Looks like you've got something on your mind, Miranda. I read that right?"
First name use, her mind noted automatically. OCS bread and butter. That didn't mean it wasn't effective, she supposed.
"Yes, that's right." She squared her shoulders, linking her fingers behind her back. "Shepard, I wanted to—"
"Hang on," she interrupted. "No wrong answers, but how long of a conversation are we lookin' at?"
"I'm not sure, Commander." She reviewed all the ways this interaction could go. "Anywhere between five and twenty minutes, I would guess."
"Lemme get up." She disentangled herself from the headphones and pushed out of her seat.
"Shepard, you don't need to—" she began.
"No, I do." She settled against the console, stiffly. "One, Alliance conditioned me real well to feel uncomfortable sitting through a report. I never climbed high enough to be the guy behind the desk." She braced her hands on the console behind her and leaned forward, flexing her healing knee. "Two, Doctor Chakwas wants me off the leg unless I can't help it, and after two hours with Argus here, I really can't." She looked up. "All right, go ahead."
Miranda steeled herself. This was the right call. "I want to apologize for going over your head, Commander," she said. "With reporting, officer appointments, rights to privacy—all of it. It's your mission, Shepard, and it's my job to make sure you succeed. I'll try to be conscientious about what that means to someone with your history of service."
A pause, while Shepard's eyes scanned her face. Then she straightened, hooking her thumbs into her pockets.
"Water under the bridge, Lawson. But I appreciate you saying it." She shrugged. "To be fair, we were workin' from different ends. I came in treating this like an Alliance operation, but I knew it was Cerberus writing the checks. Wasn't easy to sit with, still isn't, but I knew."
"Cerberus may fund us, but it's whatever you need it to be from here on out, Commander," Miranda returned. "Just let me know what you want, and I'll make sure it happens."
Shepard nodded. "Will do. Thanks, Lawson."
They looked at one another for a moment. A little uncomfortable, but not nearly as tense. That was an improvement. She should take the opportunity to make conversation.
"Are we approaching our quota for the shield upgrades?" she asked.
Her mouth quirked. "Safe estimate? We're pretty damn far from it." The screen had dimmed to standby mode. She half-turned and tapped a few keys at random, waking the program. "Neith's a desert world. Lots of deposits, no tells. I've got no continents, bands, or storm centers to go on."
Miranda looked at the image scan. "You're right. There's not even an impact crater of proper size."
"Yep. But we need this, so I'll get it done." She shrugged, settling back against the console. "Can't promise it won't take me all day."
She nodded. "I'll leave you to it, Commander. My apologies for interrupting."
"Worked out, Lawson. I needed the break." She glanced around the empty bridge. Miranda wondered if she was also trying to make conversation or was simply bored. "What's next for you?"
"Rifle telemetry." She offered her datapad. "Jacob thinks we can squeeze additional funding out of Cerberus HQ for upgrades if we can correlate performance drops with shield stress."
"Wouldn't say no to that." Shepard took it, scanning the charts. "Hope I don't queer your numbers. I spend a lot of time getting my ass shot." She handed it back. "Do me a favor, Lawson, and spin that to our advantage, all right? Can't seem to shake the habit." She rapped her brace with her knuckles, smiling one-sidedly.
Another cornerstone of OCS. Find common ground; build rapport by making jokes at an officer's expense. Still, this conversation could have gone much differently. It was a concession to the importance of this mission, a professional decision she respected.
"Of course, Commander," she answered. "Whatever you need. What do you think of, 'Contrary to the rest of the known universe, Shepard's numbers actually improve the more she recklessly endangers herself'?"
"Got it in one. Sign off with 'Now give us the money to let her get shot at with impunity.'"
She stifled a smile. Shepard grinned.
"How'd it feel, Lawson?"
"How did it feel?"
"Y'know, participating in the bullshit. Told you it was easier to lean in."
"It's one thing to know and another thing to execute, Commander," she said. "If you think I have the ability to keep up with you and Vakarian when you start talking about…knitting patterns…or, or Victorian fashion trends, or the history of gambling in the middle of a firefight, you're sorely mistaken."
"I mean, feel free to turn the conversation to another topic. Surprising no one, the subject doesn't really matter as long as someone can work in a smartass quip."
"I'll try to keep that in mind." Miranda looked at her datapad, then back at Shepard. "Before I go, Commander, I wondered if I could ask you a question for my meeting with Jacob."
"Shoot."
"I noticed in my initial review that you never use your SMG. Why is that?"
Mess Hall
The mess was deserted when he reached it, though the motion-activated lights hummed overhead, indicating a recent vacancy. He pulled open the fridge.
Stacks of sealed trays, rows of bottled water and energy drinks and the carbonated beverage Ash called soda and Doctor Chakwas pop. All tagged red for levo consumption.
There was something yellow in the back of the second shelf. He thrust an arm past and groped until his talons closed on a bottle.
Garrus drew it out, reading the text printed on the label.
POMsel! The original pomegranate-flavored seltzer! Friendly for dextros, fun for everyone!
Well, if it was fun for everyone.
He set it on the counter and was going back in for a lunch tray when he saw the levo coffee dispenser. Someone had obviously tried to fill a mug and abandoned the attempt. Flecks of dried coffee stained the counter, and the LED was flashing red.
He opened the lid. The reservoir was empty. Filter and mugs were dirty, too.
Garrus looked at the dispenser, at the mess on the counter and the mugs in the sink.
His talons twitched.
Command Information Center
"I noticed in my initial review that you never use your SMG. Why is that?"
"The Tempest?" Shepard grimaced. "I mean, I know it's your pick. But it's a full-aut rifle with a hair trigger and diminishing returns at range. Feels like spraying sand."
"That's accurate," she admitted, setting her datapad on the console. "On the other hand, kinetic barrier technology just isn't able to withstand its RPM, which makes it invaluable in the field."
"Fair point. Different strokes, I guess." Shepard bent forward again, flexing her knee. "I like a gun with high recoil and low climb. Semi-aut DMR or bolt action SR with a solid trigger pull's right up my alley. Just punch through, 'stead of whittling down."
"That's clear from your loadout." She settled against the console beside Shepard's. "Your most-used pistol and shotgun are the Carnifex and Eviscerator. Then there's the M-98 and Mattock you and Vakarian have registered. You run to similar tastes."
"Yes and no. For me it's about feel. Good gun needs weight. Kick." She considered, crossing her arms. "For Vakarian, safe to say it's about control. He's gotta be the one setting all the variables, and full aut's not gonna give him that."
Miranda thought back to their time groundside so far. "Yes, I can believe that."
The commander examined her nails. Her healing scars glowed faintly in the light of the interface behind her. "Speaking of Vakarian, how d'you think he's holding up?"
She stiffened, then tried to hide it. "What do you mean?"
"I mean I retained him as Gunnery Officer," Shepard said. "Against Taylor's recommendation. My read was that he was at peak or near it, no serious emotional or physical issues. But Mordin told me he was suffering fatigue after our first groundside mission, and he took a lot of fire on Kenzo, so maybe I made the wrong call. You're my XO, Miranda. I want to know what you think."
This was absolutely a test.
"I trust the Illusive Man, Commander," she said slowly. "If he sent us a dossier, it was because he thought Archangel would be a valuable asset to the team."
"I didn't ask what the Illusive Man thought about Archangel, Lawson. I asked what you thought about Garrus Vakarian."
The rebuke made her straighten off the console without thinking. "My apologies, Commander," she said.
"At ease. And none needed as long as you answer the question."
"Yes, ma'am." She settled against the station again, slowly. "I...I believe Gunnery Officer Vakarian has proven himself useful. On the ground, he's good at controlling enemy movement. Good at assessing threats to the squad. He keeps us apprised of new developments, freeing up the fire team's attention for close range combat. I think he can be trusted, not as a member of Cerberus but as one of your crew, and will competently assume our responsibilities if both of us are killed in action. As for outstanding physical or mental issues, I can tell you more after speaking with Jacob, and we should consult with both Doctor Chakwas and Doctor Solus for an expert opinion. At a glance, however, his telemetry doesn't suggest any decline in efficacy from beginning to end of a mission. He also got you off Omega without backup despite sustaining severe wounds. I agree with the Ill—with you, Commander. Vakarian is an asset to the team. I have no concerns or complaints to share."
Shepard raised an eyebrow. "And his running commentary? Any complaints about that?"
"That's a personal grievance, Commander. At any rate—"
"Yeah?"
"I have a suspicion I was being hazed," she said. "And I suppose I deserved it."
Mess Hall
Garrus scraped the filter into the levo composter and turned back to the sink. The mugs were steam-drying in the load he'd started and would be out soon.
He definitely wasn't doing makework chores to avoid going back to that fucking console.
It was fine. Shepard had practically lived off this crap on the SR1, and she was testing the new scanner up in CIC. At some point she'd be down here looking for a boost.
It was the end of a twelve hour shift, and he'd nearly finished installing the Mako's new ablative plating to replace the charred wreck that remained from its last face-first encounter with a Colossus.
Ordinarily the commander would have his ass for skimping on R&R, but she was nowhere in sight and Williams wasn't around to report him. Besides, there were only a couple pieces left.
Time for a refill.
He reached the mess to find Shepard posted up against the counter, sipping coffee as she listened to Doctor Chakwas. Seeing him, she straightened. "I have reports to file, Doc," she said. "We'll have to pick this up another time."
"Of course. Goodbye, Commander Shepard."
She left the mess, nodding to him as she passed. Chakwas's eyes tracked her to her office, and her lips were pursed, which probably meant something.
He edged around her to reach the dextro dispenser and topped off his canteen. Turning to leave, he found himself boxed in by the doc. There was no way to escape, and it was now clear that Shepard had used him for her own exit strategy.
Crap.
"Garrus Vakarian, it'd be more healthy to take a daily dose of stims than to drink that rubbish at the regularity you do," Chakwas told him sternly. "You and the Commander both are going to run yourselves into the ground."
"I appreciate your concern, Doctor," he said cautiously. "I do try to be careful with my intake." He hadn't had much face time with the ship's Medical Officer, but he knew how seriously she took the crew's physical and mental wellbeing.
"It's all very well to know your limits, but it means nothing if you're ignoring them. Every organic needs rest." She shook her head. "In drinking coffee at every hour of the day, you're just disrupting your sleep rhythms and building up your sleep debt. And I hope you know that if you carry on like this, eventually you won't be able to repay it. You'll grow increasingly tired, and a tired soldier makes mistakes."
"Doctor," he said, trying to appease her, "I'm almost at the end of my shift, anyway. I just need to finish a few things on the Mako, and then I'll get my racktime. I promise."
Chakwas's eyes narrowed. "Almost? By my calculation, Garrus, your shift should have ended ten minutes ago." The doctor plucked the canteen from his talons and seized his elbow, steering him towards Shepard's quarters. "I think a visit to the commander is in order."
And then, ever dutiful, Shepard had chewed him out and set Williams on him to make sure he went straight to his bunk and stayed there. He'd been too much a C-Sec grunt then, too much a turian, too uncertain of his position and rights on the SR1 to say he was too old to have a bedtime and point out that the commander was drinking the same garbage that Chakwas had just confiscated from him.
They were in a better place now, he decided, wiping down the counter. Shepard drank coffee, he drank coffee, Chakwas shook her head but said nothing, and they were all closer for it.
The LED on the dishwasher had cycled from yellow to green. He opened the door and began unracking mugs.
Command Information Center
"I have a suspicion I was being hazed. And I suppose I deserved it."
Shepard scrutinized her, then nodded. Her expression was impossible to read. "All right." She shifted, reaching for the headphones. "Thanks for the input, Miranda. I should get back to it."
"Of course, Commander. I should get to work as well." She moved towards the armory. Slowed, checked her omnitool, and turned back.
"Shepard, it's still early. I have the time in my shift to spell you, if you need a break."
The commander drew her feet off the console to which they'd already returned, looking over her shoulder. "You're kidding. I give you an out, Lawson, and you're coming back for more?"
"If you don't n—" Miranda began.
She held up a hand, swiveling around. "No, I'm taking it. Just thought you'd bolt the hell out of here given the chance."
She returned to the operator's station. "I'm not military, Shepard. Over half my job is administrative."
"Yeah, this is worse than reports, XO. Can't wait to fob this off on the yeoman." She drew the headphones off her neck and handed them over.
Miranda turned them in her hands, trying to hide her skepticism. "The Argus Scanner's programmed to work with your communicator, Shepard," she said tactfully. "If you want I can—" She looked up to see her grinning. "Is something funny?"
"Just ask, Lawson."
She shook her head. "Please explain the headphones, Commander."
Mess Hall
Garrus looked around. He was running out of things to do in the mess. Given that a failure to fabricate viable initiatives would lead him straight back to the battery, he wasn't giving up without a fight.
Two trays were out at the tables, contents picked over. He scooped them up to deposit in the dish chute, then paused. Washing them by hand would take longer.
He switched on the water and watched it sluice off the first tray, taking none of the dried food with it. Things had been sitting out for a couple of hours at least.
Maybe it was a civilian thing. He picked up the scrub brush. Shepard wasn't particularly meticulous about her kit, but she racked what she took out and kept her gear in order. The same had been true of everyone on the SR1, from Williams to Presley to Tali. He'd been a little surprised by the last—she'd just been a kid, all things considered—but apparently the Migrant Fleet didn't let things slide.
"Live on a ship long enough and you get used to having no space of your own," she'd told him when he asked. "It is everyone's job to keep the Fleet clean and in working order. If you do not take care of your own messes, then what's to say the next person will take care of theirs?"
That talk had precipitated one of his early attempts to understand non-turian mores and interests without Pallin or a docent breathing down his neck. Back then he'd done it by asking his shipmates instead of searching the answers online like a normal person. Possibly to some crewmen's chagrin. Or maybe no one gave a damn. At any rate, it had turned out that in the Alliance, grounds for personal organization ranged from pragmatism to SOP to fear of God or man to politics.
"Comes of being a marine," Alenko had said. "The guy who misplaces his medigel pack is the guy who dies first on deployment."
"If you'd had Gunnery Chief Ellison as your training officer, you'd never leave your crap lying around either," Williams quipped as they cleaned rifles.
Presley he'd found at the CIC. "Nowadays," he'd begun, "Joining the Alliance means joining the crew of a frigate or cruiser. There just isn't enough space on a ship to let things get cluttered."
Shepard had leaned against the Mako, coffee cup in hand.
"Turians enlist at fifteen," she pointed out. "That means you've all gone through basic and a space rotation, minimum, right? They don't teach you to stow your gear?"
"Not formally. Cleaning common spaces, keeping your bunk and locker squared away...that's just expected. It's not something that has to have a delineated protocol or an inspection schedule. No one checks to see if we've made our beds to rule or racked our guns identically."
"Got it." She sipped. "I'm guessing differences in governance might have something to do with it. Your Hierarchy covers the whole homeworld?"
"Palaven and its off-world colonies, yeah, since the Unification War."
Shepard shrugged. "Humans aren't unified under one jurisdiction or culture. Systems Alliance has a ton of regs 'cause its recruits come from dozens of sovereign nations. Even recruits from the same country start all over the board. Some're army brats. Some're bi-world colony kids already fluent in Galactic. Some are just kids from the 'burbs."
"What were you?" he said, before realizing it might be rude to ask. "Sorry, Commander. I—"
"Gang runner," Shepard cut across. "Back on the homeworld. City called Vancouver, in Canada. Fell outta foster at five. Got picked up by the roughnecks who patrolled that part of town pretty soon after that. Enlisted at eighteen and got the hell outta there. I think there's a couple bios on the extranet if you want to read more." She straightened, looking at something behind him. "Talk to you later, Garrus."
He watched the elevator doors close, then realized Ash was standing next to him.
"Chief?"
She cuffed him on the shoulder. "Nice. Next time do a little research before running your mouth off. Commander hates talking about her past."
"What's foster?" he asked as she went back to her guns.
Ash picked up the Sokolov VII she'd been working on. "Foster's where you get parents for rent. Back on Earth there are assholes who pass kids around for the paycheck." She checked the gun's sights. "Shepard was an orphan."
"She is an orphan, you mean."
"No, she was. Now she's LC Shepard, and unless you want your ass handed to you, you don't ask her about what happened before the Alliance, G."
Command Information Center
"Please explain the headphones, Commander."
"Borrowed 'em from Moreau for the sound insulation. Communicator's open-air. Hook it up, you hear every time a crewman walks by or the elevator shows up. Put those on," she nodded at the headphones in Miranda's hands, "Nothin' but static. Like sitting in a rock tumbler."
"Lovely."
"Better'n having to check the same strip ten times 'cause people keep talking on the bridge. Though I guess everyone's cleared out for now. I probably had something to do with that." She pushed to her feet, reaching for her cane. "Back in twenty. I appreciate the assist, Lawson. Don't forget Joker's on the line with you."
Miranda took the vacated seat. "Not a problem, Commander. Take your time."
Mess Hall
The dishes were done, the mess was squared away, and he'd officially run out of ways to avoid his self-created problems. All good things came to an end.
Garrus ladled an octuple helping of grounds into the clean filter and set it to brew. If the SR2 crew didn't like espresso strength coffee, well, that was what water was for. He picked up his carbonated drink, snagged a stack of energy bars from the cabinet, and trotted back to the battery.
Mess Hall
Shepard stepped onto the crew deck, shrugging on her dress jacket. Her cane squeaked against the floor as she headed to the deserted kitchen.
Gardner was working hard. Place was cleaner than she'd seen in weeks.
A pot of fresh coffee was brewing in the levo dispenser. She dumped the dregs of her old mug and opened the fridge.
Rations must've come in recently. The shelves and doors were packed top to bottom and front to back with canned drinks, sealed meal trays, and packages of raw ingredients. She scanned the tags: all red. Levo stuff was squirreled away at the back. Probably not by design, but not something she wanted to see become habitual.
Shepard activated her omnitool and checked the clock.
Just a couple minutes in. She had time to address this.
She doffed the jacket she'd just put on and set aside her cane, crouching with due caution for her knee. Stiff, tender, didn't love this amount of flexion, but fine.
"EDI?" She took out a stack of trays, then another.
"Yes, Shepard."
The tower of foodstuffs on the floor grew. She began pulling raw ingredients. "New policy, take note."
"Listening."
"Top left shelf in the mess hall fridge to clearly labeled, color-coded yellow, and reserved for dextro-amino ingredients, food, and drink to ensure equitable access to rations and reduce risk of anaphylactic incidents arising from unintentional ingestion of biologically incompatible foodstuffs. One shelf apiece in the pantry and cabinets to be likewise marked. Remaining shelves in fridge, pantry, and cabinets to be clearly labeled, color-coded red, and reserved for levo-amino ingredients, food, and drink, for reasons above stated." She sat back on her heels, surveyed the landscape, and began shifting dextro-tagged items to the top left shelf. "Repeat that back."
EDI obeyed.
"Confirmed and made effective immediately. Apprise Gardner of his responsibilities and notify the crew."
"Mess hall protocols updated. Messages sent."
"Thanks. That'll be all." She levered herself upright and closed the door.
"Logging you out, Shepard."
The coffee had finished brewing. She poured herself a mug and went back to the CIC.
15:44 You responsible for that coffee I found in the mess earlier?
Guilty. How was it? 15:49
15:50 Disgusting as hell, highly effective
I try. 15:50
15:50 Figured
15:50 The only people on this ship who know how I brew are you, Karin, and Joker
15:50 Joker was working with me all day and the doc would never
That's true. 15:51
15:51 So why are you making levo coffee in the mess
15:51 Just your good deed for the day?
I was avoiding something. To be fair, I also washed dishes and wiped down surfaces and swept up. 15:51
Also, maybe I thought you deserved something nice since you've been demoted to admin assistant since discharge. 15:51
I read the memo on use of fridge and cabinet space, by the way. 15:51
15:52 Lot of time to push papers on light duty
15:52 Or maybe I thought you deserved something nice since you apparently took your demotion to Sanitation Officer seriously
Don't worry. It's strictly in situations where I benefit. 15:52
15:53 Good, because as much as I enjoy the countertops being clean for the first time ever, I'm probably going to need you in the field
Remember the old days when we didn't have to pick one or the other? 15:53
Good times. 15:53
[ . . . ]
Had dinner yet? 15:54
15:54 Nope
15:54 You?
Not yet. 15:54
15:54 Want company?
15:54 Could meet you in the battery
Sure thing, Shepard. See you soon. 15:54