Chapter 3

The way it worked around there, everyone tried hard to forget, even those with permanent memory. For some reason, she could never forget, even with the methods she used to do so by….The tides of the years had no effect on washing out her memories of years before and during the Great War and all who had come, gone from her life in that frantic time of five, seven years….if one counted the aftermath….Maybe she couldn't get over the fact that she had survived over so many of her allies, friends, innocent lives too she fought for, but never knew….To him, she was a war hero, to others a tragic figure, and still others existed who wished her dead….but no one was going to be vindictive about what she had or had not accomplished.

Where she went once the Citadel had bedded down in London from orbit over Earth, no one knew that part of her life….only that she was alive and had made her way to Cherry Lake, Colorado….She shared it not with anyone, not even during her drunk bouts with the Moonshine. It was a wonder to him why none came to collect her….She was a war hero, but no one came asking for her….Maybe they didn't know she was there all this time in Cherry Lake, Colorado….Citadel coming down like it did from Earth's orbit, she should have burned up like the rest of the bodies that were not sucked out into the vacuum of dark space. Maybe no one thought she was alive there in Cherry Lake, getting smashed every night on Moonshine. Maybe they thought she was floating with the death and debris, millions and millions still drifting forever, lost in cold galaxy….but somehow she had landed on Earth, and walked away from the wreck—All in one piece.

Somehow she had found her way here—Cherry Lake. The day she showed up at Verne's, he had been working on an old catalytic converter in his shop, near dropped his tools on his head….To be sure, he closed the garage and ran into Verne's, took a seat at the booth he would occupy every time now he went into that bar to wait for her….At first he couldn't believe his eyes, but night after night as he sat there watching her, he became accepting of the fact this was Braith Shepard….getting "cocked" on Moonshine, one startling glass after another until even the bartender tried to cut her off, but with one look from this lady's eyes, the bottle was yet opened again.

Always at seven on the dot, Rockies time, she'd come in, order her Stolych's Moonshine, and drink herself into oblivion. She must have thought she had a krogan stomach and a liver of armor. She might as well have, with how much she took in….A few times he questioned himself whether he was sound of mind to believe it was her in the flesh. No one should have been able to get away with the amount of moonshine and the consistency at which she consumed the poison. To mention something else that wasn't fair about her being there, existing with those long pours in hand, one by one—She had to have one hell of a body, mind, and soul if the liquor didn't break her soon….By the time "soon" had passed, she was still walking in, and "walking out"….in so many forms.

Once in a while, some "boy" would approach her, try to talk her out of the moonshine, but she'd give him a rude gesture or a look with her eyebrow high, warning him off. Some "boys" took the hint. Others couldn't figure out the math and turned real hostile….She didn't need to say anything to them, those types, to get them riled, and though she could have handled their "sidling asses" out the door, not one ever laid a hand on her….nor got her to talk more than a word….Those who got too close for his liking heard the movement of him leaving the booth, and immediately, sometimes reluctantly, moved off the fair lady.

In a way they became the unspoken "pair" there in Cherry Lake without actually ever holding hands or making any small talk. He didn't engage her more than with a look, and despite a wink, nod, or a smile here and there from her, there was no "getting together" at the bar, or walking home arm in arm….not ever.

He would take his seat in the back booth, wait, watch, protect if need arose, then simply walk her home….Sometimes—and always she'd pass by his shop on the way to Verne's—she'd go in the daytime, sometimes a bit more frequently….other than at her seven o'clock "itch"….and he, being the only mechanic in town, would close the garage and take a break to go check-in on her until she left—if she left at all….Sometimes that would mean pausing all work despite the customers' complaints and deadlines.

It was clear to the regulars at Verne's they were an "item" and only those who were new in town and laid eyes on her, were these the ones to learn quick of the "guy in the back" always watching her and following her home….He never spoke a word, and she never to him, but it was clear….they were "together".

He made sure no one touched her, or harassed her more than a look or a gesture from the lady, and folks began to leave her alone to her drinking, her misery….If they didn't, the unwavering gaze of the fellow in the back was ready to wither their hot stares….No, no one touched her or got uppity long enough to warrant a word with him, but the persistent problem of her drinking grew a "head" with the ever-increasing frequency of her visits to Verne's during the daytime, and he noticed….He was closing up shop more often, falling behind in projects, but being the only mechanic in town—and the best—he managed not to lose business while he tracked her in, and tracked her home. It was the anniversary of the end of the Great War when it hit her the worst….He followed her from Verne's on what started with her walking then gradually devolved to crawling all the way to her house down the road.

She fell like a tombstone, hands and knees catching dust and dirt, and yet she managed, she managed on….He didn't dare touch her. It would have felt like a violation of the worst kind—to interfere with her battle, a battle she insisted on fighting every night, especially that one, on her own….It was an ungainly struggle, one she needed to prove something to herself, that somehow she could "best" it….He didn't stop her or pull her up, but inched along behind her, well back to give her her space of "dignity"….or her space of "dignified struggle"….A key had fallen out of her hand, and she had forgotten about it on the road there behind her….He had picked it up, followed that crawling woman all the way to her drive, all the way to her stoop, and he went ahead of her, tried the key in the lock….It opened.

He made sure she was inside, safe and sound as circumstances would allow, then locked the door, and slid the key under the bottom to the inside, the door in need of weather stripping….That was the first night he set foot on her stoop….The next day she appeared at his shop and placed her key on the counter with a look to the machine he used for copying auto keys.

He understood, and still without words between them, he made a duplicate of her housekey and placed it in a bag on the counter with the original….She paid for the work, reached into the bag to take her key, left the bag with the copy there inside it as she walked out the door.

He picked up the bag and walked after her departing form in the jeans, the worn tee-shirt, the boots carrying her out the doorway without stopping….He tried to offer it to her, but she ignored him.

He now owned a key to her house, and would use it to let her in, then lock her up safe, when she was drunk as a skunk and unable to remember or figure out the keyhole itself….and never did he use it or share it for any other reason.

"You the guy who keeps a watch on her?"

The mechanic was difficult to see as the car up on the lift was suddenly lowered, blocking view of him in the dark, dusty garage with its old machinery and crowding….Kaidan tried to move to see him better when the lift had lowered its load, his eyes adjusting from the bright sunlight he stood in outside the shop.

"We don't really have much to do with each other, but yes," he saw the dark-haired man in the fatigues pointing towards her house down the road, now lowering his arm, "….I keep an eye out for her."

"I'm a friend," the mechanic stepped away from the lift and the car, "….Some men in that bar told me to talk to you before I go find her….Damn," Kaidan was taken aback by the size of the mechanic, "….You're not from around here, too…." The mechanic had a wrench in his grip, which he passed from one hand to the other.

"What did you say your name was."

"Kaidan….Alenko….You know if she's around?"

"How do you know her."

"We were soldiers in the war….and before that she was my officer, and a friend….I can give you my I.D.….You think you can pass it along to her for me?….I'll wait in the bar, and if she could meet me there….You'll have to make sure she gets that and brings it back to me."

"You wait at that bar until seven," the mechanic handed him his I.D. back, "….and she'll be around."

"Could you maybe see if she'll go sooner?….It's kind of important….I'll just go and knock…." The wrench was an idle tool in the dirty, gold hands, but idleness was becoming threatening with the way the mechanic was now staring at him. "I'll….wait…." Kaidan pocketed his I.D. and turned to head towards the bar down at the end of the road again.

The mechanic closed the garage door and secured it, turning towards the house opposite the man named Kaidan Alenko walking on towards Verne's. He started walking….It would be the first time he said anything to her.

He crunched along the worn road in heavy blue overalls. Turning down the drive towards the house with its peeling and blistering white paint, he strode on towards the front stoop, touching his waist for a pocket containing a key tied in by thread….Two levels to the house, the seam of projecting upper floor divider in need of new clapboard, in his opinion.

He knocked first, standing there on the stoop, and when no one answered he removed his copy of her housekey and slid it into the lock, turning right and freeing the catch.