Hackett

Hackett stood at parade rest, staring out over the Presidium from the balcony in Anderson's office. The councilor stood not far away, leaning over with his elbows pressed to the edge of the half-wall. Gray hair and fine lines started making their home on Anderson's features over the last few years, but Hackett saw the physical effects of stress speed up his friend's aging in the time since Shepard had her mental breakdown. Soon, Anderson would be as much of a silver-haired fox as Hackett himself.

"How is Shepard?" Hackett asked without taking his eyes off the horizon. The Presidium disturbed him for some reason, though he could never really put his finger on why. Not until that moment. It bothered him because the civilians who lived on the Presidium seemed to think they existed in a bubble, separate from the 'denizens' of the rest of the Citadel and the galaxy as a whole. They thought they were safe in their little cocoon made of credits and luxury, and so many of them acted so damned entitled. Born with silver spoons in their mouths, as the old saying went.

Anderson let out a low, weary sigh and pushed himself upright. "She's doing good. Making progress."

"Good, good. I'm relieved to hear that. Do you still think she'll be ready when the reapers arrive?" Turning his head, Hackett studied Anderson's profile—he looked burned out. Hackett supposed being a member of the Council and having to deal with politics day in and day out would do the same to the best of them.

"God, I hope so." Anderson sighed again and turned away from the Presidium, making his way back into his office and took a seat at his desk. "Has Dr. Kenson shown any improvement?"

Hackett followed him over, taking a seat opposite of the councilor. "Unfortunately, no. She's still convinced that we need to submit to the reapers when they arrive and tries to escape every chance she gets. We've had to increase security." He hesitated, dreading asking the question, but he felt he must. "Anderson, can we be certain Shepard hasn't been indoctrinated, too?"

Swiveling his chair to the side, Anderson rested an ankle on the opposite knee and rubbed his hand over his face. "She's not indoctrinated."

"How can you be so sure? We know she's encountered reaper technology in her hunt for Saren and Sovereign as well as the collectors. God only knows what Cerberus did to her." Hackett folded his hands across his stomach and took a deep breath. "Look, I know how important Shepard is to you, Anderson. I'm not saying I think she is indoctrinated. I guess I just want to make sure your affection for the commander isn't blinding you to the possibility."

"She's not. You'll just have to take my word on it, Admiral." Anderson locked his gaze on Hackett, a stern yet pleading look to his eyes. "Shepard is still technically a spectre, and there are things about her situation I can't divulge as a member of the Council."

Although his gut told him Anderson was withholding not just from him but from the Council, too, Hackett didn't press the issue any further. If Anderson said he was sure, Hackett would just have to accept it, at least for the time being.

"You're welcome to contact Lieutenant Vega," Anderson said, waving a hand before letting it drop like dead weight onto the top of his desk, "and request to see her in person if it'll help to ease your mind."

Hackett stood, tucking his hands behind his back. "I may just do that. Thank you, Councilor. I should be going. Call me if you learn anything new."

"Of course." Anderson pushed up to his feet and moved around his desk, walking Hackett to the door.

The Crucible was nearly finished, and he still wasn't entirely sure what it was designed to do. All Shepard really told him was that it would end the war, but she'd called it a Hail Mary, saying it would leave a lot of destruction in its wake. Could he even still trust that she worked in the galaxy's best interest and not in the reapers'?

Either way he looked at the matter, if she was indoctrinated, they were in a lot of trouble. The Crucible and her insistence on waiting until there was no other option before using the supposed weapon could both easily be traps meant to bring about the destruction of the galaxy for the reapers. She still didn't tell him what the Catalyst was.

Hell, the Crucible was designed by a species defeated by the reapers. Realistically, he had to expect some of the protheans were indoctrinated before their demise. Even if Shepard wasn't as well, what guarantee did they have that the Crucible wasn't created to make the reapers' job easier? Shepard seemed pretty damned sure when she told him about the blueprints ….

Maybe he should go see her. He owed her the courtesy of a friendly visit at the very least. She'd saved his life and the lives of most of his crew. And, she'd always been loyal to the Alliance, even as a spectre. How many times had he asked for her help with a mission? She always came through. She even put her freedom at risk to save Dr. Kenson.

Opening his omni-tool, he connected to Alliance Dispatch. "I need to be patched through to Lieutenant James Vega, currently stationed on the Citadel."

"At once, Admiral." The woman on the other end gave him a professional smile and nod before his screen went dark.

A moment later, the lieutenant's face appeared in her place. He snapped a salute. "Admiral Hackett, sir."

"Hello, Vega. Put me on that list of yours." Hackett fought the urge to frown, knowing that under Anderson's orders, Vega had the right to deny Hackett if he wanted to. "I'm coming to see Shepard."

Vega gave him a curt nod. "Yes, sir."

Shepard sat quietly on the couch, a bottle of some sort of sport's drink in her hand. She glanced over at him as he came closer, an easy smile spreading across her face. She set the drink down and stood, raising her hand in a salute. She certainly seemed more composed than he'd expected.

He smiled and nodded. "At ease, Commander."

"Have a seat, Admiral. It's good to see you." She waved her hand at a chair and waited for him to sit down before doing the same.

"You look well. How are you doing?" He studied her for a moment.

He never knew her as well as Anderson did, but he knew her well enough to tell something wasn't quite right. It was like … she looked different somehow. Moved differently, her expressions didn't quite match up to his memories of her. Or maybe he was just paranoid and looking for any sign to prove his fears true.

She opened her mouth as if to speak then hesitated, seeming to think over her response before saying, "I'm feeling a lot better, actually. How about you, sir? I didn't get the opportunity to check and see if you were okay after the collector base."

Fear gripped his throat, and his fingers twitched, nearly forming into fists. "I'd be lying if I said it didn't leave me a little shaken up, but it's not for you to worry about, Shepard." He cleared his throat and adjusted his uniform jacket. "What do the doctors say about … your condition?"

Hesitating once again, Shepard smiled and said, "Dr. Chakwas said she's impressed with my progress."

"What aren't you telling me?" Hackett kept his face and voice neutral, not wanting to upset her, but also not wanting to sit through more half-truths. He'd had enough of that with Anderson.

She scoffed, "It would take the rest of our lives for us to tell you every little thing we've never told you."

"We?" Hackett raised an eyebrow, and for a second, he swore fear flashed through Shepard's eyes.

It was gone a fraction of a second later, locked down behind a steel mask of command. "Sorry, my words still get mixed up a little sometimes."

"She's doing a lot better with it," Vega said from somewhere behind Hackett.

Hackett turned to look over his shoulder, finding the Lieutenant sitting at the breakfast bar. "Is that so?"

Vega nodded before stuffing a bite of whatever it was he had in front of him into his mouth. His jaw worked as he chewed a few times before swallowing and adding, "When she first started talking again, she constantly spoke of herself in the plural form. Doc said something about it being a coping mechanism, a way to remove herself from the traumatic events while she worked through them."

The explanation sounded a little too rehearsed to Hackett's ears, making his hackles rise. "What else has the doctor told you?"

Vega looked away, turning his attention back to his plate and shrugged. "Can't say. It's 'need to know' classified and, you know, confidential."

There was definitely something more going on with Shepard, and Hackett didn't like being kept out of the loop. Especially not when a newly-promoted Lieutenant seemed to be in the know. "I see." He turned back around, giving his attention to Shepard. "Well then, I guess I should ask you what you feel comfortable telling me, instead."

She sucked in a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "I'm pulling it together, Admiral. There isn't time for me to sit around for much longer. I'm doing what I need to do to get the hell out of her and go kick some reaper ass." With a familiar smirk, she added, "Sir."

He watched the security feed of Amanda pacing the inside of her reinforced cell, maniacally shoving her hands through her hair before screaming obscenities at the walls. It didn't seem to ever get any easier seeing her that way. It made him furious, at the reapers, but at her, too. She'd gotten sloppy and the damn artifact got inside of her head. It ripped apart her mind and turned her into something he barely recognized. A part of him wondered if it wouldn't have been better for Shepard's team to shoot Amanda. It would've been a mercy to the woman she used to be.

"They're coming!" Her voice blared through the intercom. "They're coming, Steven, and you can't stop them! I know you're here, goddamnit! Get me the hell out of here. There's still time, we can … we can …." She devolved into sobs, collapsing against the wall and sliding down to the floor. Pulling her knees to her chest, she hid her face in her arms, rocking back and forth.

"I'm going in." Hackett turned away from the row of monitors and started walking toward the door.

"With all due respect, Admiral, I don't think that's wise," the doctor on rotation said.

Stopping, he turned back to face the blonde woman. "With all due respect, Doctor, I'm going inside."

Lips pursing, she didn't say anything else, just turned her gaze back to the monitors. He opened the door to the observation office and started down the hallway. When he reached the cell holding Amanda, he looked expectantly up at the camera stationed above the door. The door unlocked with a buzz and a click, and he opened it, stepping inside.

Amanda jumped to her feet and rushed him, but he'd expected as much and wasn't so old and rusty that he couldn't handle subduing the far smaller woman. She yelled and cursed, struggling against his grip on her, but he held tight until the door slid closed and locked behind him. When he eased his hold on her, she spun and struck him, her nails digging into his cheek.

He hissed, putting her in a wrist lock and shoving her away from him. "Damnit, Amanda! Enough!"

She threw herself onto her bed and started sobbing again. "How can you do this to me? Why don't you understand? If we just cooperate, the reapers will spare us. You have no idea the horrors that await if we resist. No idea."

"Maybe not, but I know what awaits us if we don't try to stop the Harvest." He swallowed back the bile forcing its way up his throat. "I had the unfortunate opportunity to see it first hand."

Jerking upright in his bed, sweat-drenched and gasping for air, Hackett's hands shook as he reached for the lamp. He needed to get a grip on the nightmares. His time as a prisoner of the collectors had been brief, but the droning hum of the seekers, the soulless look of the collectors' eyes, and the terrifying feeling of being paralyzed and rendered utterly helpless haunted him still. Flipping on the light, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. He propped his elbows on his knees and scrubbed his hands over his face.

Exhaustion weighed on him, coiling the muscles along his shoulders and neck into tight, painful knots. He hadn't slept a solid night since the whole ordeal. The Alliance ordered him and everyone else taken from the Buenos Aires into counseling, and he admitted, it did seem to help, but he couldn't tell his therapist everything. The threat of being pulled from active felt too risky with the war of all wars brewing on the horizon. So, he kept the nightmares to himself.

Standing, he walked across the room, the metal floor cool against his bare feet, and poured himself a glass of bourbon. He drank it in one swallow before setting the glass back down next to the bottle and headed for the bathroom. He'd wash off the sweat, maybe have another drink, and then see about getting some more sleep.