Chapter Two; The Stranger in the Room (Part One)
Night was a quiet time in room 2B of the Alliance Medical Centre. The only sound was the deep breath of Shepard's prone form, tangled in the sheets. His injuries had healed well, but the facial scaring remained – another reminder of a different hospital, a different doctor.
It had been a year and one month since Shepard had fired the crucible that had changed everything.
Shepard's new cybernetics had helped drastically and the doctors informed him that his life expectancy had been extended accordingly. His new heart regulator let him work longer, his bone implants allowed him to hit harder and his muscle weave let him run faster and lift more. He was, all in all, the most perfect specimen of a naturally conceived human: if it wasn't for all the bits of metal holding him together. The doctors had been surprised that he hadn't simply rusted from the inside out while trapped under the rubble of London. It was a miracle he had survived at all, and yet there was something keeping him alive; whether it was sheer will and determination, or something else, Shepard was glad of it.
Shepard moved under the duvet. Sliding his right hand under the pillows while his feet twitched in the open air.
A hovercraft drifted lazily overhead.
Suddenly Shepard was wide awake, his N7 Eagle grabbed from under his pillow and braced with both hands pointed directly at the slightly ajar door.
There was silence as Shepard strained to hear. It wasn't unusual for soldiers, both current and retired, to jump at the slightest noise. Even imagined threats were sometimes enough to send a battle-tested soldier over the edge.
A forest. A boy. Leaves – or was that ash falling from the sky? Laughter, and then no more laughter. A heartbeat and laughter. And then, again, silence.
A drip of water could be heard down the corridor.
Shepard remained tense. When other men and women would have relaxed and assumed they had heard nothing, Shepard was sure he had heard something.
A drip of water could be heard down the corridor.
Seconds crawled by, time ticking into oblivion. Where most would have returned to sleep, sure that their startled state had carried across from a dream, Shepard remained alert, watching the darkness beyond his door.
A drip of water could be heard down the corridor.
Wait, that wasn't right, there were no open water sources in this part of the complex. The shower block was in a different building and the kitchens were at the other end of the hall; his own bathroom was clear, and the tap securely turned off.
Still pointing his gun at the door, Shepard threw the blankets off his legs and padded quietly towards the door. Bracing his back against the wall, he took a few breaths before nudging the door open with the barrel of his gun. Sidestepping out of his room, Shepard checked both directions before moving towards the dripping noise.
The corridor itself was dark, and the small torchlight on the N7 eagle would only give away his position, so Shepard moved along by sense alone. The floor was cool beneath his bare feet, the sterile hospital air caused the hairs on his arms to stand on end.
An air conditioning unit whirred above, while the dripping sound became more distinct. Shepard had moved about two hundred yards from his bedroom door when, suddenly, his right foot slipped from under him and he went down, landing heavily on his right knee. Bracing his right hand on the floor beside him, Shepard sucked in a breath through his teeth, a jarring pain racing through his kneecap and ankle. It was only after the throbbing had subsided slightly that Shepard noticed that his hand, knee and leg were warm and sticky. Pushing himself up to rest on his injured knee, Shepard rubbed his thumb over the first two fingers of his right hand before bringing them up towards his face.
One sniff was enough to tell him what he had landed in. The cool metallic smell that seemed to travel down through his nose, accompanied by the distinct taste at the back of his mouth, as if he had eaten a particularly undercooked steak.
Blood. And by the sheen on the floor from a far-off light, a lot of it. As Shepard looked around him, he saw the blackened outline of a medical gurney, a body hanging limply on the metal top.
But something wasn't right. This body wasn't in the usual position: one arm hung down over the side, and there was something off about the head. Shepard glanced about him deciding whether to risk the Eagle's torch. After about five minutes of deliberating, Shepard flicked on the light.
The first thing he saw was the pool of blood: a bright, oxygenated crimson that spread in a perfect, uniform oval from the edge of the gurney. It was thick and starting to clot as Shepard watched. There must have been at least seven pints spilt out across the floor: too much for one person. Sure enough, as Shepard looked across the pool, there was a bloody drag mark and a series of drips moving off towards the light spilling from around the corner.
Finally, he shone the light on the gurney, and the black, staring eyes of Jonathan Freeth peered back across the darkness. His throat was sliced open and his head lolled at an awkward angle: too awkward for life. The arterial spray had travelled up the walls and was, even now, dripping from the ceiling.
The crisp grey suit was stained a darker grey, and the previously white shirt was mottled and creased. Shepard noticed that his pen torch was missing.
Shepard clambered to his feet, wiping the blood from his hand onto his shorts and that from his foot onto his opposite leg. It wasn't very pretty, but he didn't have time for that. Freeth was dead, but Dr Josephs could still be alive.
Clicking the torch off, Shepard moved cautiously around the corner, following the drag marks. There were signs that whoever had been taken had struggled occasionally, but this was followed by more blood spatters, and eventually, they just stopped.
Shepard followed the trail to a large set of double doors that no doubt led to another wing of the hospital: there was light spilling through the gaps, and muffled voices could be heard. Shepard glanced around: the corridor he was in was lined with doors, some looked like they had been kicked down, others hadn't been touched. Shepard wondered what the pattern was.
Suddenly, a door to Shepard's right opened and a man in black S.W.A.T uniform stepped out. There was a moment of calm, of complete stillness as both parties gauged the reaction of the other until, without thinking, Shepard smashed the man across the throat and he crumpled to the floor, grasping at his windpipe and gasping for air. Shepard grabbed him around the neck, the bend in his elbow pressing against the unknown assailants Adam's apple. Shepard used his other arm to constrict the attacker's throat, cutting off oxygen as the man struggled for life. Shepard braced himself against a wall and let the man kick, counting off the minutes it took to kill someone.
Eventually, the man started to fade and his struggles became less. Six minutes went by and Shepard finally let him go.
Lowering the body to the floor slowly, Shepard took stock of his opponent. He was well-armed and armoured, both a shotgun and an automatic rifle strapped to his back, and a pistol strapped to his left leg. His armour was of good quality but all the names and serial numbers had been removed: even the supply chip in the collar had been destroyed.
Everything about this man screamed hired mercenary, but there were no markings, no gang ink. He was a nobody in an expensive suit.
A scream broke through the silence. A thud which cut the scream short and then silence again.
Shepard bolted to the door, standing with his back against the wooden frame, gun raised as if in prayer. Two shadowed figures walked past the open door, luckily too involved with their own conversation to notice their prone comrade in the room.
"Do you think he knows?" asked a gruff voice. It was unmistakably American, but aside from that, it was generic enough to be indistinguishable from a plethora of districts.
"No-idea, Jay." This voice was also American, however, this was clearly a New York accent - a semi-local then, Shepard thought, unlikely to be a coincidence. Given the relative closeness to New York, the Alliance Medical Centre would be a prime target for gangs trying to steal medical supplies and then sell them on at exorbitant prices.
The footsteps echoed down the hall and as they became fainter, Shepard risked a quick glance into the corridor.
Swearing under his breath, Shepard surveyed the room. A vending machine and a coffee filter on a set of cupboards were pressed neatly against one corner wall, while the centre of the room stretched an over-long table. A small waste paper basket occupied the corner opposite the coffee machine and sprawled on the floor in front of the open door law the unknown, unnamed man. Swearing again, Shepard heaved the body out of view and propped him up against the vending machine. Silently padding back, Shepard pushed the door closed with a small click. In the silence, it had sounded like a thunderclap.
Undressing a dead man is one of the hardest things you will ever have to do. Not only due to the emotional stress, but the physical exertion of lifting a dead body and positioning it so that you can remove items of clothing. Shepard had made it halfway before sweat broke out on his forehead. Panting, he pulled the black jumper off the assailant and slipped it on over his own bare chest. With the cargo pants already on, Shepard began pulling the plate armour over his head. It was similar in style to a Kevlar vest of the late twentieth century but lighter and more supple. It was specially designed to allow for minimum weight capacity for carry whilst also affording the most comprehensive array of protection.
Pulling the hood up, Shepard was able to cover his head, face and neck in a protective webbing that masked his features. As he turned his head, checking for any detriment to sight or movement, he again caught sight of the unknown assailant. He was completely ordinary in death: a well built, dark-haired man that, had he been wearing a different uniform, could have just walked out of Alliance basic training. He looked young for a marine, but not for a merc: his smooth cheeks attesting to his youth.
Shepard sighed. Killing a man with your bare hands was different from shooting them. You didn't have the safety of distance, and you could never truly shake the experience.
A small boy plays with a toy Alliance fighter. Running, he laughs as the toy bobs and weaves in the air. Suddenly, a deafening noise: the fighter falls to the floor. He runs – he always runs.
Shaking his head, Shepard readied himself. Pressing his ear against the door, he listened carefully. The number of intruders was unknown, as was their motive and affiliation. He had no intel and no information. The enemy was truly holding all of the cards.
With the expected thunder-clap click, Shepard prised open the door, millimetres at a time. The corridor was still dark and the wedge of light that spilt out from the room cast a ghostly shaft of light. There was absolute silence, the kind that presses on eardrums and weighs on shoulders.
Stepping quickly out of the room, Shepard pushed the door closed behind him. A third click deafening in the noise-less air.
Standing perfectly still in the darkness, Shepard let his eyes adjust to the darkness. The two men, Jay and the one with the American accent, had moved down the hall towards the body of Dr Freeth, but a sliver of light still spilt from between the double doors to Shepard's right.
Shepard crouched and moved towards the doors, his gun raised to the corridor behind him. As he felt the door press against his back, Shepard stopped and shifted his focus from the corridor to the room beyond the door.
Pushing the door open slightly he scoped out the room.
It was circular with a slightly sloped floor that tipped towards a drain in the centre of the room. Pushed against the walls were metal tables with scalpels, surgical saws, clamps, scissors, swabs and a whole host of other sterile objects. Above each table was a grate, presumably that led off to an extractor unit, and a series of dials, pipes, face-masks and green and blue gas-tanks.
The blood trail that led to this room stopped just short of a dentists style chair which sat just above the drain. The back of the chair was to him as Shepard hugged the wall, keeping his attention both on the chair, and the second set of double doors directly opposite those he had entered through.
Circling around, Shepard could finally see the body strapped to the chair. What he did not expect, was to see the beaten and bruised body of an Asari. The blue-skinned alien was drifting in and out of consciousness, her head lolling side to side as her body tried to balance the need for repair with the fear of being left in the dark.
She wasn't fully aware of Shepard's presence, and so Shepard was allowed to watch her briefly. Nerala, he thought her name was. She was a member of the senior medical team here at the hospital.
Despite her bloodied face and brutal injuries, most of the blood pooled on the floor was red: human. Trying to keep a focus on three things at once, Shepard watched both sets of doors and moved slowly towards the Asari.
Relinquishing his pistol to a one-handed grip, Shepard placed a hand on her shoulder and shook it gently. Nerala's eyelids fluttered and her pupils seemed to drift in and out of focus.
Seeing that she was indeed awake, Shepard whispered quietly into her ear.
"My name is John Shepard, and I need you to wake up." Repeating this seemed to give the alien something to focus on because as Shepard said it for the third time, she blinked rapidly and seemed to return to full awareness.
Nerala struggled with the bonds holding her down for a few moments before freeing herself and pressing her right palm against her temple.
"I feel like I've been hit with a hammer" she mumbled, the words coming out slurred and distant.
"That's probably not far off." Shepard replied before asking "I know it's tough, but I need you to tell me how many there are."
Nerala hesitated before saying "Five, I think? There could be six. I think I'm going to be sick."
Shepard nodded as the Asari bent over the chair and threw-up. Taking some deep shuddering breaths and wiping her mouth, she returned to face Shepard.
"What's the plan?" She asked weakly.
"Find Josephs and get the hell outta here," Shepard replied, slipping back into his more familiar accent.
"What about Freeth?" the Asari asked.
"Dead" Shepard replied without emotion. He had seen enough dead people to numb himself to the loss of a friend, but Nerala evidently hadn't, judging by her gasp. Moving to more practical matters Shepard asked "Can you walk? We need to get out of here asap."