SSV Kilimanjaro-2186, Over London
19 Days post-Crucible: August 30th SER
The SSV Dunkirk was a sight that Commander Jessica Shepard hadn't been prepared to see, though her reaction was one that the aged Admiral Hackett had predicted. As the pair drew nearer to the frigate docked inside the SSV Kilimanjaro he slowed his pace, allowing her longer to gape at the sight. They were the only ones in the dreadnought's hangar presently, and the only sound besides Shepard's inaudible gawking was the slowed tempo of their boots against the steel decking underneath them. Shepard's eyes traced every inch of the Dunkirk, from the lazy curves of the frigate's protruding wings to the lazy slope of its bow, and the all too familiar sharp lines of red, black, and white that were its paint job.
The sight brought distant memories to life behind Shepard's distant eyes, her features hollowing out as she relived a life long since passed. The voice of Kaidan Alenko reverberated through her mind, echoing as if in some distant corner of the empty hangar she stood in. Flashing across her mind's eye was the sight of Ashley Williams throwing herself at the marine officers guarding the troop hatch, trying to force her way past them despite her injuries, her voice hoarse from screaming. Then Jessica was standing in the Normandy's CIC, moving towards the bridge as fast as she could despite the explosions erupting around her, and the rapid descent of the ship into atmosphere. She was pulling Joker free of his restraints and dragging him to an escape pod, and then she was weightless again—turbulently falling towards death, her air leaking from a hole in her armor. An array of memories washed through her, all of them lasting only a moment of time but leaving her face pale and hollow. As the memories wound to a close Jessica Shepard was left with no doubt in her mind that the SSV Dunkirk was a Normandy SR-1 Class Frigate. Her head slowly turned to Hackett, face devoid of the maelstrom within, "How in the hell have I never seen that?"
Hackett lead the way into the ship's open hatch, the VI's droning message about decontamination protocol serving as a background noise to his explanation, "After the destruction of the original Normandy, High Command commissioned the Dunkirk to be built; both HighComm and parliament were rather upset about how much money we spent only to lose the ship within a year. By the time that Cerberus drug you back from the grave it wasn't finished, and you and the Alliance weren't exactly speaking often." The door ahead of them slid open and allowed entrance into the strip of walkway that was an SR-1's bridge, "By the time that we had finished building it you'd brought the SR-2 under Alliance colors, and the Dunkirk was relegated to distant recon operations against the Hegemony, and then the Reapers. I brought it with me to do patrols of our assets in the area, rather than waste as much fuel as it takes to fly the Kilimanjaro to each system." He let Shepard absorb the explanation and snuck a glimpse of her running her fingers across the hull as she followed him inside-. "Anderson and I had a running bet about which of us would get an angry vidcomm about 'ghost ships'." A brief flare of sadness shot across the aged warrior's face at the mention of his deceased comrade, and as quickly as it'd come it disappeared.
Shepard limped behind him, her appearance sharply contrasting that of Hackett. He was dressed, as always, in the sharp blues and golds of a Systems Alliance Naval Officer. It seemed as though there weren't a single button, pin, or tassel out of place on the man's jacket, which only complimented the Admiral's stiff precise military gait. Several feet behind him was Commander Shepard, dressed in a black, loose fitting, N7 t-shirt, and a baggy pair of tan flight pants. When the pair had met the day before she'd been wearing what was left of her Alliance thermal underlay, still a fresh change from the medical gown that she'd worn for days, but a soiled uncomfortable fit still. Hackett had shown her some mercy and had sent an aide back to the Kilimanjaro to fetch her some clothes, specifically instructing the man to get her his own N7 shirt. While it was oversized and poorly fitting she was still more comfortable in it than she would've been any other shirt. Jessica Shepard wasn't one to show off her achievements or revel in her ranks, but the familiarity of the old N7 insignia on her chest made her feel like things weren't quite as different as they were.
As the pair silently stepped through the CIC they passed by a duo of marines that'd been engaged in quiet but rowdy conversation between themselves. At the sight of the battered red-haired woman they both stiffened and saluted, "Commander," said the left-most marine, his uniform bearing the rank of Ops Chief. Before he could be forced to find a way to introduce himself Hackett interceded, his eyes darting between the two and ending on Shepard's face, "These are the two marines that drug you out of the wreckage, Commander. Meet Operations Chief Romez and Lieutenant Donnel, they'll be accompanying us on our mission." Shepard warily returned their salute, a rare formality for the woman but one she felt necessary given their actions. "Chief, LT, you have my gratitude. Feel free to be as you were." The two marines visibly stiffened, their salutes bobbing a bit before they were lowered, "Thank you XO." While the marines slipped away from the two officers, Shepard closed the distance between herself and Hackett, "Sir, what exactly is our mission. I followed the orders I received to meet you aboard the 'manjaro but there wasn't any description of what exactly we're doing up here." Hackett motioned up and down her body, "It's my understanding that whenever Ms. Lawson brought you back that she infused you with some sort of cybernetics. It is also my understanding that you've broken those cybernetics, a skill you have proficiency in. I'm going to have Ms. Lawson fix whatever she put inside you, or I'll send her ahead to prepare things for you in hell."
Shepard suppressed a smile that threatened to cross her lips in response to Hackett, falling in lock step with him as best she could given her injuries. "Do we have a location on Miranda? My contact with her has been sporadic since the mission to Horizon during the war." Hackett nodded silently both in recognition of the mission she'd mentioned, and in answer to her question. "Ironically for us both, she's on Elysium. She and her sister have been living in Illyria for several months now, though as far as we know she's unaware of the Alliance's surveillance on her. Unless she and her sister have packed up shop in the past three weeks then I know exactly where she is." "I wouldn't put it past her, but I hope for my sake that she's still there."
SSV Normandy SR-2-2186, Deep Space
24 Days post-Crucible: September 4th SER
War was Javik's sculptor, and so long as he lived he would be prisoner to its design. That design was like a song with repeating melodies and rhythms, chords that Javik had felt play through his life and now felt once more. The human who had introduced herself as Commander Shepard had fallen to the ruthlessness of the universe, and finally in her destruction she was freed from war's design. The loss of a comrade was something that Javik couldn't seem to escape, a feeling that had haunted him across 50 millennia, a feeling that ranged in intensity from the death of his race to the six members of his crew that he'd had to intimately kill in the Cronian Nebula. The feeling that simmered within the last prothean was different from past losses, as Commander Shepard had been millennia younger than him, someone that his mind had designated would outlive him. Javik sat alone in the small cargo hold of the Normandy that he'd taken up residence in, reptilian body pressed into a small aluminum chair. All four of his eyes were locked on the Echo Shard swirling meters away from him, and he knew what he had to do. His self-imposed duty was not something that he wanted to do, but instead something he felt he must do. On Earth, before they'd assaulted the Reaper beam, he'd told Shepard that he would return to the Cronian Nebula to end his life with the same blade that he'd used to slit the throats of his crew. He'd felt his story was over, as was that of the protheans, and when the Reapers died that his vengeance would be fulfilled. The decision had stemmed from reliving the memories of the Echo Shard once again, and with them the pain that he'd narrowly escaped. Already he was beginning to rethink that choice, weighing the sweet embrace of death against honoring his fallen comrade, but the duty he'd imposed upon himself made such choice magnitudes more difficult. The Echo Shard had been passed from warrior to warrior within the Prothean Empire, a relic that each owner could imprint their memories, experiences, and pains into to be forever stored. Javik had used it as a memorial to those lost in the war, touching it after each battle, each loss, and each kill. He'd imprinted his first fight with the Reapers in it, as well as the loss of his crew. Now, as the memory and loss of Commander Shepard burned in his chest he knew what he must do to honor the woman's sacrifice, even if it meant embracing the pain that he was running from.
He withdrew himself from his seat with a reluctant effort and stepped across the room. Already before he'd reached the shard's podium his hand was extended, preparing to take it into his grasp. Suddenly Javik was there again, under the warmth of peaceful prothean skies that he'd never see with his eyes. Memories came at him like a rapid-fire weapon, driving the soldier to his knees from the pain trapped within the stone. When Shepard had been here he had focused all of his will on maintaining composure, but now that the Commander was dead and he was alone Javik gave into the strength of the shard. Tears began to stream from each of his four eyes in silent sobs, but he didn't release the stone. Instead he allowed it to absorb his emotions and memories, to imprint itself with what he'd experienced and the people he'd met. He allowed Commander Jessica Shepard to find her place amongst the countless fallen the shard held memories of—to be remembered and honored forever in the unseen halls of prothean dead.
"Excuse me, Javik," A soft voice whispered into the room, nervous of possible interruptions and cautious to not cause offense. At once Javik's four eyes shot open to stare at the doorway where Liara T'Soni stood, eyes pointed at the ground and datapad in her hand. His skin was already working to absorb the tears that had parted his eyes, leaving except for the slightest streaks of moisture. "Doctor T'soni." Javik nodded solemnly at her, his left hand stretching to place the echo shard back where it had rested. "Have you need of me?" Liara quickly busied herself with stepping into the room and nodding, her eyes fixed on the datapad in her hands as to not look at Javik in this state, "Uhh yes, I was just going to check if you would like to review the information that we have on Ilos… you once stated that it was a secretive research facility for your people and that you knew little of it. I am unsure how much STG has managed to recover in the ruins, and what they may have brought back online, but your knowledge of prothean society and their language could be invaluable to efforts in understanding the Conduit."
Javik nodded at the girl and took her datapad. His fingers brushed against her hand as he silently took it from her and began to read. His lower eyes were fixed on the screen, but his upper ones stared at the asari "Yes, thank you Dr. T'soni. I wish to see the Relays come online, and I will aid in what ways I can once we reach Ilos." Liara nodded her head and prepared to leave the room before she stopped at the sound of Javik's voice. "Ms. T'soni, may I ask you a personal question?" Liara's head turned, fixing Javik with a slightly confused look that bordered on joy, "Of course!" She blurted, happy to see that the prothean finally took interest in her. "During deployment against the Reapers I observed Commander Shepard and Lieutenant Commander Williams to have been in an intimate relationship, one of life partners rather than simply mates. However, your own memories with the commander are foremost in my passive sensory when we interact." The prothena made a gesture to show he had meant when their hands touched a moment before, "You bear the memories of an intimate and sexual relationship with the Commander as well, though I never saw such a relationship between the two of you while aboard the Normandy. Is this simply something I fail to understand about this cycle's mating rituals?"
Despite her blue skin Liara managed to blush, her eyes flashing with shock before hollowing somewhat. She slid closer to the door and only spared glances up at him before stammering out, "I—the Commander and I—she and Lieutenant Commander Williams were together yes." That was all Liara was able to stammer in response to a question she had never expected. Behind her star filled eyes flashed the briefest memory of dimly lit fast paced nights years prior aboard the SR-1. She remembered the fiery feelings that she'd had for the Commander upon learning of her connection to the protheans, and how stupid she'd felt when Shepard had chosen then-Chief Williams over her. Javik watched as the asari's blue cheeks flushed with embarrassment, her soft voice mumbling half a dozen excuses as she fled from the room leaving Javik once more alone. To his credit, the prothean didn't stir from his stillness during the display, instead his mind was trying to decipher the asari's behavior now that he was left with more questions than answers.
Elysium-2186, Illyria
24 Days post-Crucible: September 4th SER
A life once lived was hard to shake, as Miranda Lawson was beginning to realize. For her, the past life in question was that of 'Operative Miranda Lawson', an agent of the shadowy Cerberus and fixer for the Illusive Man himself. For nearly two decades she'd lived that life, and in the process, she'd built her sense of being on a foundation of paranoia. That paranoia had served her well over the years, saving not only her life, but that of her sister Oriana. As far as all reason was concerned, there wasn't a need for that paranoia anymore. Shepard had burnt Cerberus to the ground, the Illusive Man was MIA and without any of the assets he'd had for so long, and she'd personally torn her father's body apart with the very biotics he'd implanted in her.
She was settled on Elysium now with her sister Oriana trying to build a new life for them both, one that didn't involve glancing over her shoulder and changing location every few days. Her first week in Illyria she'd noticed them, the two men that would pop up in her peripheral vision. They were never moving, never looking in her direction or doing anything of notice. They were of nondescript build and appearance, and never appeared directly in front of her. As the days had passed Miranda had determined that there were several of the men, and even a few women, who could rotate in and out of the pair, but there were never more than two. She'd voiced these concerns to Oriana only to have the younger girl scoff at them and tell her to relax.
Miranda wanted so desperately to relax, but every corner of her mind was screaming for her to run, to hide away in some dark shadow of the Galaxy and not draw attention to herself. While she was with Cerberus she'd been trained in every way possible about espionage. She'd read confidential STG dossiers, reviewed the work of Turian Hierarchy Special Operations, and even had been taught by former members of the Systems Alliance Intelligence Services. That training was what had made her so good at her job and had allowed her to survive as long as she had after leaving Cerberus, and that training was telling her to run.
With a hard swallow Miranda tried to suppress the fears that welled up within her and carried her shopping basket across the bustling outdoor market in one of Illyria's residential districts. Ever since 'the wave' as they were calling it, quick travel out of system was extremely slow and fuel-expensive due to the damage to the Mass Relays; Miranda attributed that to Shepard. Whatever the Commander had done to end the war had also damaged the Relays, and whether or not she liked it Miranda was trapped on this world now. Elysium had fared somewhat lucky in the war, and though they had recently come under attack from the Reapers it hadn't devastated any of the major cities—yet. When the Reapers had come falling out of the sky it'd been cause for celebration, and meant more work to take Miranda's mind off of whoever was watching her.
When they'd settled here Oriana had insisted that Miri Chambers, the false name that Miranda had assumed, work in something that would utilize her talents. As she'd spent a good amount of time studying the Reapers for Cerberus, she'd decided that something in technology would be best for her—and falling out of the sky had come more specimen for her to study. Even now as she paced the busy market, enjoying some of her downtime, she couldn't help but fear whoever the surveillance team was. They were humans, always, which meant that it could be Alliance, Elysium Government, or some shard of Cerberus back from the dead. Each option brought with it different fears to Miranda's heart, none of them comforting in the slightest.
With a concentrated effort Miranda worked up the motivation to finish her business in the market. She'd been hovering around a small fashion vendor for the past few minutes, her eyes drifting from the flowing vibrantly colored dresses that hung on the back wall to the neatly folded pants of various cuts and fabrics folded on the booth's tables. Hanging over them were blouses of different cuts, each instantly receiving Miranda's seal of disapproval before she afforded them a second thought. They were stylishly cut, some offering tantalizing peeks at the wearer's cleavage, others clinging to each inch of skin while maintaining a modest coverage, and some still were cut off higher on the abdomen than Miranda was used to. She'd worn 'stylish' clothes before, but it'd always been for a mission, never on the job or in down time. Even now she was wearing a well-fitting pair of jeans and a loose black blouse that didn't offer enough of a glimpse at any part of her to make her stand out. Oriana had sent her to the market today with one task: to buy some article of clothing that fit in better in their new home. With a deep sigh she picked up one of the white blouses that'd been cut off only a quarter of the way down her abdomen, a pair of white soft-touch shorts that promised to cling to every curve of her genetically engineered body, and a flowing dress of thin blue and white fabric. It was what the vendor called a 'sundress' and looked too frilly for something that Miranda would normally wear. The dress was too flowing and erratically colored to be worn to any formal function, but wasn't so casual as to allow her to fight or move effectively in it—the dress was just a pretty and comfortable dress. Grinding her teeth together in frustration she fished in her handbag for a credit chit which she then offered to the vendor. So many credits for such impractical clothes. Damn it Oriana.
SSV Normandy SR-2-2186, Deep Space
24 Days post-Crucible: September 4th SER
A blanket of darkness rested on the Normandy's Executive Officer's Office, the entire room illuminated solely by the glow of a computer screen and the various pinpricks of status indicator lights from the electronics scattered around the room. The screen that Ashley Williams sat before cast a bluish-white glow on the Lieutenant Commander's face, making her seem even more ghostly and hollow than she did in standard light. The soft and flickering illumination found a way of highlighting each of the new shadows that'd formed under her eyes, as well as the wrinkles threatening to form across her forehead. The XO stirred from her thoughts and reached across her desk, fingers grasping at the glass she'd been nursing all night. Inside it was a sea of brown liquid, several half-melted ice cubes floating in the liquid. Alcohol was strictly prohibited on Alliance warships, but Ashley had always kept a reserve in stock for special occasions—though this wasn't a special occasion she'd broken open her stores.
Just behind the glass was a small picture frame of an old-fashioned design. Rather than a glowing screen displaying it selected image, Ashley had purchased a traditional glass picture frame and had put a printed portrait of the Commander inside. It was a picture of the two of them, Ashley and Jessica, embraced in a half hug as they both faced a camera somewhere on the Citadel. Both women were visibly somewhat tipsy, their bodies canted at an angle and mouths agape in the telltale grin of laughter. Ashley ground her teeth together, her eyes squeezing shut as she poured a long swig of the whiskey from her glass to her mouth. The liquid was sharp and bitter, drawing a repulsed grimace from the woman as she swallowed it down. Ashley didn't enjoy the taste of whiskey, despite her rough exterior, but she enjoyed anything that could give her a momentary reprieve from the loss of Jessica Shepard. Every stupid thing reminded Ashley of her, though she was hoping the third glass of whiskey she was on would help alleviate that.
A rasp at the door jarred Ashley from her thoughts and brought the tired marine's eyes to focus beyond her computer. "Come in." She returned, placing her glass back on the desk and behind her picture frame so that it would be less visible at least. In through the door came Natasha Arnette, 1st Lieutenant, N5, and member of the Normandy's CIC Crew. The tall sharp featured blonde woman gave Ashley a crisp salute, nodding her head briskly to punctuate it, "Ma'am, I was here with my latest reports for you." Ashley nodded and waved her hand, a little haphazardly if she had to admit, dismissing Arnette's salute. The Naval Officer stepped across the room and handed a standard issue military datapad to Ashley. She began scrolling through the contents while Arnette narrated it kindly from the other side of the desk. She wasn't sure if the woman had seen or smelled her drink and was trying to help the Lt. Commander out, or if she generally delivered reports like that—Shepard would've known immediately.
"These are all my sensory reports from our latest drop from FTL in the Striato Sector. Our surveillance and E-Warfare suites are running at lower efficiency without EDI, but I learned a thing or two about surveillance and counter measures at the Villa. While Joker had us repositioning, I ran a sensory sweep. Doesn't appear we're being followed or that anyone took note of our presence."
Ashley nodded along, scrolling through the itemized result of each scan and sweep, reaffirming Arnette's statements. "That's good LT." She managed, her eyes dully scanning over the page before suddenly regaining some of their focus and clarity as they darted to look at the Lieutenant. "LT, are you telling me that you came all the way down here to deliver an all clear on something that none of us were worried was happening?" A sly innocence came across Arnette's face, "We haven't had time to properly designate a Buffer yet, ma'am, and I didn't think that Commander Vakarian would want deal with menial reports like this."
Ashley shook her head, waving her hands to dismiss the woman's sly attempts, "Don't you try to bullshit me, Arnette. You didn't come down here to deliver these reports, did you?" Arnette's charade dissolved into a kind smile as she approached a chair that faced Ashley's desk. She motioned towards it with her hand and face, as if to ask permission to sit without going through the formal procedures, and Ashley met her with a slow nod. "Permission to speak candidly, XO?" Ashley nodded, "Yeah permission granted, LT." "I came by to offer you a shoulder to lean on if you need it, Commander. We all took a hit coming off of Earth, but I know that you're mired down in some shit after we lost the Commander." Her eyes drifted towards the poorly concealed glass of whiskey, "I don't want you to think that you need to hide in the dark and drown yourself, ma'am. If you ever need company feel free to page me, you'd be surprised how long I can sequester myself away and talk about all-clear reports." The last line came with a smirk, one that sent Ashley's numb mind tumbling. Natasha's soft face, sharp cheek bones and thin but muscular build was what Ashley's eyes wanted to rest on, even as she grieved Shepard—and she realized now that it was almost entirely the fault of the alcohol in her system. Though her final remark was likely meant as a friendly playful comment, Ashley's insides flushed with heat at what she couldn't help but feel was a flirtatious hook. She felt her stomach churn as if it was under a vice grip, even the slightest hint of betrayal to Shepard turning her whole-body sour. Ashley swallowed visibly, her head nodding in response to Arnette, "I appreciate it LT—I might take you up on that." The 26-year-old Lieutenant flashed her a soft smile as she rose to her feet and retrieved her datapad from Ashley's desk. Arnette was only two years younger than Ashley, and she had to admit it felt strange being in as prominent of a command role as she was given the only 2-year difference between them. "Take the night off Na—Lieutenant Arnette." Ashley caught herself, almost slipping up and calling the officer by her given name. "I'll take you up on that sometime, promise." Natasha saluted Ashley one last time as she stepped backwards, "Thank you ma'am. Take care of yourself." With that the Lieutenant was out of the door, and Ashley was left alone with her mixture of guilt and grief. Damnit Shepard… She muttered silently to herself, why couldn't you just stay alive?
Codex:
SER: Standard Earth Rotations, a way the System Alliance keeps track of date & time across their colonies / ships.
The Villa: The training ground for "Interplanetary Combative Training" in Rio de Jeneiro. Upon completing the first wave of ICT an alliance soldier is deemed N1, and they may complete an additional series of training, most in zero-G or off world, to scale the ranks to N6. An N6 may then be subjected to actual combat situations as part of their training, and if they perform admirably they will be granted the coveted 'N7' designation. 'N' commandos are the highest level of skill and proficiency available in the Alliance Military.
Buffer: The Master Chief aboard an Alliance Warship serves as the 'buffer' between the crew and their CO/XO, fielding personnel questions and concerns as well as minute and menial reports.