AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hey guys! Been a while, eh? Well, now we're moved in with all of our furniture and everything to our new house back home in Florida, and things are returning to a sense of normalcy. My writing included. Hiatus: Over. In case some of you guys didn't catch it, I did manage to upload a one-shot I was commissioned for related to Into the Great Unknown (My Andromeda story.) The one-shot is post Meridian, and still focused on the Tempest crew, but Scott and Vetra in particular, of course. Go give it a read! Head to my profile, and you'll see the one-shots. Anyways, I know this chapter is a bit on the short side, but I think you'll enjoy the content and what a few things might mean for later on. Also, hope for, but don't expect, another chapter next week instead of the week after. I'm gonna give it a shot but I don't want to make promises unless I know I can keep them. You can rest easy knowing that either way, there will be a chapter that following week anyways. Hope you enjoy!
Miranda Lawson
That facility. That damned facility. And the children. God, the children in those crates. In the first, I stared at a pair that had just clung to one another. Arms wrapped around one another in a corner. Their deaths wouldn't have been instant. It's likely that one died before the other. Yet there they stayed. Clinging on. How scared they must have been. Even before they arrived. But the facility went rogue. They had to have been. The Illusive Man was asking questions they didn't want to answer.
You know the Illusive Man. You know how he manages his cells. Even if he didn't know about some things going on, such as the fight pit, he would have known the layout of the facility like the back of his hand. He would have known of the cells the children were kept in. He'd know of the morgue. A morgue that size is never for the occasional accident. It's when death is frequent. And Processing? The crates? Not only would he know that the children were arriving in crates, but he'd know how often, and how many. That's not information he'd allow any cell to withhold.
I shook my head and sent a message to the Illusive Man. A request to speak with him.
It doesn't stop there. You know that. For a Morgue that size, he'd have to know why. He'd have to know of their experiments.
No, they went farther than the Illusive Man intended. I'm sure. I can see him wanting the results of perfecting Human biotics, but there would be other, effective ways than effectively slaughtering children.
Risks like that never stopped him before. And no method other than the extreme would make fast progress. And that's what he cares about.
But this is different! The lives of children! Not credits or supplies!
There you go, saying it's different again. The phrase of denial. All he sees are numbers.
The message I sent was answered by a call from the Illusive Man, routed through the QEC. I accepted, eager to end this debate with myself.
"Operative Lawson."
"Sir. I have questions." I answered giving the conversation all my focus and professionalism.
"About?" He paused.
"The Teltin Facility on Pragia. It's-"
"Where Jack came from, yes. I'm aware Shepard used your clearance to retrieve those files. And that Shepard has now destroyed the facility. Am I correct in assuming your questions are about the conditions?"
"Yes sir," I answered.
"Lawson, understand that the Teltin facility began operations in 2165, and Jack escaped in 2172. I hold a tighter leash on my operations now, and I observe them more closely. They took liberties I disapproved of. I deemed the facility had gone rogue, so I shut down what was left. The surviving scientists did not get reassigned onto the Ascension project, but were disposed of. Any further questions?"
"No sir."
"Good." The Illusive Man dropped the call and I breathed a sigh of relief. They went rogue.
You gullible fool.
Commander John Shepard
Sleep didn't come as easy as it has been, sharing my bed with Tali, but I still managed. Combine what we saw at Teltin with the fact we're going to what I can consider my own grave today? Makes things difficult. At least Garrus streaming the facility to the ship worked out in our favor. Of those that had remained loyal before, they were more or less split down the middle between those who were "on my side," so to speak, and those like Miranda, clinging to the belief that it was a rogue facility.
As for Alchera, we'd be arriving in a few hours. In the meantime, I think I should check on Jack. So, I went down to find her in her hidey hole. When I did find myself down there, I saw Zaeed lounging in a chair he had brought down and was doing something or other on his Omni-tool while Jack was simply lying on her cot, staring up at the ceiling. With an actual shirt on. Zaeed glanced up, having heard my footsteps, and nodded.
"Shepard," he greeted. Jack sat up, having not noticed me herself.
"Hey. I owe you one."
"No, no you don't. I was happy to help." Jack was quiet a moment, just looking at me. Trying to get a read, I think. She sighed, and laid back down. "You understand. At least a little. It's different, though, Akuze. Your old man. Having shit like that follow you around. How it marks you. And you just let it all go?"
"Easier said than done," I shrugged. "Sometimes, I grab on again without realizing. Have to try and let go all over again. Keep holding on, and you keep getting thrashed about."
"Boy scout's right," Zaeed remarked.
"Maybe. Making that hellhole a crater doesn't help as much as I thought. But I'm not going to carry it around like Aresh. Still kinda wanna kill everyone I see. No offense," she sat up. Zaeed chuckled.
"Sounds like a bloody start."
"Agreed," I allowed a smirk.
"Yeah, yeah. Fuck both of you," she laughed in spite of herself.
"So, Zaeed, what were you doing down here?" I asked.
"Keeping her company. Never even spoke a word till you got down 'ere. Figured she'd do well to have someone around. Hasn't shooed me away yet."
Commander John Shepard
It was like a chill running down my spine, but constant. That's what it looked like as I looked down at Alchera from the cockpit. It was surreal. Knowing that somewhere out here, two years ago, I was suffocating and plummeting to the surface below amongst the ruins of my first ship. Joker was abnormally quiet himself. I know he blames himself, that he should have just gone to the escape pods. But I could have just have easily left him there. I could have made one last attempt to get in the pod with him instead of jettisoning it from outside. Maybe I'd have just taken him with me by doing that. Maybe I'd have lived. Who knows?
Garrus and Tali were standing beside me, and I had my arm on Tali's shoulder, squeezing it. She was uneasy. I wasn't sure how Garrus was handling this. I know my death hit him hard too, but he also hardly batted an eye at my return, apparently handling it better than most anyone else. So far, at least. Damn…
"Joker," I broke the silence. "How about you suit up and come down with us? She was your ship, your home too," I suggested.
"Yeah. I uh… I think I should." Joker took a deep breath. "I'll put the Normandy in a stable orbit. Walding can handle any little adjustments that might happen. I'll meet you down in the hangar."
"Don't need any help?" I asked.
"That's what the cane is for. Gravity down there is weaker, at least. Should be able to walk normally," Joker shrugged.
"Got it, bud. We'll wait." We silently made our way down to the cargo hold, there just wasn't anything to say. The memorial statue the Alliance wanted us to place somewhere had already been loaded. As for when we get down there? We walk around, we remember, and we mourn. Then, Alliance Dog tags are made to last and withstand. While not invincible, they do come with black box like short range locator beacons. You won't pick them up unless you're already in the area, but they can last a helluva long time. We have body bags for any intact enough to be removed and brought home, but for those that can't, we can at least take the tags. Sometimes it's better to bring back just that than scattered pieces.
A few moments later, the elevator doors to the cargo bay opened, and out walked Joker, putting the majority of his weight on the cane as he walked. His environment suit was one of the looser variants. It still has all the same protections, but it's easier to put on for people with physical disabilities Once he stepped in, I closed the shuttle doors, the cargo bay doors opened, and off we went, down to the surface of Alchera. Before too long, we could start to see the wreckage site. While most of the debris is scattered across several miles, the bulk of the first Normandy is concentrated in a relatively small area. The interior portions and most things that were crucial to her shape. I felt nauseous. How couldn't I? The moment we touched down I leaned forward, head in my hands and breathed deeply.
"Secure your suits, I warned, waiting until the others had confirmed they were sealed before venting the crew hold, and joining them as we stepped out onto the frigid surface of Alchera. A few meters in front of the door was a plate of metal with Normandy painted in white across it. Some of the wreckage, one of which was once one of the Normandy's engines, towered into the sky. And as the atmosphere of Alchera was thin, there virtually is nothing but stars in the sky above. And it was completely, eerily silent. No sound as our boots crunched the snow and ice, no wind howling by, nothing at all. Like an open mausoleum.
"Is it strange that I'm glad it's quiet?" Joker asked, no hint of humor. "It just… feels right, that it is."
"No, no I agree, Joker," Tali spoke. "This is a graveyard. For my people, that means silent contemplation, reflection, and respect for our ancestors."
"What doesn't feel right is that it's taken the Alliance two years to send a clean-up crew," Garrus murmured. "I know this is next door to Omega, but, still… Never mind. We're not here for that." I didn't respond. I couldn't. I just looked around. I wonder where my body was when it was found. Behind the shuttle was part of the ship's hull, the armor plates around the bridge, in fact. Covered with the old paint job, scarred and melted and broken as it was, and the name of the ship. It's what we'd see whenever we returned to the ship in dock. Our little welcome home sign.
"Is that… Shepard? Over here," Joker pointed out, his eyes having wandered. He led us right, relative to the piece of hull. I could see some part of the ship that had crashed down, but I wasn't sure what it was yet. Ah… the mess hall. There was a body, crushed by some debris. Unrecognizable, and certainly not recoverable. Silently, I retrieved the dog tags, unclipping them from around the body's neck. I'll read the names later. We kept moving, looking around. Even here, I found something that brought a smile, as small as it might be, to my face.
The Mako. And looking more or less intact.
"Spirits," Garrus allowed a chuckle. "Of course it survived." The Alliance had offered to just replace the Mako after the events on the Citadel. But we kept ours. True, we had to replace the entire engine and drive core, all the wheels, the suspension, propulsion, and half the hardware of the weapons system, but it was ours. And Garrus didn't have to start over on his Calibrating. Perhaps from eyes less connected to the tragedy, and without understanding the times we had in the Mako, it might look comical how we were just standing there a few minutes looking at it.
"We're taking it, aren't we?" Joker asked. Garrus and I responded simultaneously.
"Hell yes."
"Keelah," Tali shook her head.
"But, uh, we should continue. We'll take care of this later."
"I think I saw the bridge on our way here. Can we go there next?" Joker continued.
"Course." We followed the man to where he spent most of his time on the Normandy. It was strange to see him walking. Let alone without a cane. Even without his regular hunch. He still took it slow, but it was almost possible to forget his Vrolik's. The bridge corridor came into view, the consoles along the sides long dead and broken, and the pilot's seat at the end. There was one corpse with its arm blown off in one of the seats along, shredded by shrapnel from whatever explosion caused their death. And in the cockpit, there was another body, this one was marginally more recognizable, but charred. Feminine.
"One of the ensigns. Her name was Talitha. Killed by the first blast," Joker murmured. "Knocked her on the floor behind my seat. Now…" She had apparently been knocked into the side of the cockpit, her limbs and neck bent at unnatural angles. I think we can still bring her back to the Alliance. Joker silently shook his head, and he followed us back out of the bridge. From there, we could see CIC and the galaxy map. It was at the highest point of this little crater that the Normandy had made. CIC was the heart of the ship. I figure that's probably a good place for the monument. The others followed me to investigate. There were three bodies as well. None of them recognizable, none of them very intact. But one died clutching a data pad. I doubt it has any power left, but maybe it has some last correspondence to family that never got sent out. The least I can do is recover what I can from it. Carefully, using my Omni-tool like I did the crates on Pragia, I gave the data pad power, and transferred all surviving files onto my own to review later. I retrieved the dog tags, not sure if we'd be able to move the body, and I caught the name.
Charles Pressly. My navigator and XO. Damn. It's strange. It feels like one thing to be told someone's dead, at least, when they're not one of your loved ones, and despite knowing there was no possible way for him to be alive, it hits a lot different standing over his body. Especially in a condition like this. Jesus, if they were all in shape like this… what the hell was left of me? I wasn't inside the ship to be protected from any of the re-entry, and these bodies all still look like they were left behind in a burning building.
"Shepard!" Garrus called out. There was no alarm, but he wanted me to see whatever this was. "Over there." He pointed along a little 'path' along the side. One void of scrap and debris. There was something black, round, along a snowbank, with a little glint. My first instinct would be to write it off as scrap metal from the crash. But Garrus wouldn't point out something so inconsequential. I followed along, taking a closer look. As we got closer, it took shape. It was loosely spherical. Then I started to see the charred, burnt red paint. The barely intact N7 logo on the side. It was a helmet. My helmet. I quickened my pace and picked it up, inspecting it. A chunk of the faceplate had been broken off, and all but the upper left corner of the visor was shattered. It was cracked it several places, of course, but… fucking hell. This helmet is the reason I'm still here today, with my second go at life. It kept my head in just enough pieces for them to put me back together again. Kept my brain safe so I would still come back as myself. Yeah. This is coming back with us. Only two things left to do. Move the monument… and gather what bodies, and tags, that we can. And all the while with one, constant thought.
What the hell am I?