"... Eden Shepard?"

Hearing someone call her name mid-stride, Shepard quickly turned her head towards the source. It came from an older man standing off to the side of one of the Citadel's many hallways.

"Hey… it's been a long time, huh?" he said to her, wringing his hands nervously.

Not recognizing his face or voice, she regarded him while searching her memory, but nothing about him seemed familiar. "I'm sorry, do we know each other?"

"I… I… guess you don't remember me. Lieutenant Zabaleta. I served on the carrier Einstein. Well, that was twelve, thirteen years back, though… you were just a kid then."

Even from their standing distance, Shepard could smell the alcohol rolling off him. The facts tumbled through her head like a game of Plinko, hitting pegs of recognition all the way down. "Wait, the carrier Einstein?" she repeated, then the recognition dawned on her. "You… were at Mindoir?" She looked at his state, looking a little worse for wear. "You're not in service anymore?"

"Retired, yeah," he chuckled nervously without mirth, "you know how it is. Times are tough for vets. They always are…" He shook his head to stop himself from rambling. "Look, I need a favour. I'm kind of short of money these days… I hate hitting you up for money, but a man's gotta eat. Right? So could you spare something, maybe twenty credits?"

Shepard, seeing her shadow reflected back, knew what had happened to him. "Twenty isn't enough to get you back on your feet, is it?"

"No no no, I'll just get a… a meal, you know?"

"Yeah, it's not a problem," she said, passing him a credit chit.

"You're a good kid, you know that? Thanks. You ever want to come by and talk," he chuckled again in that uncomfortable, nervous manner, "I'll be here. Can't afford a ticket home, right?"

.

After docking at the Citadel, Shepard strode to the airlock. She hit the door control to open it.

Coincidently, Arius was walking back from the cockpit with a datapad in hand, and he noticed her civilian clothes and lack of entourage. "Shepard!" he greeted her, "would you like some company? It will be some time before the supplies are fully unloaded to the hangar."

Truthfully, she did, but this was something she wanted to do herself, and she didn't want to bother. "Thanks, Arius, but I'm just checking up on someone. I'll be quick."

He nodded in acknowledgement and moved along.

The Normandy's doors opened, and she left the ship. After entry to the Citadel, she weaved through the docks filled with throngs of refugees. The war was displacing untold numbers from their worlds, and many had fled to the Citadel as few alternatives existed. A large memorial wall had been erected to the left-most wall of the docking area, and with every visit, it successively sprawled outwards with pictures of loved ones from every race stacked upon one another in memoriam.

She passed it, took a shuttle, descended some hallways, and arrived at rows of offices. She entered one. The sign outside indicated it was the Alliance's Veteran Affairs Office.

"Welcome to the Veteran Affairs Office. How can I assist you today?" asked the pleasant human woman seated at a desk.

"Hello. I'm Commander Eden Shepard. I'm looking for someone I sent this way a couple of years ago. Wanted to know if they were still around or had left a contactable address."

"Commander Shepard!" the woman's face lit up in recognition, delighted. She verified her ID and turned back to her terminal. "Oh, I can absolutely look into that for you. Do you have a name or a service number? We can check to see if they left any details with us."

"Lieutenant Zabaleta. Served on the carrier Einstein some sixteen years ago."

The woman nodded, punching the data into her terminal. "One moment, please… and… oh," the woman's face fell. "I'm sorry, but our records list Mr. Zabaleta as deceased. He passed away just under two years ago. Our deepest condolences."

"Deceased?" she repeated, stunned.

"Yes, I'm sorry to be the bearer of that bad news. A note on file states that Mr. Zabaleta left a few personal effects, which we have retained. He listed you as an emergency contact, but you were unreachable. Give me a moment; I will be right back."

The woman rose from her desk and disappeared behind a partition while Shepard waited. A minute later, she returned with a small container that was not much larger than a shoebox. Zabaleta's name and service number were lasered into the side of it. "Here you are. Again, our condolences."

Shepard took the box and moved to one of the alcoves in the lobby. She sat and removed the top. Inside were only two items: a rough-looking notebook and the lieutenant's Alliance tags. Shepard lifted the notebook and opened the pages. The pages were warped, and the inked words within had run from a spilled liquid. From the still-lingering smell, It had been some alcohol. Shepard flipped through the pages. Some of it was scribblings, while other times, it looked coherent.

"Do they know I wonder…" the former soldier had written with an alcoholic's shaky hand, "people tied like prize hogs locked in cages clawing and screaming as they're loaded into cargo pods…. and we couldn't reach them… batarian defences had us pinned… dozens died trying to advance all we could do was watch as they hauled people away… I've been looking for 13 years for something to make that sight go away…. What do they know, huh?"

She flipped the pages.

"they're all so naive… all the VAO does is pump you full of chemicals if they want to talk they can…. reach me through…." It became harder to decipher. "all that's left… just old, unhappy, far-off things…"

She flipped through, seeing if more had been written, but the last quarter or so of the notebook's pages were empty, revealing only stains and damage from the spilled liquid. She sighed and shook her head; the tragedy had claimed another.

The Einstein's task group had responded to the mayday from Mindoir sixteen years ago. The batarians were still pulling out when the marines hit ground side. Zabaleta was one of the first down… and he wasn't the same afterwards, not that anyone was. Falling into drink repeatedly, the Alliance eventually discharged him. She had run into him on the Citadel a couple years ago when chasing Saren, and he asked her money to buy food… or, more probably, whisky. She had returned to talk to him and persuaded him to go to the VAO. It hadn't been enough. He had perhaps tried finding her before the end, but she had been officially dead during that time and, thus, unreachable.

Her arm fell to the table in frustration, smacking the fore edge of the notebook against the table's surface. A small piece of paper fell from the pages, having been dislodged from where it had been wedged within. She picked it up. Printed on the folded, heavily worn, loose sheet was a poem titled 'The Solitary Reaper' by William Wordsworth. She read it slowly.

BEHOLD her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;—
I listen'd, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

The simple words on that creased paper cleaved clean through, straight through to the core of her being. It took all her self-control to keep herself within its edge, and she sat silent while the echo of the words within her faded.

She moved to put the notebook and tags back into the box, but the loose sheet she tucked into her pocket. She returned the box to the woman at the desk and thanked her.

.

"Well done, Steve."

Arius stood next to the Alliance pilot as he finished his inspection, ticking off the last remaining items from the list in his hands. The two regarded the immense delivery as one would look over a lush, fertile field. A mountain of provisions sat in the hangar, boxes and disposable preservation units stacked upon one another in a pile that could feed a village. Inside each wrapping and container lay culinary treasures from every corner of Earth; The splendour of the blue marble's ground and water were gathered together within the Normandy.

"You owe me for this," Cortez half-joked, "some of this was difficult to find."

"Of course," Arius responded earnestly, "What would you like in return? Is there a dish that is close to your heart?"

"Oh, you're taking requests? Uh... my mom used to make a killer seafood paella. Can you fit that in? James is a big fan too."

Arius looked down and entered the item onto the datapad he was holding. "Yes. I'll ring you both when it is ready. Thank you for your help, Steve."

"Okay! See you later, Arius."

Arius grabbed one of the large crates from the pile before him, hoisted it to his shoulder and took the elevator up to the mess. It was chaotic; crates of food were stacked to one side, labelled appropriately, while the large island had transformed into a wide preparation area, already filled with bins of processed vegetables, meats and seafood. Ansel, the Normandy's resident cook, was deep in some prep work, madly chopping away at something with a large cleaver.

Ansel was a gruff, bald, large man from a mixed lineage, who looked like he belonged more at home in the galley of a wooden ship during the age of exploration than as he stood, but it was just a first impression. He had begun cooking at an early age in some of the poorest neighbourhoods of Earth and, by his teens, had already made a name for himself in nearby cities. Military service had been his route to later enrollment in culinary schooling, and after that, he possessed enough skill to cook anywhere in the galaxy. The war had prompted him to serve upon a warship again, and, hearing the call of the Normandy, he had reached out to Shepard, asking if her ship had an open position for a cook. Shepard was only happy to accept, and Arius was positively thrilled.

"Ansel." Arius set the crate down. "How goes it?"

"Arius. Good. Just about done prep for the first batch. The dextro foods have already been prepared."

"Excellent." Arius grabbed an apron and tied it. "Again, thank you for your assistance. I realize this is far beyond what is common."

"Think nothing of it," he scoffed, "In all my years of serving the Alliance, I've never had the opportunity to work with provisions like these or a ship this small. Reminds me of the kitchens on Earth cities." He looked sideways at him. "Say, capitán, It looks like you and the Commander are close…" He motioned his head towards the electric range. "Think you can convince the Commander to install a wok burner here? That would really step things up."

"Would you believe that I tried?" Arius responded with hints of a grin on his face. "We'll have to make do. Alright, I'm going to be starting now."

Arius positioned the datapad in a place that was easy to reach; it contained every item he would make, a musical playlist, and the internal Normandy messaging system. He prepared his work area and washed his hands. He grabbed a knife from the block. The overhead lights glinted off the reflective metal, and he looked closer at the tool in his hands. It was a forged, single-piece, high-quality, asari-made, alloy blade, hardened and sharpened to a laser's edge. The balance was perfect, and the design was classic. There were times in his life when he would have killed to possess such a superb tool.

"You brought these knives aboard?" he asked Ansel. "They're a thing of beauty."

"They go where I go. Enjoy them, Arius. Finest cutting tools I've ever used."

"Much appreciated."

Arius turned back to his task. He gave himself one big breath, putting both hands down in front of him, steeling himself for the task. When he was ready, he put earbuds into his ears, removing from his senses his hearing. He would be in his own world for hours and did not wish to be disturbed. He hit play. The marathon had begun.

The first items were lobster rolls and tourtière, the most recent and modern introductions. Ansel had rolled and baked dough ahead of time, forming a flaky crust. Arius mixed minced pork and veal on the range and added small-cut potatoes and onions. After browning, he added cinnamon and cloves. The crust was filled, a layer added atop and placed into the oven. Lobsters had already been cooked and deshelled. Meat from the knuckles, claws and tail was torn into chunks and mixed with celery, mayo, chives, lemon and seasoning sauce. Rolls were steamed before serving. He pulled the pie from the oven, and while it cooled slightly, he stuffed the rolls and lined them on the outbox, the island's space where ready food could be claimed. The smell was comforting, fresh and agreeable. A chill ran through him, and the sharp thoughts of winter's snow wafted through his head. He rang the first of his first virtual chimes and turned back to work, his periphery beginning to fade and oblivious to who would claim it.

Earlier, pork and beef ribs had been slathered in sugar-sweet and smokey sauces, sealed into foil packages, and baked with cornbread. The ribs self-braised as they cooked at low heat in the ovens, and when the packets were opened, the meat was so tender it nearly fell off the bone. Unfortunately, an open fire was impossible aboard a spacefaring vessel, so the broiler was used to give the ribs a nice char, reminiscent of a good barbecue. It was enough for anyone to salivate, impossible to resist. They were cut and served. The chime was rung for the second time. He descended into himself a bit deeper.

He moved a little further south. The next was the chicken mole. The chicken had already been poached with onion, garlic and some aromatics. He shredded it, then worked on the sauce: tomatoes, onions, and garlic were sauteed, while another pan received peanuts, sesame seeds, bread, cinnamon, peppercorns, clove and coriander seeds; the first foray of his back into the world of spices. Bananas and raisins were added to the hot pan to be caramelized, and he waited till their sweet smell rose. It stirred something in him, though it was still far away. Once ready, the mixture was thrown into a blender with chipotle peppers; as it mixed, the peppers' dark colours and the dish's distinctive smoky flavour appeared. The blended sauce was added to the chicken and then simmered. Small pieces of dark chocolate were added, the final touch. The smell, now complete, whisked him away. Large parties and good times, filled with colours and dancing while a guitarrón strummed in his ears, enveloped him. While it was finalized, the rice cooker was emptied, and a combination of the two was served on the plates. He hit the virtual chime for the third time.

Next was the ceviche, fish cured in lime juice and spiced. Fresh mahi-mahi fish had been procured, possessing sweet-tasting and dense flesh. Little needed to be prepared outside of denaturing the fish's proteins in a large bowl of juiced limes. Onions, peppers, chillies and ginger were cut. After draining, they were combined and served. The splash of clear blue water sprayed him on the surf.

He continued the feijoada, a black bean and meat stew. Smoked parts from pigs were cooked in batches. Soaked beans were added along with tomatoes and chorizo and boiled. Slowly it reduced. He ladled it into bowls and rang the chime. He moved to the empanadas and saltenas, savoury pastries stuffed with meat and sweet, spicy sauces. Finally, he worked on the pastel de choclo pie. Ground sweetcorn was cooked with milk, basil and a bit of lard. The filling was minced beef with onions, paprika and other spices. Egg was laid at the bottom. His mind, driving blindly, plunged into the jungled hills, over lakes and under the stars. The rainforest, dense with life and greenery, chirped in his ears.

By this time, he was fully in his world, oblivious to everything outside the kitchen. Crew members passed in a smear of colour, and any conversation in the mess remained a distant rumble, far from the shores of his domain. The heat from the range and oven was beginning to soak into him, and he relished the once-familiar sensations. The smells, tastes, temperatures, and movements flowed through him, moving him automatically.

He heard a voice through his fog. "I see you've covered North America, then South America. What's next?"

He grinned. "Africa."

The heat increased, both in pungency and in temperature. Arius ached for an open fire but made do and utilized the broiler. He felt himself sweat under the heat. Braai, Suya, Kapana, meats all heavily spiced with the most lovely blend of spices blazed under the red-hot elements, blasting him with the force of ginger, cayenne, nuts, paprika and ground mustard. Chakalaka, a spicy vegetable relish, was served alongside shidni, a chutney made with dates, peppers, mango, garlic and coriander. The meats sizzled, and the rhythmic drums beat in his head. When he closed his eyes, he could see the large, powerful sun rising over the savanna, and it instilled a certain warm flavour within him, colouring the stories and traditions they had shared with him. Ugali and Sukuma - braised collard greens, appeared under his hands, as did doro wot, a stew made with vegetables, spice mixes, clarified butter and lamb. Gomen, a dish of kale simmered with spices, was next. Out of the periphery, he noticed injera had appeared, a sour fermented bread to accompany. Fried plantains flew out of the kitchen, and fufu, yams boiled and pounded to a smooth, sticky dough was made as well. The continent was vast, as were its cultures, people and history.

While he gathered the ingredients for the next round, some faraway part of him passively reflected. His plan has been simple: review the greatest hits of his time on Earth - each dish once taught to him by those near and far, from the present to the past, with modern modifications. He would work continuously until he ran out of food and returned to the beginning; they had little space to store the enormous quantity of fresh food they had aboard, so time was of the essence. Each time a dish was ready, he would ping the crew, and any interested parties were welcome to stop by.

His decision to perform this marathon of Earthly pleasures had not been entirely selfless and was, at its base, selfish in aim. He wanted one last chance to review this cycle before it was possibly lost forever; this was the last time he could do such a thing. Objectively, it was utterly wasteful when war stretched provisions to their limits everywhere, and the time he would spend engaged in the task was undoubtedly more valuable elsewhere - yet unapologetically, he convinced himself that although the initiative was selfish, the outcome would not be. Those humans on board would have one solid meal from their past, and those not would taste a true facet of humanity in the same way he had.

He dove back in, travelling onwards and upwards. He was now working at a fever's pitch; traditions flew from his hands while his mind glided from one culture to another, languages chattering in his head, a whirlwind of winding stone streets, frescos, and ages of enlightenment.

He made a full Sunday roast dinner with vegetables, a mixture of charred parsnips, potatoes, peas, swede, carrots, kale, cabbage and brussels sprouts - creamy horseradish too. Glamorgan Sausages were cooked, made with leeks, cheese and breadcrumbs, and served with a chutney. Shortbread had appeared amidst a mountain of butter, flour and sugar. Rolling highlands and gently sloping wide fields blew past him, the salt of the sea and stone obelisks of time immemorial. Then came the rivers and the countryside, fertile grapes and fine plates. Escargot a la Bourguignonne, snails in a garlicky sauce, rose past his nose, as did Bœuf Bourguignon. He drowned in the wine's fumes, plunging headfirst into the heady aroma. Time rushed past him rapidly like a slideshow. Moules aux Frites, mussels cooked in parsley and white wine, were served with fried potatoes. Stacks of Poffertjes flipped through the air one after the other, piling up on plates. Alplermagronen, a dish of pasta, cubed potatoes, shredded gruyere cheese and cream, baked and topped with caramelized onions and served with applesauce, came next. An idyllic mountain appeared under his feet, lush with flowers and fluffy brown cows lazily grazing on its slopes.

Farikal came, following a meal of mutton with bone, cabbage, whole black pepper, and wheat flour sour cooked in a casserole served with potatoes boiled in their skins. Spatzle and Jagerschnitzel, egg noodle dumplings and a tantalizing combination of bacon and onion gravy over a breaded pork schnitzel were made. He could hear the clinks of beer steins and the taste of cool, bitter lagers down his throat. A land of folktales. Tarteletter, crispy puff pastry shells, popped out of the oven and filled with chicken and asparagus.

He galloped onward, and the wheel of time continued to turn back.

Goulash with a mountain of paprika mixed in, sweet and hot. Pierogi were filled with potato filling and pan-fried to chewy perfection. Cepelinai, potato meat dumplings served with bacon gravy and sour cream added to them. Links of blood sausage were fried up. Borsch, a sour beetroot soup, was ladled. A woman's voice rose in his ears, swelling with all the timbre and colour of a violin. Then… the mighty Paella. He grabbed the large pan and threw in the ingredients hungrily - round-grain rice, beans, rabbit, duck, broth, spices, aromatics, and the seafood melange of crustaceans. A large pinch of the dear saffron coloured it and drew its flavours out of the delicate spice. The warm climates bathed him again, the fertile fields rich with life.

He heard the marching of legions, the rally of crowds, and the rumble of a volcano looming in the bay. He swam through a sea of olives and lemons, glowing water blue in the smiling sun. Pasta al Pesto, pasta with a fresh green sauce made of crushed basil, cheeses and nuts. He inhaled deeply from the herb, high on its aroma. A simple tomato sauce was used with the main Lasagne; wide, flat pasta layered with minced meats, sauce and cheese. Tiramisu - a layered coffee-flavoured dessert had been prepared beforehand. Marscapone cheese blended with egg whites and layered with biscuits soaked in espresso coffee. The strong coffee transported him back to the ancient world and its empires. Moussaka, thinly sliced aubergine, potato and lamb topped with sauce followed.

The forests claimed him, the cold waters, the smell of metal, the roaring fires and the rich tapestries. He spun in his trance, lost in his memories. Honey, that sweet, golden prize, dripped into his open mouth. His heart tugged at him, remembering a druid and a dream. A glaze of honey had been mixed with garlic, vinegar and fish sauce and then added to fatty-rich salmon. Root vegetables had been roasted and mixed with some nuts and fresh berries.

The wheel spun.

Burek, filo dough wrapped around meat, was made in a long spiral, rolled with both hands and baked until the dough flaked and became crispy. Grilled sausages made with minced beef, lamb and garlic, Cevapi, came right after. Honey and filo dough remained, so he made baklava, filled with chopped nuts like pistachio and walnut held together with honey. One after the other, the sheets he layered built its crunchy decadence.

The trek was long, and the needle moved. The sun and moon raced each other across the sky as he trudged towards the paddies of…..

"ARIUS!"

Arius started, suddenly hearing his name like a thunderclap, snapping him out of his trance. The flow state was shattered, and the feelings he had become lost in vanished like smoke. Fully conscious again, he realized he was staring into the faces of the Normandy's crew, who were staring back at him from the other side of the large island. Shepard was at the forefront, waving at him frantically. He removed his earbuds.

"Hello?" he asked, intensely aware of the stares of the crew members, and could not help but feel self-conscious. Blood rushed to his cheeks. Had something happened, he thought to himself?

"Arius! You need to stop!" Shepard insisted.

"What? Why?" he asked, perplexed. "Has something happened?"

Shepard moved her mouth as if to argue, but no words escaped, and she sighed, exasperated. "How long do you think you've been standing here, cooking?"

"A few hours?" he guessed, not understanding the urgency. He turned to Ansel and found the cook looking unsuitably haggard but with a wide smile. His apron looked like a Jackson Pollock painting.

"Arius, you've been cooking for over a day. We all appreciate what you're doing here; trust me, the ship's intercom has been blowing up and EDI's been live-streaming you, but please, take a break."

He looked down. A bowl of pea-shoot and leek dumpling filling was in his hands. A stack of rolled-out dumpling wrappers sat on the counter. He had just reached Asia.

"Hmm. I suppose I should." He set down the bowl. "We're most of the way. Let me take a quick break."