The insistent thump of the speakers made Kaidan's drink vibrate against the bar-top, creating a humming noise that grated against his ears. He lifted the glass and gulped its remaining contents in one large swallow, barely noticing the burn in his throat as the whiskey warmed his insides. "Another?" the barkeep asked him, making his way toward Kaidan after serving a trio of girls.
"Yeah," Kaidan replied, raising his voice to be heard over the music. The Dark Star was busy for a Wednesday, but that was just the way he liked it. He pushed his glass toward the bartender, a quiet male turian who was regarding him with mild curiosity as he poured him another glass of whiskey, neat. It was good quality, an Earth import, and Kaidan tried to sip this one more slowly as he met the bartender's stare.
Kaidan knew why the man looked at him that way—he had become something of a celebrity as a result of the media frenzy surrounding Shepard's death. The Alliance had essentially martyred Shepard, publicizing her murder along with a laundry list of her good deeds in an attempt to bring her (and, by extension, humanity) back into the galaxy's good graces after she had allowed the old Council to perish in the fight against Sovereign. She'd done it for the right reasons, of course; but that hadn't mattered to humanity's more vocal critics, particularly amongst the salarians.
It had been a month since Shepard's memorial, but her death had left a wound on Kaidan heart that had only bled and festered as days went by. Every night, he had grisly nightmares in which he watched Shepard die in a hundred different explosions, or watched her get caught in Alchera's gravitational field and fall, terrified, to her death. In each variation, one thing remained the same—Kaidan would be paralyzed, watching helplessly from a shuttle and doing nothing to save her. Waking in a panic from these disturbing dreams, he discovered that it was just as hard to escape the crushing guilt and grief by day: Shepard's face was everywhere—and, it turned out, so was his.
The inspiring story of the late Commander Shepard and her dedicated, ragtag crew of aliens and Alliance soldiers had taken the Citadel by storm. As Shepard's closest companion, Kaidan found his image alongside hers on vids everywhere he looked, heard his name on the lips of journalists as they embellished the already riveting story of Shepard's life with steamy, mostly made-up details of his relationship with her. The heartfelt eulogy that he'd almost failed to deliver at her memorial only served fuel the fire.
But the limelight only intensified his pain, so he'd actually been glad to receive the news that he was being put on mandatory leave. It was no surprise, really—not after he'd attacked Joker over Alchera. Not after he'd broken down at Shepard's memorial service. In the absence of his military schedule, his carefully disciplined routine had crumbled. He spent most of his days sleeping and most of his nights trying to drink his memories away. While he had failed at forgetting her, he definitely succeeded in earning himself a bad reputation at the local bars by starting fights and refusing to leave after last call. So when he'd received an official Council summons a few days prior, he naturally assumed that he was going to be chastised in the form of Alliance dishonorable discharge for his less-than-exemplary public displays of dejection.
Oddly, he'd felt nothing at the prospect of being discharged. He'd reached a stage in his depression where no emotions managed to get past the numb sort of haze of sadness that cloaked him day and night. For the past few weeks, he hadn't shaved, hadn't pressed his clothes once. He'd lost weight, and his pale skin and frequently red eyes were only slightly covered by his unruly black hair. The Council summons was a necessary motivator to at least try and look presentable. So that morning, for the first time in a long time, he'd woken early, eaten breakfast, and cleaned himself up. His newly-shaven face felt unnaturally smooth. He'd combed his hair into place, surprised by how long it had gotten. Regarding his reflection in the mirror that morning, his freshly-pressed uniform looked starchy and foreign. He just hoped that it would fool the Council into thinking he was handling his grief with some degree of dignity. Kaidan told himself that was what Shepard would have wanted.
His meeting with the Council would be that evening, their last appointment before close of business. Killing time at the Dark Star felt natural, necessary even. The alternative was to be left alone with his thoughts. Kaidan tossed back another drink, his face expressionless as the liquor warmed him up on its way down. The turian was still eyeing him, though now he stood a few feet away, polishing a glass and trying to act casual. "You look familiar," he grunted at last, setting down the glass and tossing his polishing rag over his shoulder as he stepped back toward Kaidan.
Kaidan's black eye had healed completely, and he looked up to meet the turian's gaze with his own piercing amber stare. He hadn't been recognized since Shepard's memorial, not in the sorry state he'd let himself fall into recently. But after his exertions that morning, Kaidan realized that he must have looked exactly as he did in most of the vids that had been circulating—normal, healthy even, and most importantly, easily recognizable. He didn't care to reveal himself to the turian unless he had to, so he made no reply aside from pushing his once again empty glass forward for another round.
Just when he felt that he'd successfully evaded the nosy bartender's curiosity, he heard an excited, feminine voice chime in. "Yeah, I know you!" exclaimed a bubbly blonde girl who looked to be in her early twenties. "You're Kaidan Alenko!"
An audible gasp came from behind the blonde, but Kaidan struggled to remain stoic and stared straight ahead. "Really?! Commander Shepard's Kaidan?!" The second girl was taller and plain-faced, but wearing a tiny dress that left little to the imagination.
"He's even more handsome in person," the blonde observed in an awed voice. He sighed. Just what I need, he thought, exasperated. The last thing Kaidan felt like doing was fending off drunk, vapid groupies, and talking about Shepard was absolutely out of the question.
"Control yourselves. Have some fucking respect for the dead," a third girl said to her friends, shaking her head in a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. Kaidan looked up at her forceful remark, hopeful that maybe this pointless rendezvous could end, that at least one of them had some sense. The third girl was traditionally pretty with soft features and a slim figure. But it was her very long and raven black hair that caught his attention. Like Shepard's, he thought miserably. He looked away, wincing at the sudden pang of agony that came with the memory of Shepard's singularly gorgeous hair.
She had always worn it up while on duty, arranging it in a sort loose braid that she twisted up into a bun. It was practical but elegant. Kaidan had been surprised by her hair when she'd let it down in his presence for the first time—the long, exquisitely dark locks covering nearly the entire length of her back. God, she was so beautiful, he thought, feeling a lump rise in his throat in spite of himself. He didn't want to forget how beautiful she was, but it was extraordinarily painful to be reminded of the way her hair caught the light in their quarters on the last night they'd spent together, of how it had spread out on the pillow around her, letting off that faint, rosy aroma that he'd become so familiar with and so intoxicated by. He tried to push away the image of her striking green eyes, twinkling mirthfully up at him before she'd grabbed him by the collar and yanked his face down to hers for a kiss.
No! he thought fiercely, shaking his head to dispel the memory before getting unsteadily to his feet, making to leave the club early—anything to avoid dredging up the past. The foul-mouthed girl with the familiar, dark hair looked like she wanted to say something more, but Kaidan tossed some credits at the now wide-eyed turian bartender and rushed out.
He was halfway to the Council chambers when he realized the glass was still in his hand. He downed the remaining contents in one motion before tossing the glass in a nearby wastebasket and stopping to adjust his attire. He stood outside the elevator, trying to discern the state of his appearance in the murky reflection he could just make out in the brushed metal of the elevator doors. After taking a deep, steadying breath, Kaidan pressed the button to summon the elevator, and stepped inside when it arrived. He was happy to have the carriage to himself as the elevator moved with a mechanical hum. When he reached his destination, he stepped out into the courtyard and was happy to see a familiar face.
"Alenko," David Anderson said warmly, extending his hand with a smile. Kaidan shook his hand, glad to see his friend but a bit embarrassed under the circumstances. He hoped that it wouldn't be too awkward when Anderson, a council member, witnessed the discharge of his former subordinate. "You're early," Anderson continued, walking toward the Council seats. "I was just about to go and grab a cup of coffee. But since you're here, we can just handle this now."
Kaidan was surprised to see that the other councilors were not present. "Sir," he began, wondering how he was to be properly punished when only his close and clearly biased friend was there. "Where are—"
"Ah, it's just me for this, lieutenant," Anderson interjected, sitting on a nearby bench and inviting Kaidan to join him with a gesture. "This matter is actually something I wanted to discuss with you in private. The Council thinks I am reprimanding you for your recent uh . . . behavior. "
"Oh," Kaidan replied quietly. His mind was racing. A part of him was happy that he wasn't going to be discharged, but another part of him was nervous about the real purpose for this meeting.
Anderson interrupted his reverie with an unexpected declaration. "Alenko, I know things have been rough for you lately, but I think it's for the best if you get back to work. I'm sending you out on assignment."
Kaidan perked up at that. Yes, he was still grieving, and he worried a bit about his ability to get back to work after his recent ordeals. But an assignment meant work, and work meant being busy. The busier he was, the less time he would have to wallow in misery over Shepard. It had been a month since Shepard's memorial, and even longer since he had done an honest day's work. He didn't want to forget her, and knew for a fact that he couldn't even if he wanted to. But he knew that she would want him to work, and to make himself useful. "What's the assignment?" he asked, meeting Anderson's gaze.
The older man seemed surprised that Kaidan didn't require any convincing, and moved on with the conversation quickly before Kaidan could change his mind. "The Ascension Project needs some more good people on the ground, and we're thinking Alliance soldiers like yourself are perfect for the operation. Intel on the location of the Academy and the biotic potential of the students in the Ascension program has reportedly gotten into Cerberus hands and we need to make sure that the students are protected. There are hundreds of students there, all gifted but young and impressionable biotics. If the Academy is infiltrated by Cerberus, I don't even want to think of the damage that they could do to and with those students."
Kaidan thought for a moment. Memories from his own time in biotic training were unpleasant. He knew that the Ascension Project was a good initiative—that it was nothing like the hell he'd endured at BAaT training. "Brain Camp" had done lasting psychological damage, but maybe being assigned at Grissom was a chance for him to make a better tomorrow for kids like himself. "I like the sound of that," Kaidan said, shocked to find that he was smiling for the first time in a long time.
"Glad to hear it," Anderson replied. But then he cleared his throat and looked away uncomfortably. "There's something more."
"Uh . . . well, lay it on me," Kaidan said, chuckling uneasily.
"I recommended you for this assignment personally. The Council, as well as some among the Alliance higher-up are concerned that members of Shepard's former squad, including you, will raise a panic about Reapers after Sovereign and the latest . . . attack. I suggested that we station you at Grissom in response to a motion that was raised to extend your mandatory leave indefinitely. This was my way to show that your value outweighs the risk you present."
Kaidan was shocked. The Council wanted to suspend him on the off chance that he would try to spread Reaper paranoia? He had no idea who had attacked the Normandy. The Reapers were obviously a possibility, but the ship that had fired on them that day was unfamiliar. Ever since then, Kaidan had been too wrapped up in his grief to think about the next step . . . revenge. But maybe this was the perfect opportunity. He could work at Grissom and stay off the grid for the time being, all the while doing research and gaining intel on his own time. What was more, he could do meaningful work at the Academy—it would be more than just a cover. If he couldn't continue typical Alliance service, this would be a worthwhile interlude. So Kaidan decided that because he liked Anderson and wanted the job, he would play nice with the Council for now.
"When do we start?" he asked.
"I've arranged transport to Elysium departing this weekend if you can be ready," Anderson replied.
Kaidan nodded his assent. After hammering out the details of his ensuing departure, he bid Anderson farewell and made his way back toward his apartment. Walking through the Presidium, Kaidan felt uneasy that the Council saw him as a sort of threat. At the same time, he felt a renewed sense of purpose that had eluded him for weeks. The hole in his heart Shepard had left was still there, still throbbing. Perhaps it would never be filled. But as he looked about the bright lights of the Presidium, all of the hustle and bustle of the Citadel by night suddenly felt less oppressive than it had before. He passed a monitor playing yet another news vid about Shepard. This time, it appeared to be a biopic honoring the late, great commander instead of a news story covering her death or memorial service. He stopped, watching the flashing images of surprisingly old footage. Kaidan stared into the clear and determined face of a very young Shepard, famed for being the sole survivor of the batarian massacre on Mindoir.
He smiled sadly at the sight of her, only sixteen back then but already tough as nails. She recounted the tragic story for the cameras without shedding a tear, her familiar voice already acquiring the charisma that would later captivate all who were lucky enough to know her.
Kaidan turned away as the profile on Shepard went to commercial. He walked over to the vista overlooking the lake and gazed at the reflection of the city lights on the water, thinking. Shepard had done so much in her short life. Her actions echoed across the galaxy, but he was most fond of the small things—those private memories that were just for him. He'd always cherish their morning coffee, her bawdy sense of humor, the way he would take her by the hand and lay a secret kiss across her wrist before they parted. He would find little reminders of her in the delicate aroma of roses and the metallic scent of the oil she cleaned her guns with. He would think of her every time he heard the 1980s Earth music she loved so much; Kaidan had never met anyone with such a peculiar affinity for Toto of all things.
No, the mark Shepard had left on him would never fade, yet maybe the ragged edges of that gaping hole in his heart could heal a bit. Maybe he could get some occasional reprieve from the pain of losing her. He had to try; he needed to be as tough as the woman he loved had been. He might spend his life in mourning, but Kaidan took solace in the thought that she would be proud of him for carrying on, for going to help biotics like themselves. Shepard had died doing her duty. He'd be damned if he didn't live to do his.
Two years later . . .
Shepard woke with a gasp. Her eyes snapped open, blinking furiously at the bright light as she struggled to breathe. The air felt heavy, difficult for her lungs to manage. Above her she could see a white ceiling and the arms of various medical machines looming. Her eyes watered as they got accustomed to the fluorescent light. After a few moments, the light was obscured, forming a halo around a face as it bent over Shepard. Her eyes adjusted and Shepard looked into the face of a strange man. He was bald and pale, with narrow blue eyes and a light dusting of facial hair.
"There. On the monitor—something's wrong," a woman said, a hint of panic in her voice. Shepard's drug-addled, cloudy mind registered that the woman had an accent. She couldn't be sure, but she thought it was British. She gradually became aware of a dull ache in nearly every part of her body. As she slowly gained awareness, she felt that she was hooked up to monitors and machines by numerous needles and tubes.
Troubled, Shepard decided to sever these connections, but found to her horror that could hardly move. She managed to wiggle her fingers slightly, but was too weak to lift her arms. She sensed that there was a heavy sedative dulling her responses, but it was wearing off by the second. Desperately, Shepard tried to remember where she was, how she had gotten there. But all she could remember was pain. "She's reacting to outside stimuli. Showing an awareness of her surroundings," the man observed.
She could feel her heart pounding, hear a nearby monitor register her accelerating heart rate. The woman bent over Shepard, a concerned look on her pretty face. Her dark, wavy hair hung over her shoulders and danced in Shepard's vision, making her dizzy. The woman regarded Shepard with alarm in her intense blue eyes. "Oh my god, Miranda. I think she's waking up," the man said from Shepard's right side.
"Damnit, Wilson. She's not ready yet. Give her more sedative. Now!" the woman called Miranda ordered. Scrambling with the settings of the myriad beeping machines, Wilson faded from view. Shepard's mind was reeling. Who are these people? Where am I? Where is my crew? Kaidan . . .
Just as Kaidan's kind, handsome face swam into her vision, Shepard struggled to move and was elated when her left arm obeyed. The feeling in her limbs was increasing rapidly, and while she was in pain, she was encouraged to find that she could now move both her hands and turn her head side to side. She raised her left arm shakily, but Miranda caught her forearm and laid it down by her side. "Shepard—don't try to move. Just lie still. Try to stay calm," her voice was oddly reassuring but Shepard was headstrong. She wasn't going to lie back and let herself be poked and prodded by strangers without a fight.
"Heartrate still climbing. Brain activity is off the charts," Wilson said nervously. Your damned right it is, Shepard thought determinedly, willing her mind to clear, begging her limbs to obey as she struggled to sit up. But Wilson had administered another sedative. Shepard could feel it taking over, and still she fought.
"Stats pushing into the red zone. It's not working," Wilson exclaimed. Miranda rushed over to the machines, pushing Wilson aside as she regarded the stats on the readout.
"Another dose. Now," she commanded. Wilson obeyed and Shepard felt her treacherous senses dull, felt her heartrate and breathing slow involuntarily. Her eyelids suddenly felt dangerously heavy. She struggled to remain conscious, but the drugs were too strong.
"Heartrate dropping. Stats falling back into normal range," Wilson reported, relieved. He sounded far away, his voice odd and distorted. "That was close. We almost lost her," he added, from what sounded like miles away. Shepard's vision became blurry.
Miranda leaned over her again. Looking first down at Shepard and then over to Wilson. "I told you your estimates were off. Run the numbers again." Shepard could barely make out what Miranda was saying. Her voice sounded small, like it was coming through an outdated comm system. Shepard blinked rapidly, desperate to retain consciousness, but her eyes drifted shut and she was engulfed in quiet darkness.
It felt like only a moment had passed before Shepard woke again to the sound of her own name on the Miranda's lips. "Wake up, Commander. Shepard, do you hear me? Get out of that bed, now—this facility is under attack." This time, Miranda's voicewas coming through a comm system.
Shepard felt slightly better, stronger than she had when she'd woken before. Her mind was still fuzzy and her limbs heavy, but she quickly assessed her surroundings. She felt a jerk as the room she was in registered a nearby impact. She sat up slowly, rubbing her jaw and blinking to adjust her eyes to the light once again. "Your scars aren't healed, but I need to get you moving. This facility is under attack," Miranda repeated over the comm.
The room shook again; the lights flickered and Shepard heard the unmistakable sounds of combat outside. Eager for answers, she got to her feet, surprised to find that she could walk as her dizziness and confusion dissipated. "There's armor and a pistol in the corner," Miranda informed her. "Be sure to pick up ammunition. You're going to need to protect yourself."
It was a lot to take in at once, but Shepard excelled at focusing in a crisis. She suited up and loaded the handgun as instructed, looking around the room with apprehensive curiosity. It was a laboratory or operating room of some kind, but tables covered with instruments were overturned from the ruckus, and monitors were registering only static. "Keep your head down!" Miranda shouted, suddenly. Shepard ducked into cover as an explosion took out the door to the lab. "Someone is hacking security and trying to kill you," Miranda explained.
"Well, that's comforting," Shepard replied, dusting herself off and preparing to explore further. She exited the room and climbed some stairs to enter a larger room featuring a sweeping vista of enormous floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, Shepard saw the expanse of space. A space station, she thought. Where is this place?
"Keep moving," Miranda said in her ear. "Try to hold off the mechs until I can guide you to the shuttles."
"Mechs?" Shepard responded. "Why are they attacking me?"
"There will be time for explanation later, just focus on getting out," Miranda said, frustration evident in her urgent tone.
Shepard encountered her first group of the aforementioned mechs in the next room. They were not very accurate, but her own weapon was not very powerful. She was relieved to find that her reflexes were still intact, and after a brief shootout, the mechs lay in a smoking pile and Shepard continued forward. "Nice work," Miranda chimed in appreciatively. "But more reinforcements are on their way."
Following Miranda's directions, Shepard emerged into another large room, this time up on a balcony. As she glanced at the floor below, a door opened with a hiss, revealing a large group of hostile mechs. Ducking behind the balcony railing, Shepard noticed a pile of crates to her left. She crawled over to it and rummaged through the weapons and equipment inside the nearest crate. Amazed at her luck, Shepard lifted a heavy, formidable-looking grenade launcher. It was loaded. "Use the grenades—quickly!" Miranda insisted. Good thing Captain Obvious is on the case, Shepard thought wryly as she got in position and took aim. The mechs continued to fire at Shepard where she crouched in relative safety behind the cover of the crates. The moment she heard a cease in the fire from below, she popped up from cover and fired off two grenades at the crowd of mechs before immediately ducking back again.
There were two satisfying booms in quick succession, and Shepard felt the heat and blowback from the explosions, even from her place on the balcony above them. She stood cautiously, and when the smoke cleared, she noted with relief that all of the enemies were destroyed. Her body hummed with adrenaline, and she was pleased to acknowledge the powerful thrum of her biotics for the first time since she had been awake. She reached her hand to her head and rubbed her fingers over her implant. It felt different, but not uncomfortably. An upgrade? she wondered, confused. Shepard wasn't sure how, but she seemed to be in fit, fighting form.
She vaulted over the railing, landing first on some boxes before jumping down to the floor below. Proceeding through the doorway, Shepard heard Miranda come over the comms again, but this time she was distorted. "You're doing—Shepard—head to the—"
"Miranda, I didn't catch that last," Shepard said uneasily.
"Shepard?—read me?—I've got—headed to—position—"
"Damnit," Shepard muttered. After losing contact with Miranda altogether, she proceeded through the facility unaided, picking up ammo and taking out mechs along the way. She came across an empty workspace with an open laptop projecting a vid of Miranda's face. Shepard activated the vid and took a step back to watch.
"Progress is slow, but subject shows signs of recovery. Major organs are functional and there are signs of rudimentary neurological activity."
Wilson came on next: "Update. The cost of this project is astronomical—over four billion credits so far. But no one seems to care that we've gone over budget. I don't know where the boss gets all his money. Maybe it's better not to know. I just wish he'd kick a little more in my direction once in a while."
Four billion? Shepard thought in a daze. Why? Following the sounds of combat, she proceeded into another room through the door to her right. Shepard started in surprise at the sight of a young man hunching down behind another balcony railing, jumping up at intervals to return fire to a group of attacking mechs across the room. He wore a combat uniform and seemed skilled with a gun. Shepard was even more taken aback when the man fired off a powerful biotic Throw, launching a mech into the air.
Any enemy of the mechs was a friend of hers. Shepard hurried into the room, sliding into cover next to the man. When he turned to her, his mouth fell open in shock. "Whoa. What are you doing here?! I thought you were still a work in progress."Well, at least he knows me, she thought uneasily. Being referred to as a "work in progress" felt strange.
"Are you with Miranda?" she asked.
"Yeah. Sorry for not introducing myself. I guess this is all pretty new to you, huh?"
"That's putting it mildly."
The man chuckled. "I'm Jacob Taylor," he said by way of introduction. "I've been stationed here for—" Cut off by another wave of mechs, Jacob quickly turned back to the fray and took one out with another biotic attack.
Shepard followed suit, but taking out mech after mech with pistol fire was slow going. She decided to test the effectiveness of her own biotic attacks in the wake of . . . whatever had happened to her. Taking a deep breath, she focused her energy and hurled a Lift at a group of mechs, delighted to see two of them rise into the air, hovering helplessly while she picked them off with her gun. I've still got it, she thought, trying to focus on the positives amid the chaos.
In a break between waves, she and Jacob ducked back down to catch their breath and Shepard looked over at her new companion. He was athletically built, with short cropped hair, dark skin, and kind brown eyes. She was curious to know who he was, but even more anxious to know why she was here. "Things must be worse than I thought if Miranda has you running around," he noted, worry giving his voice an edge. "I'll fill you in, but we better get you to the shuttle first."
Shepard wasn't having any of it. "I know this isn't the best time," she replied, trying to sound understanding. "But I am sick of stumbling around here with no idea of what's going on."
Jacob regarded her for a moment, the silence between them perforated by explosions and gunfire throughout the building. "Okay," he relented. "Here's the short version. You and your ship were attacked and destroyed," he began.
Shepard inhaled sharply as the memory came back to her in a cold wave. The Normandy in flames, the screams of the crew, scurrying to escape. The defeated note in Kaidan's voice as she ordered his evacuation. Joker refusing to abandon ship. The second round of attacks from the mysterious, gargantuan enemy ship. And then the end, the last fatal blow that reduced the ship to scrap metal as Shepard was jettisoned into space with no tether, her oxygen tank ruptured as she flew wildly about with no control, nothing to grab onto.
She tried to keep the panic from her eyes as she looked to Jacob for more. "You were killed," he continued. He spoke confidently and quickly as though this was an accepted fact, even as she sat living and breathing next to him now; but that statement knocked the wind right out of her. "Dead as dead can be when they brought you hear," he added. Who are 'they?' And how could I have been dead? she thought frantically.
But even as the thought crossed her mind, Shepard knew it was true. Her last moments replayed like a horror movie in her mind. The orangey surface of Alchera getting closer and larger as she was caught in its gravitational field. The rising panic as her precious oxygen leaked out with a cruel hissing sound. The indescribable pain as she started to fight for air, like someone had her throat and lungs in an unrelenting vice. And then, nothing. Blackness.
"Our scientists spent the last two years putting you back together," Jacob said, bringing her back to the present. "You've been comatose or worse that whole time," he explained. "Welcome back to your life."
Two years?! Her mind reeled at the thought of that much time, gone! She struggled to stay focused and calm. You can break down later, but not now, she told herself fiercely, forcing down the troubling thoughts of her own death. Someone had brought her here, spent two years and an enormous sum to save her. But who? She breathed deeply before remarking to Jacob, "This doesn't look like an Alliance facility."
"It isn't," he answered shortly. "I can't say much more than that for now. The Alliance officially declared you dead, and if we don't get to those shuttles soon, they'll be right."
Well isn't this just swell, she thought darkly, getting to her feet and preparing to move. It was clear that Jacob wasn't going to be more forthcoming for the time being, but she was used to putting herself into a tunnel vision mindset, to narrowing her scope to the objective at hand. The current mission was to escape the space station. She intended to do just that, but there was one last thing nagging at her mind. "Were there any other survivors from the Normandy?" she asked, almost fearful of the answer.
Jacob sighed. "I'll tell you what," he proposed. "You help me finish off these mechs, and I'll play Twenty Questions with you all day." She nodded and turned to find another wave of hostiles advancing on them. Taking position next to Jacob, Shepard fired off a biotic Throw at the group. Jacob gasped as the powerful field of energy knocked down every single mech. Some of them didn't get back up. Shepard was taken aback by her new-found strength. Had they enhanced her powers when . . . rebuildingher? She decided that was a question for another time as she reloaded her pistol with a nearby thermal clip.
She and Jacob made a good team. Between their combined biotics strength and firepower, the enemy was no match for them. Together they dispensed with the group mechs without any trouble. As the last mech went down in a smoking heap of parts, Jacob stood up and holstered his weapon. "Okay, I said I'd answer your questions. What do you want to know?"
First and foremost, Shepard found it hard to believe that she had really been dead, even with her memories pointing to her death as the only possibly outcome of the attack on the Normandy. As she flexed her fingers and raised a hand tentatively to her face, she felt what she was sure was her own skin. It was scarred and cut up a bit, but felt like her skin nonetheless. The lines and curves of her face were familiar, natural. Her thick black hair was shorter, but the same color and texture. How was any of this possible? "You said they spent two years rebuilding me. How bad were my injuries?" she asked, trying to keep the nerves from her voice.
"I'm no doctor," Jacob began, "but it was bad. When I first saw you, you were nothing but meat and tubes. Anywhere else, they would have put you in a coffin." Shepard shuddered at that. She was claustrophobic and the thought of being buried was a little hard to swallow. The realization that she had come that close to being gone . . .
"Project Lazarus was different," Jacob went on. "Cutting edge technology."
"What do you mean," she asked suspiciously. "Cloning? Cybernetics?" Shepard knew that advances in technology made these things possible, but the thought that she might be a clone was a bit more than she could handle.
"I don't know the details," Jacob replied. "You'd have to ask the scientists. But I'm pretty sure you're not a clone. They wanted you back exactly as you were. You're still you—you just might have some extra bits and pieces now."
Still me. That's good. But who needed me back this badly, and for what? Shepard cleared her throat uneasily. "The last thing I remember is the Normandy blowing up. Did anyone else make it?" This was the second time she'd asked about the others. She needed to know, but was terrified of the possibility that they had faced a similar fate to hers, but without the four-billion-dollar rebuild.
"Just about everybody survived," Jacob responded reassuringly. "A few servicemen on the lower decks didn't get out, and . . . Navigator Pressly was killed by an explosion. But everyone else made it out alive, even the non-Alliance crew like the asari and the quarian."
Shepard swallowed and turned her face away, digesting the news. Pressly had always been kind to her, and his death was unfortunate. But the fact that her squad and most of her crew had survived was spectacular.
"Do you know what any of them are up to now?" she asked. She was desperate find her friends and get some real answers. She could really use the comfort of Liara's quiet friendship and the warmth of Kaidan's embrace. But even if she could find them, how would they respond to seeing her, quite literally back from the grave, and a whole two years later? The whole situation was indescribably confusing.
"I don't know where any of them are." Shepard felt defeated at that. "It's been two years, commander," Jacob explained gently. "They've moved on, some left the Alliance. They could be anywhere now."
"They were my team," Shepard said quietly. "If they knew I was alive, they'd come back."
"Well," Jacob began with a shrug, "maybe you can track them down when we get off of this station—if we get off this station."
Jacob was right. They needed to concentrate on getting out alive. Shepard cleared her throat and crossed her arms over her chest, looking around the room. "What's the quickest way to those shuttles?"
"Depends where the mechs are thickest. If we—" Jacob was cut off suddenly by incoming radio static.
A familiar voice, Wilson's voice, hailed them. "Check. Check. Anyone on this frequency—anyone out there still alive? Hello?"
Jacob responded quickly. "Wilson? It's Jacob. I'm with Shepard in D wing. We just took out a wave of mechs."
"Shepard's alive?! How the hell . . . Never mind. You need to get her out of there. Get to the service tunnels and head to the network control room."
"Roger that, Wilson," Jacob acknowledged. "Stay on this frequency."
Shepard decided to ask about the man she remembered from her first, somewhat traumatic return to consciousness. "I think I remember a Wilson checking on me when I woke up before . . ."
Jacob nodded. "Yeah, he's the chief medical tech. Answers directly to Miranda." But who does Miranda answer to? she wondered.
"C'mon," Jacob urged. "Service tunnels are this way."
As Shepard and Jacob made their way down the recommended path, more mechs blocked their way. She quickly ducked near some piping and returned fire to their attackers, registering Jacob's frenzied speech as he hailed Wilson over the comms again. "Damnit, Wilson! This place is crawling with mechs!"
"The whole station is crawling with mechs. I'm doing the best I can!" Wilson replied irritably.
As Shepard continued to fight through another pack of hostiles, a brief moment of radio silence was interrupted by Wilson's voice once again, this time laced with panic. "Oh, god. They've found me—help!" he pleaded, his voice replaced by static.
"Wilson, where are you?" Jacob inquired, concerned.
"Server room B," he replied immediately. "Hurry. They're out of control!"
Worry was etched across Jacob's face, but Shepard noticed appreciatively that he kept a level head nonetheless. "Up these stairs," he instructed, gesturing for Shepard to follow as he took a nearby staircase up a level.
"Oh, no. I'm . . . I'm hit!" Wilson gasped over the comms.
"Damnit. Shepard, we need to hurry," Jacob remarked as they were impeded by more mechs. But the duo had grown accustomed to the enemy's fighting patterns, and Shepard found that they were dispatching them more rapidly with each new wave.
Finally, Shepard entered a dimly lit room littered with overturned tables and broken equipment. "Jacob, Shepard. Down here," Wilson called weakly from his hiding spot behind a low counter. "Bastards got me in the leg."
Shepard noted that his wounds were minor. She decided that Wilson must be prone to melodrama. The sight of the familiar yet mysterious man with the beady eyes brought Shepard back to her brief return to consciousness days before. "You were there the first time I woke up," she observed, ignoring the man's complaints.
"Yeah. That was me," he snapped, waving a hand dismissively. "Can we talk about this after we fix my leg?"
"There's some medi-gel on the wall here," Jacob reported, pointing to a still-intact medi-gel container. "There should be enough to get him up and moving."
Shepard retrieved the medi-gel and administered it to Wilson's wounds, not ungently. The little man eyed her warily all the same as he got unsteadily to his feet. "Thanks, Shepard. Never thought you would be saving my life. I guess we're even now." She grunted noncommittally in response.
"I thought maybe I could shut down the security mechs," he explained, gesturing to the ruined control room. "But whoever hacked the system fried the whole thing completely. It's irreversible."
"We didn't ask what you were doing," Jacob returned slowly. "Why do you even have mech security clearance? You were stationed in the bio wing." Shepard didn't like the sound of this. Suspicion was written all over Jacob's face and with every word, Wilson seemed to get more and more uncomfortable.
Wilson decided unwisely to respond with hostility. "Haven't you been listening?" he hissed. "I came here to try and fix this. Besides, I was shot. How do you explain that?" Shepard didn't care fore his tone, but she didn't want the situation to escalate. She could feel Jacob's biotics humming with frustration as she took a step toward Wilson.
"Look, you're all strangers to me. We need to get out of here before we start assigning blame."
"Shepard's right," Jacob assented. "And we need to find Miranda. We can't leave her behind."
"Forget about Miranda," Wilson interjected, a little too quickly. "She was over in B wing. It was overrun with mechs. There's no way she survived." Shepard regarded Wilson uneasily. His lack of concern for his colleague was unsettling. He looked up for a moment, but quickly turned away when he noticed Shepard's stare.
"A bunch of mechs can't drop Miranda," Jacob argued. "She's alive," he insisted, crossing his arms resolutely over his chest and regarding Wilson doubtfully.
"Okay, then where is she?" Wilson asked, taking a nervous step forward. "There are only two options." His voice was shaky but he was getting louder with every word. "She's either dead, or she's a traitor!"
"Then why would she wake me up to warn me about the attack?" Shepard asked dubiously.
"Okay," Wilson said, raising his hands in surrender. "But that doesn't change the facts. We're here. She's not. We need to save ourselves." Coward, Shepard thought darkly.
"The shuttle bay is only a few—" Wilson stopped short when the door behind him snapped open to reveal another group of mechs. Shepard and the others took cover as the mechs fired a volley of shots at them. Peaking up over the box she had hidden behind, Shepard saw a tall stack of what looked like fuel barrels near the advancing mechs.
"Stay down," she called to her companions, before firing off a trio of pistol blasts at the barrels. They went up in a loud explosion and the mechs were demolished in a blazing inferno.
As she stood and reloaded her weapon, preparing to move out, she was startled to find Jacob standing in front of her.
"Look, this is tense. If I tell you who we work for, will you trust me?" he asked seriously. Shepard looked into his honest-seeming brown eyes before nodding in agreement.
"Jacob, this is not the time for that," Wilson protested.
"If she's constantly expecting a shot in the back, we're less likely to get out of here alive. We need to work as a team," Jacob replied forcefully. He turned back to Shepard, whose hands were clenched into anxious fists.
"Fine," Wilson said coolly. "If the boss gets pissed, it's your ass."
Jacob cleared his throat before looking back at Shepard. "The Lazarus Project, the program that rebuilt you . . . it's funded and controlled by Cerberus."
Shepard let out an awkward bark of laughter, eliciting a confused look from Jacob. She collected herself as best she could, butof course it was Cerberus. Really need to work on that nervous laughter tic, she mused. Still, just my luck to be saved from certain death only to be taken captive by a group of goddamn terrorists.
"I remember running into Cerberus while tracking Saren. Pro-human radicals," she said, looking at Jacob with raised eyebrows.
He ran a hand over the back of his neck, sighing. "That's what the Alliance wants you to believe," he began. "There's more to it than that. The Alliance abandoned you and left you for dead. Cerberus recovered your body and spent a fortune to bring you back."
Shepard shook her head in disbelief. All of this talk about Cerberus and her body was getting to be a little much. "Look, I'd be suspicious too," Jacob said. He walked over to Shepard with a sympathetic frown. "But right now, we have to work together. I just thought . . . you deserved to know the truth."
Shepard offered him the tiniest hint at a forced smile in response. "Once we're off station," he went on, "I'll take you to the Illusive Man. He can explain everything. I promise."
Jacob was trying to be comforting, but he'd lost Shepard at "Illusive Man." The Illusive Man? You've got to me kidding me. That sounds like a cartoon supervillain. She gave Jacob an incredulous look.
"Illusive Man, huh? Is he in charge of all this?"
"Yes," Wilson piped up from behind Jacob. "And that's not his real name, of course. It was the codename the Alliance used for him and it just kind of stuck."
Wow. A Cerberus big wig, archenemy of the Alliance with a codename, and he rebuilt me like Frankenstein. This day just keeps getting better. "I don't care what you say," Shepard said simply. "I'll never work with Cerberus." She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. She didn't like her odds when it came to defying a powerful figure like this Illusive Man. He'd spent billions on her—there had to be a reason why.
"You can tell it to the boss after we've saved our butts," Jacob said. "We're almost to the shuttles." Shepard made no reply as she proceeded into the next room, readying her weapon.
The three of them made their way through the last couple of corridors, taking out the remaining mechs on their way without much difficulty. As they prepared to open the doors to the shuttle bay, Wilson eagerly took point, punching in the key code to open the door. "Just through here," he said as the doors opened with a swish.
Shepard exhaled in surprise to see a tall, stunning woman in a rather impractical white Cerberus uniform and high-heeled boots. Miranda stood with her weapon drawn in a menacing posture, her handgun inches from Wilson's shocked face.
"Miranda," he breathed. "You were . . . "
"Dead?" she finished with a sardonic tilt of her head. Before Wilson could respond Miranda pulled the trigger, blowing his head to bits in a gruesome display. She didn't even flinch as she looked down at Wilson's corpse with loathing.
"What the hell are you doing!?" Jacob asked angrily. He jogged forward and then looked down at Wilson with equal parts disgust and dismay.
"My job," Miranda answered calmly. "Wilson betrayed us all." Jacob looked doubtful while Shepard regarded Miranda from a short distance, trying to keep the alarm from her eyes. She had been suspicious of Wilson from the first, but Miranda's quick and callous act of dispensing with her partner was disturbing.
"Even if you're sure, did he deserve that welcome?" Shepard asked, raising her own weapon on Miranda.
Miranda was unaffected. "He sabotaged my systems, killed my staff, and would have killed us. So, yes." Her confident demeanor should have reassured Shepard of her honesty, but Miranda's casual reaction to just having killed a man in cold blood was incredibly odd.
"You sure about that, Miranda?" Jacob asked. "We've known Wilson for years. What if you're wrong?" Shepard waited for Miranda's answer eagerly, refusing to lower her weapon despite the fact that Miranda was determinedly ignoring her threatening posture.
"I'm never wrong, Jacob. I thought you'd have learned that by now." She shrugged. Shepard's mouth was agape. Who was this woman?
"You should have brought him in alive to see what he knew at least," Shepard said. Miranda turned to her finally. "It was too dangerous. After all the time and money I've put in, I couldn't risk him killing you."
Jacob scoffed. "Do you really think Wilson is capable of that?"
Miranda looked down, stepping delicately back from the spreading pool of Wilson's blood. "Not anymore."
Shepard lowered her weapon, realizing that whatever her reservations about the situation, Miranda was not to be trifled with. "Okay. What's our next step?" she asked.
"When we get out of here, my boss wants to talk to you."
"Your boss. You mean the Illusive Man. I know you're Cerberus."
"Ah, Jacob," Miranda said, grinning at him through clenched teeth. "I should have known your conscience would get the better of you."
"Lying to the commander isn't the way to get her to join our cause," Jacob said defensively.
"Well then," Miranda began. "Now that we're getting everything out in the open, Shepard, is there anything else you'd like to know before we go?"
Shepard was happy to oblige her with questions. "It's a little convenient that you should up here just as the fight is all over, don't you think? Where were you during all of this?"
"You mean besides trying to save you," Miranda fired back. "Wilson sent an army of mechs to try and stop me. I took them out and got here as soon as I could. Probably a little too soon if you ask Wilson."
"Is there anyone else on this station?" Shepard asked, reluctant to leave others behind, even if they were Cerberus.
"This is the evac area," Miranda announced. "If they aren't here, they're not coming. And the only one here worth saving is you. Everyone else is expendable." Shepard opened her mouth to argue, but Jacob came to Miranda's defense.
"Miranda's right. We all knew the risks when we signed up for this. Without you, there's no point."
Shepard sighed in resignation. "What's our destination?" she asked, looking at the shuttle behind Miranda.
"Another Cerberus facility. The Illusive Man will meet with you there," Miranda replied.
"I still don't trust you," Shepard said uncertainly. "What if I refuse?"
"This is the only shuttle out of here. If you want to stay behind with the mechs, be my guest." Miranda's eyes met Shepard's with a look that dared another challenge.
"What does Cerberus want with me?" Shepard asked defiantly. She knew she was running out of time before she would have to leave with these people, but she wasn't used to giving in so easily.
"You'll have to ask the Illusive Man. He poured virtually unlimited resources into Lazarus. He obviously has a plan for you, but we won't know what that is until we get to him." Shepard didn't much care for this strong-willed, arrogant, and apparently impulsive woman. But she knew she didn't have a choice, especially if she wanted answers. She needed a way to escape, and she needed to know who brought her here. She hoped, too, that they could shed some light on the identity of her attackers. Whoever had destroyed the Normandy that day had taken two years of Shepard's life away. While she worried about trusting Cerberus, even temporarily, she told herself that if nothing else, Jacob seemed benign enough. If he trusted Miranda, she would have to do the same for the time being.
"I've had enough of this station to last a lifetime," she said, finally, uncrossing her arms and stepping forward to follow Miranda into the shuttle.
"Or two, in your case," Miranda responded with a grin. "Come on."
