For the record, I'm probably not gonna write a ton of new new author's notes. That just seems time consuming. Enjoy the chapter and thanks in advance.
Another new (lol not anymore) author's note...if there are contradictions later on in the story, it's because I haven't edited the whole thing yet. :D
I'd like to thank you guys for the reviews you've given. Every one I get gives me more motivation. :)
Chapter 2
If one was to look up at the sky from planet Earth in 2186, they would presume that they would see only one object: the moon. Bright and creamy in complexion, it was a sight for the sore eyes of civilians and warriors alike. On a normal dusk it would be concealed by the evening smog. On occasion, it would be covered by an incoming fleet of air support.
There was a war going on, after all.
However, if the clouds aligned in a precise way on a bitter night, it could shine with equal amounts of solemnity and mischief. Its celestial beams could cast through clouds and warm even the coldest soldier's heart. If one could acquire a telescope or possess superb vision, they might also notice the craters and dents that maligned its beauty. In reality, this shining beacon of white was only a rock orbiting its parent planet. On the contrary, though, it was so much more to those who were fighting for their lives on Earth's now war-torn lands. It might have been just a moon, but it was still something similar to a light of hope.
On a few nights in particular during that year, though, a much different foreign object could be seen from the sky in Earth near the optimistic white orb.
And if you were in the city of London, England, you had the best seat in the house.
A prime example of supposed prothean architecture shined in the sky, not caring about the fact that it wasn't supposed to be there. After being brought into the system of Sol, its metal gleamed against the blackness of space. The structure was once a home for the most prestigious in the galaxy; sporting everything from shopping malls to penthouses with prime space vistas, its visual perfection could be compared only to Thessia. Those who lived there knew that this was far from true, though.
But when this cylindrical edifice made its way into Earth's territory, all of these people were gone. Victims of the harvest, they had already been long forgotten in the depths of their former home.
In the center of London, where a No Man's Land met face to face with a living Hell, a conduit glittered down from this metallic jewel that once floated in the nebula affiliated with the snake. This structure, known to every Milky Way citizen as nothing more than "The Citadel", had been forcibly moved from its original home due to the Reaper War. The Old Machines had done their corrupt deed with the help of a deceptive ally. With the entire galaxy's forces pitted up against an army that came once every fifty thousand years, a final assault had loomed between them.
A civilian looking up at this sky borne chaos may begin to question the magnitude of the Citadel's Earth debut. It was obviously a big deal seeing something that was an independent anomaly so close to home. Without even considering the light years and mass relay jumps, its trek had been a long one.
Yet the Reapers had transported it there in hardly any time.
At the hands of the most powerful synthetic race, the Citadel's great arms had been shut. The singular mode of transportation into its internal depths was an intermediary beam. This conduit gave off the most vivid shade of light blue one could imagine. Whoever could get to it would rise up and have the chance to activate the mechanism that was dubbed as the Crucible. It was the one thing that could seal an organic victory.
And it was a machine that was bigger than what anyone could imagine.
In short, it was the one single object that could change everything in the blink of an eye. By utilizing every mass relay's power, the energy it could amass was incredible.
And all it was was a mere attachment to the Citadel. This, of course, is an understatement. In spite of this, the insertion of this massive device into the arms of its catalyst would be able to save the entire galaxy.
All of the Reapers would allegedly be gone if it was fired. If everything could go right, everything would be okay. It could be docked, and it would be safe to say that humanity would prevail once again. The war could be ended.
And that was exactly what the Crucible did when it was fired.
The Crucible was a device constructed by everyone in the galaxy. It wasn't just a single race's gadget. The creation of it was the most collective project that anyone has ever seen; Alliance forces to non-Council races oversaw its great rise to life and contributed to its success in some way, shape or form.
The Crucible's assembly could never be credited to one person. The action of organizing it, though, could be ascribed to a single crew and its fiery leader.
The Normandy SR-2 and its crew, led by the illustrious Commander Shepard, were known as one of the few sources of sanguinity in the Reaper War. Leaping across the galaxy at the blink of an eye, the Commander piloted her crew with a caliber seen only a few times before. She was tough, yet fair and serious while also remaining satirical. Some called her a ruthless bitch or the poster girl for the model soldier. Others considered her a war hero that was to be honored. A select few still called her "The Butcher of Torfan". But, if you asked her crew, they would tell you that she was the one that they could count on no matter what the situation. She was a friend, a squadmate, and to one lucky turian, a lover.
She was the one to use the Citadel's conduit along with the honorable Admiral Anderson.
She was the one to take down the Illusive Man.
And, her most commendable achievement was how she had managed to activate the one and only Crucible. The fate of galactic civilization had been in Shepard's hands, and she cradled it with the utmost amount of caution.
Although only initially known by the great Admiral Hackett, rumors of Shepard's actions circulated not long after the attacks had ceased and rebuilding has begun. Nobody knew for sure what had happened up at the Crucible's decks, but it was clear that whatever Shepard had done was legitimate.
As soon as comm systems were up again, media groups jumped on the story of the supposedly fallen hero. Her actions were sometimes exaggerated for news stories to give hope to those who needed it after the Reapers' destruction. Stories ranged from her sacrificing herself to Harbinger to her becoming a Reaper herself in exchange for peace. However, the truth was much more understated than the rumors that had swirled around the Milky Way. Her bloody hand had fired a gun at a device, and in an instant, every synthetic life form ceased to exist. The Reapers went away, and so did she.
At least that's what the crew of the Normandy thought.
Your name was Commander Liz Shepard and you were starting to ponder your choice in residence for the past three hundred and sixty something days. When trying to stay out of the public image was your main concern instead of kicking Reaper ass, you had no choice but to simply question everything going on around you.
You didn't really know what kind of state you were in now. You knew for sure that your Spectre status hadn't exactly been revoked yet, but a "leave of absence" sure as hell wasn't what you wanted to call your sudden lack of action. Instead of curling your fingers around a rifle and shooting at bad guys, you had taken a liking to tracing the new scars on your arms or gazing out the clean windows of your penthouse that had been gifted to you by Admiral Hackett. You liked to call it a pity gift, much to his displeasure. It was still a beautiful home, anyway, and in reality you were more than grateful to be able to relax a little bit. The Admiral had been keen on keeping you away for as long as he deemed fit. Your survival had been unexpected, and a little bit of forced vacation time was hypothetically good for you. That didn't mean that every bit of it tended to feel wrong.
The Presidium wasn't what it used to be. After days and nights of staring at hovering vehicles and disgustingly happy people, you could tell that this reconstruction was bringing out something different in the residents of the Citadel.
Many of its old inhabitants had either been scared off by the Reaper attack or were harvested a year prior. Large chunks of the population were now legal refugees from planets that had not yet been restored. The rich and noble had also managed to get their place in society back after the first post-Reaper reconstruction year; investment projects and charities made things easier for them.
"Has it really been a year?" you asked yourself. After a brief look at your omni-tool, you figured out that it was indeed true.
Your body had been recovered by a turian recon team that was sent into London after you had activated the Crucible a year prior. You still were not aware of how long you were left on the ground after the blast or how bad your fall from the Citadel had been, but if your scars indicated anything, it had been a long while and an even longer fall. You had healed quite well in a year; Hackett frequently said that you had only lived by the grace of god and because of some damn good cybernetics. He was the only one who bothered to visit sometimes, which was yet another bizarre aspect of your incarceration.
More vehicles whirred past you in the false Presidium skies, and you couldn't help but think of why you were alone like this.
Where was the crew? What had become of them?
Why hadn't they even bothered to make contact? Did they even know that you were alive?
Your name was Liz Shepard, and never before had you felt so isolated from every single person in the galaxy that you once cared for.