lol it's funny because I didn't actually go through more than two chapters on the last edit a year ago. That's kind of sad, really. Anyway, onto the story.

Thank you very much for the reviews. I'm still ecstatic when I see them coming in. I hope you enjoy the chapter. XOXO THR

Chapter 3

A fifty something year old man sat in a place that had been previously reserved for one woman and the select few that had been close to her. His graying hair was covered by a ruined blue navy cap, and never had the lines on his face been so prevalent. He looked ten years older; his blue eyes had faded and lacked the energy of the surging ocean that once frightened his opponents. His battle scars had more stories to tell, and never before had his stubble been this unkempt. His body was no longer one of a soldier; he had turned into a wise, older figure, but he was still decked out in an Alliance uniform that matched his hat. As he got more comfortable, he let his dirty nails dig into the leather couch that hadn't been touched much. Hell, the particular deck of the vessel that he was sitting on barely looked like it had been lived in at all.

The captain's quarters of the Normandy SR2 was an area of the ship that evoked curiosity in its former crew. Sleek chrome lines, a warm bed and an expansive fish tank were a few of the things that occupied the smallest deck.

It might have made up a mere fraction of the craft's internal volume, but it was still more elusive than the guns in the main battery; in fact, most of the crew members had never been up there. It was considered taboo for anyone to enter the commanding officer's quarters without an invitation from the leader of the Normandy herself. This was proper etiquette for most ships in the galaxy; this one, however, was very different.

The metallic doors slid open and out stepped the toned figure of a woman. She was loftier than most with an admirable build. It was obvious that she had possessed great looks and skin free of any sort of blemish at one time in the past. One could tell that the past three years had worn away at her slowly. Her last battle was the one that had killed her on the inside more than any other one prior, yet she was still standing tall. It was a somewhat insignificant reason why she had been chosen as a Spectre just a few years prior.

Her body was one of a fit soldier; tall, muscular enough to still be considered feminine, and hair tied back so tight that one would wonder if it was cemented to her head. The locks were still a fiery red, but the man wouldn't be surprised if there were just a few white ones mixed in somewhere. Her age was unknown, but her face told a story that could engross a persnickety old batarian. Light wrinkles made her look a bit more genuine, along with the scarring that could be traced on her face and all over the rest of the exposed parts of her body. Her casual dress was form fitting yet modest, and she began to limp her way over to the couch that she once used to entertain guests and spend time with the closest of friends. Bandages and scabs were visible on her frame, but she wasn't about to let them deter her.

"Admiral, I didn't think I'd see you again." she croaked, her hand going to her forehead to form a salute. She kept her limb erect as she went to sit down next to her old comrade, and even though it pained her to do so, she knew that Hackett deserved nothing but the utmost amount of respect after what he had just gone through. As he watched her sit down, the admiral did the same hand motion but moved to put the woman's hand down on her lap. The respect they had for each other was a little too apparent.

"My thoughts are mutual, Commander. I see they've patched you up well. Didn't think I'd see Huerta back up and running so quickly. God only knows what will happen once they've fully rebuilt the Citadel. It's a powerful thing to watch."

Hearing her formal title glide off of his tongue was relieving. So many people used to call her "Commander,", but it felt different this time. It had more of a meaning than it had a few months prior. Nevertheless, it did not mean that she was entirely fearless like a stereotypical Alliance commander should be.

After going through hell and back and paying the price tenfold, the woman known only as Shepard was shaking as she sat on the cool leather. Although she had faced things much worse than her boss, she wanted to go and heave her guts up in her former master bathroom that was a few feet away from her current position.

The way he was looking at her could make a child cry. He was concerned about her, but the underlying theme of remorse and bitterness could be observed easily. It was like an aura around him, and it certainly didn't make this conversation any better. She had so many questions and she could only hope that tearing the awkwardness away would be easy. Was asking all she had to do?

How long had it been since the firing of the Crucible? Was everyone safe? Why was the Normandy docked on the barely intact Citadel? Where was her crew? This wasn't the first time she had gone through such a displacement like this, but for some reason, it was much more complicated this time.

"That place is filled to the brim with the survivors. Still can't believe they got me in and out so fast." she commented. "Not sure if I deserve it."

No, that was not what she wanted to come out of her mouth.

This was small talk; they both knew that they had things to say to each other. The right moment to throw it all out there hadn't come up yet.

"The entire galaxy is in overdrive, Commander. It's as if the Reapers were still here. The feeling of unity still hasn't worn off yet."

They contemplated the last statement, and Shepard looked up at the man in front of her with tired eyes.

"Admiral Hackett." she said, her voice plain. There was no time to avoid the elephant in the room. Even though the entire galaxy had gotten a head start on rebuilding everything they had ever known, she figured that it would be better to come late to the party than to never come at all. She needed the truth.

"What the hell happened? To the crew, to the Normandy…why is she at the Citadel? I can't remember a goddamned thing right anymore and now I don't have anyone other than you to help me."

This was the question that Hackett had dreaded. He didn't have a choice, though.

Her records from Huerta couldn't be covered up. Shepard had suffered severe trauma from the firing of the Crucible. She had been on board. The rubble had crushed her. She had been thrown forcibly off and back down to Earth from the blast and her being alive was less believable than her dying.

After fighting against suffocation, internal and external injuries and mental shock, she had beaten the odds again. This time, though, there was some permanent damage.

"Your crew is fine. They've been decommissioned so the Alliance can worry about rebuilding and restoring. It's…temporary." he replied, not going into much detail.

It wasn't like her closest friends and crewmembers thought she was dead or anything. It also wasn't like the entire galaxy was mourning the loss of one of the most famous war heroes of all time.

No, that couldn't be true at all.

The pain in his voice was getting to be more evident, and it was if the two of them didn't have much left to say. After the war, there really wasn't much else to talk about other than rebuilding, anyway. It was all anyone was concerned about.

"Temporary? Did you tell them what happened?"

Admiral Steven Hackett looked at Commander Liz Shepard in the most solemn way that you could. He had to be frank yet gentle with her at the same time.

"Commander, this situation may be a bit more than temporary." he explained. "You've been put on a semi-permanent leave of absence from the Alliance Military. I can't give you any details, but you'll need to hand in your tags as soon as you get the chance."

At that moment, no words were said.

There was silence that was more sprawling than space itself.