"Entering orbit around Sharjila, Commander." Joker's voice broke through Shepard's white-knuckled anxiety with a crackle.
With a shake that she hoped no one noticed, she released her grip on the railing above the galaxy map and said, "Take us in. Garrus, Wrex, you're with me."
Contrary to what she'd promised Dr. Chakwas, Shepard hadn't gotten much rest during the journey. Instead of catching a nap, she'd lain awake, agonizing over every foreseeable detail of the mission. By the time she'd given up on sleep and made her way back to the CIC, she was no better off than when she'd walked away from Nassana's table in the bar. Those few hours had felt like years - years that had aged Shepard, made her weary, and left her wishing she had never heard of Dahlia Dantius.
If she could have taken the whole fleet with her, she would have, and maybe then she'd have felt less like a naked offering to the Fates as she fastened her armor. Her new krogan and turian allies would be the ones to accompany her. She knew that in Wrex, she'd have a tank of a fighter who would do his job without any need to discuss his feelings about it afterward. She had enough feelings to deal with as it was. In Garrus, well, he carried a sniper rifle and knew how to use it. For reasons beyond her comprehension, she knew she needed a sniper for this one.
Meditation had brought him no peace. The gods had given him no answer. Though he could never trust a ship full of strangers with his sleeping body, he closed his eyes to continue his efforts to understand the omens weighing upon him. If his mind remained clouded, he would have to rely on his body alone to do its job. This was not a new procedure. His body was tempered with enough training and experience to do its job with little conscious thought involved. What was new was the sensation that it actually mattered if he failed.
Despite the fact that he had deliberately estranged himself from anyone who would care, he was, for once, deeply troubled by the notion that he might not live to see the other side of his latest assignment. He had nothing to live for, and the thought that life could have events of importance yet in store for him was the most troubling concept of them all. Nearly four decades of existence had taught him that the odds of such events resulting in less than profound disaster were miniscule.
Kalahira, Mistress of inscrutable depths, if it is the waves of Your domain that crash within me, let them close over me swiftly.
A/N: Chapter titles come from Wordsworth's "Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood." Find it at .