Sole Survivor

The stripes on her shoulder mark her as a lieutenant, and set her apart. She's grateful that they give her an excuse to stay away from the others. In the military, being in charge means that it's unprofessional to be close to people in your unit. That's good. It lets everyone save face. The others can pretend that they avoid her because they don't want to be accused of breaking the regs, and she can pretend that her authority is the reason she stays away from them. No one points out that the other lieutenant and the commander are more than happy to fraternize.

The rest of the unit doesn't like her. They think she's odd, because she studies them with the same intensity she studies training vids, and because she doesn't understand the point in going out to get drunk during leave. It's been years, but a part of her is still a secretive streetborn mongrel who doesn't know how to trust anyone.

Everyone, even the sentries have clustered around the fire that the rest of the unit has built. They're all together. No one is on duty. The only sentient life on Akuze, the human colony, has vanished, so there's nothing to watch for but angry wildlife. Barely worth the time of a marine troop, but one of the missing colonists was (is?) related to an undersecretary in Ambassador Udina's office, so here they are. But they've been here for thirty-eight hours, and no one has found anything. It's a waste of time, which is why the others are clustered around a bonfire, drinking and laughing together.

She doesn't even want to be by the fire. She's noticed recently that she's softer than she used to be. Weaker. Take right now, for instance. Even though she's lived most of her life not knowing exactly what 'warm' or 'safe' or 'full' mean, a few years in the Alliance military has eroded her toughness to a point where her body thinks it needs to be by the fire. She used to be tougher than this.

Shepard shakes out her bedroll and sits on it. She debates whether or not she should take off her armor. It is heavy, and uncomfortable to sleep in. It's also surprisingly good at keeping her warm, which means that it is not useful for making her tough again. However, it is very good at protecting her body from things: bullets, knives, biotic attacks. She leaves the armor on.

The sun set a few hours ago, taking all the warmth in the ground with it almost instantly. Good. She lies down on her stomach, resting on top of the roll instead of crawling inside it. Years ago, she realized that this is the best way to sleep. If someone attacks you when you're sleeping, being on your stomach is a moment away from being on your feet and running. When you're small, sometimes running is the best way to keep safe. Of course, these days she has a gun of her own, a long knife strapped to her boot, and she's working on a way to turn her omni-tool into a more effective weapon. Disabling enemy electronics is all well and good, but she'll figure out how to turn the machine into a stabbing implement. She's always been good with knives.

The rest of the unit is still awake. Foolish. Even those marines who won't have to stand watch tonight will feel the effects of their stupidity tomorrow when they have to march all day on too little sleep. Why would she ever want to be like them?

.

Something is wrong. She's on her feet without knowing why she's awake. No one has woken her for her turn on watch. Her body knows that there's danger coming. Her body wants to flee, but her mind knows that unless she makes sure of where the danger is, she could very well run right into it. She is also responsible for keeping the others in her unit alive.

What if the danger is in their camp? She doesn't pretend that she cares enough about her duty to risk her life unnecessarily. There are no noises coming from the camp, but the hair on the back of her neck won't lie flat.

Time is passing, seconds ticking by with an unnatural slowness. She knows that this is just adrenaline distorting things, but it still feels strange. It's not like her to be indecisive.

Before she makes the decision to move, to try and wake up the squad and convince them that she's not insane, she just senses that they're all about to die, the ground explodes. She's tossed at least three meters in the air, and when she lands her head cracks against the packed dirt. Immediately, she checks for blood. There is none, which is good. Something is wrong though, because as soon as she's sure she's all right, she's on her feet running towards the main camp. Which is not the way she does things. When she has the choice, she runs away from danger.

There's noise now. The others are awake. Someone, maybe more than one person, is shooting at the… the thing that's risen out of the ground, but it's not making any difference. Most of the noise is screaming.

She's in a strange new place, half-memory, half-training. She's planning on attacking the thing, no matter that it's as tall as a building, which is training. She's relying on her knife, which is memory.

Another explosion in the ground. How is the big thing causing them?

A clump of dirt lands on her arm. It's steaming. It's not dirt. Acid? Some kind of acid? It's eating through her suit! She cuts the straps holding that plate on her arm and drops the armor on the ground. She's almost at the big thing. She wants everything to end. She's taken down threats that were bigger than her before, but she'd had the Reds behind her every time.

In her ears, she can hear someone yelling, telling the others to form up. It's her voice. No one's responding. She doesn't hear shots any more. She doesn't hear much screaming either.

She's at the big thing. She stabs it. Once, twice, again and again. It doesn't seem to notice. Something falls to the ground behind her. You don't forget the sound a body makes when it falls the wrong way from too high up. She doesn't look. She doesn't want to see who it is.

Her arm is tired from stabbing, but she doesn't stop. There's an odd quiet now, just the thuds of her knife, and a few moans that she won't listen to.

A different kind of scream. An angry, triumphant, dangerous animal scream. The thing disappears back into the ground, taking her knife with it. It nearly takes her arm, too. She feels the bone snap. Everything is silent, suddenly. She stares at the crater in the ground, wondering what just happened. She's alone in the dark, all of a sudden.

To think that just a few hours ago, she was telling herself that she wanted to be alone.

…

There's something wrong with this one. Dr. Clarke has been performing psychiatric evaluations for the Alliance military since before the First Contact War. He has helped rehabilitate veterans of Shanxi, written treatises on the effects that serving with biotics has on non-biotic soldiers, and his lectures on human military psychology have become standard reading for alien governments.

To be clear, Dr. Clarke understands soldiers. He understands how they think. How they should think. And it is clear that there is something wrong with the soldier in front of him.

Shepard won't answer his questions. Day after day, they sit through these sessions in almost total silence. On the first day, she confirmed the facts of what happened on Akuze, explained how she had decided not to waste time trying to fix any of her unit's rovers, had just taken a distress beacon from her dead CO, slung her duffel over her unbroken shoulder, and walked to high ground where she signaled for rescue. Since then, she's offered nothing new. From time to time, she deigns to answer Dr. Clarke's inquiries about how she likes the food in the hospital (it's hot), or her opinion on the chances of rain (likely, since it's spring here).

If he didn't know any better, Shepard's commitment to staring blankly at the wall—not even out the window, but at the wall—would make Clarke think that the woman was mentally handicapped.

The thin personnel file he's read so many times that he has it memorized says otherwise, however. Not that he places much stock in tests that have only undergone minimal revisions since the twentieth century, but results like Shepard's are atypical enough that she would have been tested more than once, to make sure no one had made a mistake. Dr. Clarke thinks it's a waste that someone so broken has such an extraordinarily high intellect. Although, he supposes that she would have needed to be intelligent to survive as an orphan in one of the worst slums on Earth.

At first, she presented an interesting challenge. Now she has become an annoyance. He has other patients, he is tired of wasting time on this one. Why the Alliance military brass thinks she might be a viable candidate for N7 training is beyond him. So, she's a survivor. Plenty of soldiers are. An N7 needs to be something more.

"You do know that I can't clear you for active duty if you don't talk to me."

"If I don't let you evaluate me," she corrects. The datalogs for the extranet terminal in Shepard's room show that she has been reading papers on psychology. Something else that Dr. Clarke finds irritating about her.

Still, this sentence is more than he's gotten out of her all week. He has to push on. "Surely you agree that the Alliance has a right to know that its soldiers are equipped to handle the emotional stresses of combat. It's a safety measure, for everyone from combatants to civilians."

She says nothing.

He tries again. "You are a valuable part of the Alliance, Lieutenant Shepard. The Alliance needs soldiers like you. If you just talk with me, we can start working on getting you back to working with the Alliance."

Again, no reaction.

One last attempt. "The longer it takes you to talk to me, the longer we have to keep you here."

Her nostrils flare slightly in contempt, and she finally turns to look at him. "My file must tell you that I grew up on Earth. I've never lived anywhere like this hospital. Plenty of food, beds, my own room, my own extranet terminal…. I enjoy it even though I know it's making me soft.

"Of course, it must not seem like much to you. Dr. Stephen K. Clarke. Born in Hong Kong to two loving, affluent parents, the last of three children. Graduated with honors from the University of Cambridge's medical school, and settled into a career working for the Alliance military before people even thought that we needed an Alliance military. When the Alliance Psychiatric Association named you member of the year four years ago, they called you a visionary for your work on comparative xenopsychology, and a humanitarian for your work on PTSD."

"There's a lot of information about me on the extranet," Clarke says noncommittally. Tonight he's going to chew out the hospital's techs. How could they have missed that Shepard was researching him? Best and brightest humanity has to offer, his ass.

"There is." Shepard agrees. "And most of it is fairly interesting. Of course, the articles published on you or by you are nothing compared to what else I was able to dig up. Two domestic assault charges from different women on different planets, and they both go away before the final paperwork even gets filed? Not to mention the number of female subordinates who've requested sudden transfers or abandoned their careers just weeks after receiving a promotion to work directly with you." Her eyes are cold, hard, but her voice is as neutral as ever; she's just commenting on the food.

"Then of course, there are the allegations that you didn't gain your insight in alien psychology by studying at alien hospitals, but that you were part of a black-ops Alliance group that actually—"

Clarke stands up before he realizes what he's doing. How can she know that? No one knows that! They promised that no one would ever find out!

Shepard's smile is sweet. "Don't worry, Dr. Clarke. I'm as racist as the next Earthborn human; I don't particularly care what you did. But please, don't pretend that you actually give a shit." She leans back in her chair, neatly folding her hands in her lap. "I really do like it here. Still, I suppose you have a point. It's time for me to move on. You should probably tell the brass that I'm ready to head out for N7 training."

.

It's another two days before someone calls to inquire about Shepard. The questions from the brass had been more frequent at first, trying to make sense of whether their sole survivor was going to pull through all this mentally intact. When Clarke made it clear that he was going to need time, the inquiries had become less frequent.

"So?" The Fleet Admiral on the other end of the comm asks, "is she fit for duty yet?"

For a moment, Clarke considers telling him that Shepard is dangerously insane, and should be confined (under his care, of course) for the rest of her natural life. But if she has escaped a childhood on the streets, fights with pirates, and a thresher maw attack, she will find a way to escape from his hospital. She has contempt for him now, but doesn't care enough to treat him like an enemy.

He won't piss her off.

"She's ready, Admiral," Clarke admits. "As long as you don't count the fact that she's a cold, unfeeling bitch," he can't resist adding.

"Just what the galaxy needs," Hackett chuckles, thinking the doctor is joking.

If only he knew.