A sullen, stunned peace had fallen upon the galaxy in the Reapers' wake; each race was concerned with their own losses, the weight of mourning heavy upon their shoulders as they rebuilt from the ruins, their people as battered and broken as their desolate homeworlds. There was something so simplistic, organic, in the way each society handled their situation – a sort of grim perseverance had possessed them all, allowing a laser-like focus to their tired efforts, fostering a camaraderie amongst all echelons of each society that had surprised the few at the top as much as the many at the bottom. For most of them, after the first few stones were lifted and ashes swept into the gasping breeze, a hint of normality was returned - a tantalising glimpse of a peaceful future, a reason to work their fingers to the bone.
Shepard envied them. Free from culpability, they could continue their lives, were given the chance to move past the devastation and put it behind them while she was left in the horrific past, stagnating, slowly driven mad with inaction and uncertainty. Her stasis had removed all sense of time, barring the inevitable sunrise and sunset that marked each Earth day; she floated in the ether, frozen, waiting in solitary silence for the call she knew was coming one day, for the barrage of questions that would lead her to an admission of guilt, warranted or not. There had been no time for interrogation, pre-occupied as they were with repairing the damage, but she knew the Alliance would not shy away from court-martialling her – especially as she had still not technically answered the charges they had originally brought her in for. Eventually, her time would come – risen from the ashes of Earth, she would stand again, alone. Always alone in the face of her deeds; the crew would be spared the indignity of a trial, she was sure of that. A glinting, silver lining to a very dark cloud.
A memory of Liara surfaced from a pool of idle thoughts; a blur of laughter, her soft voice talking passionately of the Prothean ruins of Therum – blue eyes wide with admiration, quickly looking at the floor as she returned the asari's warm smile. Shepard was bolder, reaching for the warm hand resting next to hers, locking their fingers together; Liara's voice faltered, distracted. She didn't pull away – she squeezed the Commander's hand, grateful for the comfort and safety she provided, the confident woman of a simpler past. A curious memory to retain, given that most of what they had was all but lost to her now; those eyes, and the smile that illuminated them, were the only thing Shepard had left. The precise moment she had forgotten the details of Liara's face had long since passed, and now the rest of her was blank, isolated, untraceable - the only woman she had ever truly loved, consigned to an ancient memory of a past life. She wondered if Liara could remember her, wherever she was - if there was one thing in all this that gave her faith in her own fortune, it was the thought that she was alive, somewhere. She might not have been able to trace the asari's face, but in some way she imagined she could feel something of her inside, a shard of hope that cut through the scream of nightmares, a bond that reached across the emptiness of dark space to caress her cheek and release her from the cold reality she had been forced into.
Sometimes she laughed at her own sentimentality.
A knock came at the door, sharp strikes of bone on wood that echoed through dusty air - it rattled through her tired mind, leaving her with an unpleasant hum that seemed to vibrate through her entire body, rippling from top to bottom like a struck tuning fork. She didn't answer it, didn't move from the single, hard-backed chair she had been granted, her back to the window, didn't raise her head to lift herself out of tired reverie. Nobody that was anybody had knocked at her door; whether she liked it or not, it was always open.
It was Admiral Hackett who entered, uniform pressed and smooth, brass buttons gleaming with immaculate authority in the hazy glow of the afternoon sun. The man underneath the cloth and shining medals was worn, reaching the end of a hard fought span of existence; another soldier wracked with war stories, written across the lines and scars that left a dull, pink trail on his face from cheek to temple. Despite his experience, an entire life of military service to draw upon for inspiration, he had long-dreaded the moment he was about to face. It was another battle he had fought, for her sake; a wary offer of gratitude in place of death, a way to forget without having to forgive, the best conclusion to a terrible situation.
The cases for execution, both in secret and public, had been compelling. Political scientists had constructed scenarios of the future, painting a bleak picture of a galaxy at peace, yet divided - a galaxy where self-preservation became the absolute priority, a black and white perspective that devalued the worth of other races wherever necessary. In this world, peace was on a knife edge; war would be just a careless footstep away. And the humans? Pariahs of the milky way, more willing to conceal the most prolific war criminal of recent years than bring her to justice, their virtue shot to pieces and left to bleed to death.
They branded her a terrorist, and the evidence seemed incontrovertible - humanity had rarely, if ever, bore the brunt of her carelessness: they had benefited from it. From sheer numbers alone, they were the most prevalent of the council races left in the galaxy, out numbering the Turians, Asari and Salarians by about five to one. If they handled this right, the prosecutor argued, humanity could easily step in as galactic leaders, finally allowing them the power and influence they deserved. It took decades after the First Contact War for humanity to be afforded so much as a sideways glance, and even longer to be given a seat on the council - a hungry, blackened revenge gleamed in the eyes of the admiralty, the generals, the guards at the door. Forever the victim, finally the victor.
It was with difficulty, and great personal and professional sacrifice, that Hackett had managed to dissuade the most influential members of military command from killing Anderson's progeny. In all their grand schemes of power and revenge, the Admiral argued, they had forgotten the one thing they wished to protect - humanity. The execution of a war hero, a woman who was responsible for every breath drawn by every survivor, would be a catastrophic blow to the Alliance ranks; desertion would rocket, soldiers would rebel and all hell would break loose. They'd tried to disgrace her once before, and failed - to act with such callous cruelty now would be suicidal. As ever, arguments weren't enough; a great many favours had been agreed and fulfilled, promises and debts that were decades old had been settled - he had nothing left, there was no more blood to be squeezed from the stone to save the woman before him. The judgement was the best he could do – it wasn't what he wanted for her, but it was a damn sight better than death.
When he saw her face, tired, scarred like his own, frozen in the horror of war, the pleasantries he had mentally prepared dissolved into good intentions. There was no point - it wouldn't soften the blow and, sincerity aside, it'd be the first time they'd exchanged polite greetings on an equal footing. Admirals did not ask their subordinates how they are; he forgot himself from time to time, a sign of age and exhaustion, he supposed. The people he knew always burrowed their way under his skin, in one way or another.
"Shepard, we're deploying you to a classified location within the Terminus systems. The moment your shuttle lands, you're no longer of the Alliance military." The voice he heard didn't sound like his own, harsh and cold, terse and uncaring. He never did like authority, thought it unimportant based on it's own merit, never liked the substitution of compassion with calculus – sacrifice the few to save the many. And now, here he stood, taking what little was left of her life and burning it to ashes. He had thought, in a moment of wishful illusion, that perhaps this was a 'thank you', to give her the chance of true peace in a place she would never be bothered. It had recently become clear that this could not be further from the truth.
Shepard laughed softly, a sad smile hidden just beneath the tight lips that had forgotten the effect of happiness a long time ago. She had not considered this eventuality - exile seemed too genteel for the brass. Lucky escape, for both parties.
"Sir, I saved your ass out there -"
"And I saved yours in return. After the shit you've done, most of the admiralty wanted you dead - publicly executed, vids streamed live to the grieving across the galaxy. Do you have any idea how long it's going to take us to regain any sense of credibility with the other races?"
She stood now, her eyes almost on level with Hackett's grey irises, worn and tired like the last dregs of a morning mist; if she was being forcibly retired, she may as well let him know exactly what she thought of him and his spineless human Alliance.
"I know it took a Reaper invasion for you and your fucking blind Alliance to pay me any god damned attention! How many billions, trillions of lives could have been saved if you had just believed me after Ilos, instead of treating me like some raving lunatic?"
"Stand down, soldier," Hackett replied, calm in the face of her insubordination.
A smirk, derisive and unexpected, finally found its way to her mouth, leaving a cynical smile that left her madness open to the world. To hell with it all.
"I'm not a soldier, admiral; I'm a dead woman walking. A fucking miracle."
"You'd be a pile of ashes if I hadn't intervened. Now get your things, and get outside; you might not feel like a soldier anymore, but until you're out of my hands you're still part of the Alliance. Step out of line like that again and I'll leave you to the few dozen Batarians left out there – they're baying for your blood Shepard, not mine. Do I make myself clear?"
The rage that had so quickly rushed to her mind had subsided; she bottled a scream, saved it for later, took a step back from the Hackett's rigid posture. The room swayed a little before her as a sudden pain throbbed behind her eyes, the light of the fading sun becoming white hot as a wave of weakness fell upon her, sending her to her knees. A shadow slipped from underneath her, dust glinting in the air above.
"Shepard, are you alright?"
She heard his voice, wavering, undulating and muted, underwater and miles away. Her head dropped to the cool wooden floor, the old floorboards bending a little to accommodate her. The darkness was coming and, for the first time she could remember, she didn't fear it.
Slipping away with time, instead of fighting the violent current; she closed her eyes and floated away, lost in a world of blank unconsciousness. Free from herself, at last.
