Religion, like indifference, is just one more mortal response to being alive and having to die.
- Attributed to Morla So, Salarian Poet
She has been celebrated by her captains and fellow soldiers for her ability to exude command and attention in the most explosive and chaotic of circumstances. Even with bullets and fire screaming on all sides, she has the ability to command recognition and attention. What is a far more valuable skill, at least as far as her private hours are concerned, is the ability to slip silently backwards and become unseen and unnoticed. In places like Flux, with a dozen brightly dressed alien women vying for the attention of the room, it is even easier. No one has thrown a glance toward her, nursing a bottle of asari brandy in the corner, for twenty minutes or more. The drab Alliance issue uniform, the military knot of her chestnut hair, her blatantly unfriendly expression, none of it invites company. She likes it that way.
If she wanted company, she would not be here.
"You have always known your place in the world." A voice like music rings in her ears, a fresh memory formed not a full hour ago in the dimly lit, heavily perfumed quarters of the woman who calls herself the Consort. She feels a shiver run along her spine, skin prickling as she remembers a feather light touch. "And you have always known exactly who and what you are, for better or for worse."
A pause then, slightly amused.
"And more often then not, it is for worse."
If that had been meant to sting, it had failed. Shepard takes another drink of the sweet liquor, the same strange, warm violet hue of the eyes that had picked over her strong, unfaltering shoulders. She sits up straighter, as though that gaze might find her again here. She feels the same need to be strong, unflinching, to prove that the lovely alien with her exotic purple gaze does not know as much as she has led herself to believe she does.
"You've been watching Al-Jilani's show." She had remarked cuttingly, cocking her head aggressively away from a slender, probing hand and glaring at its transgression. That earns her an almost girlish giggle, no doubt on account of the infamous video clip of the reporter poorly absorbing a right-hook. "I don't need people to tell me that they don't approve of my methods. You are welcome to try and kill Geth with gentle words and diplomacy."
Another moment of amusement, soft painted lips turning up in a small smile.
"I am not here to judge, Commander. Only to observe and offer what wisdom I can gain from it. Successfully rebuked she had said nothing. Sha'ira took a deep breath, as if reorganizing her thoughts and dropped her unwanted hands back to her sides and offered another long, insightful look.
"You have not lived a gentle life. You were young when you took life for the first time. Unconscionably young." Her face seems sad, a softness finding its way into her calculating violet eyes as her gaze strokes the old scar on her jaw, the scar that itches and twitches when she is angry or tense. "But you were younger when your own life was taken. Your innocent, normal life. Your childhood."
"Enough." Her own voice surprised her, rough, uncontrolled. She is always in perfect control of everything. Everything. No asari whore, dressed in scraps of stylish spandex, is going to get the best of her. "This isn't funny."
"Is it difficult to hear?" Sha'ira sounded surprised, raising one hand to her chin. Her soft, expressive eyes are suddenly stony and unreadable, no gentle sadness present. "I wouldn't expect such sentimentality from you."
"I am not sentimental." She had growled back. "But this… is not funny."
"Forgive me." She had said, and sounded earnest. "It was never my intention to mock you. What you did, and what you went through, was terrible. I can see the scars it left on your soul both more and less clearly than the ones it left on your body. I can see how malnutrition has kept you small and wiry, slim despite your hours of weights and push ups and running. And I can see you curled in around yourself, keeping everything close and private. This has made you strong, and kept you safe. As a child you looked starvation, thirst, violence and death in the face, and chose to live anyway. Your first memory, your first awareness, has always been the desperate need to survive."
She was wrong about that. Her first memory is the square of brilliant blue sky beyond yellow lace curtains moving in the breeze. And far away, so far away that word and melody escapes her, the sound of singing from another room filtering through the warm air. Somewhere, sometime, someone had loved her, and that warm, safe hollow is the earliest memory she can muster. But that was a sliver of softer colour in a maelstrom of blood. So small and gentle, most would say it barely mattered. But it mattered to her, so deeply that she did not say anything. The asari could apparently see most things she would rather keep private, but she could not see that. And Shepard was not inclined to share it with anyone.
"This was just the foundation of who you would become, who you are. The frantic, instinctual need to live has evolved into an obsession in you. It defines you, makes you who you are. As long as there is any hope, any chance at all of survival, you will fight for it. But in the end, you have no idea what you are fighting for." That is too bold, and too close to a truth she has never uttered to anyone. Even Anderson, who knows her better than anyone in the world, does not know of the helplessness she feels when she entertains such thoughts of pointlessness. Her anger must show in her face, for the Consort had raised one slender hand and rested it against her heart.
"This is not a weakness." She breathed. "It is something all those who survive horrors like yours must face, what all living peoples in the galaxy must face sooner or later. Your lack of answers proves nothing, Shepard, other than you are truly as human as anyone else."
"I'm not." She had replied, her voice quiet and infuriatingly vulnerable. "I'm better than they are."
"You are." Sha'ira had confirmed gently. "Much better. But that does not make you infallible."
There had been more words, gentle and hard, easy and difficult to accept. And after that, there had been something else entirely. Blue skin lit with a fine sweat as hands and lips moved together, coaxing heat and pleasure to the surface of the skin. The Consort, for all her undeniable experience, made love like a virgin girl. All gasping and arching, her lips parted slightly as she drew soft, gasping breaths. When she came it was with full-body shaking and trembling, her arms drawing Shepard between her small, firm breasts, pressing her head against her pounding heart.
"Leave your hair down more often, Commander." She had breathed from among her sheets as Shepard zipped and strapped her armour back into place afterwards. She had no time or patience for post-coital tenderness. That seemed to be a relief to the exhausted, satiated Consort. "It is beautiful."
She had snorted with disbelief at that, and left without a word. Sex was like killing for her, a brief and intense engagement that she would always remember but never dwelt upon. She was like that with most things, her keen memory locking everything into place within her mind, the intensity of her life denying the most summary of reflections. Except for now, while she waited for Udina and Anderson to sort out the bureaucratic headache that no doubt accompanied the organization of a ship and crew for her. Now, with nothing to distract her, she was free to linger on the wet heat of physical satiation, the pliant warmth of a body close to her. It had been, she realizes as she sips her drink to alleviate the dryness overtaking her mouth, a very long time.
"Commander." She looks up, drawn from intense, erotic memories by the soft, slightly hesitant, voice of Gunnery Chief Ashley Williams. She looks up, a little sharply, and sees the Chief with a drink in her hand. The woman seems to hesitate, unsure whether her presence is invited. They are off duty now, no professional attitudes requiring that they be polite and social with each other. Shepard entertains the thought of sending her away, it is likely that soon they will be on separate ships and it will not matter if the Gunnery Chief thinks she is rude or not. None the less she nods at the other chair drawn up to the small table. Ashley sinks into it with obvious relief.
"I hate these places." She confesses, setting her drink on the table. It looks like a beer, the dark amber tones betraying it as human brewed. Expensive, this far out in Council space. It probably cost as much as Shepard's entire bottle of brandy. "But getting drunk on the Normandy seems like a bad idea, at least while I'm as green to the crew as I am now."
"Anderson is a fair man." Shepard replies, sipping her drink. Does the Chief look disapproving, seeing her drinking asari liquor in a bar owned by a volus? She hopes not. She already does not like Chief Williams overmuch, it would be disadvantageous to develop an outright dislike of her. At least at the moment. She reminds herself that her life is different now. She is a Spectre, and will soon have her own ship and not have to worry about this Gunnery Chief. "But he runs his ship military. So getting drunk on Normandy is probably a bad idea, no matter how green you might be."
It is a mild rebuke, but a rebuke none the less.
"Right." The Chief sips her amber-coloured beer, brown eyes searching hers. "I'm sure the Captain doesn't know about the contraband stashes his entire crew keeps."
"I don't have any stash." Shepard counters easily. "I don't find it difficult to keep my social life separate from my working life."
"You aren't exactly an example of a common soldier, Shepard." The Chief replies, just as easily. "We can't all be as exemplary as you."
Shepard chooses to say nothing to that, just takes another long drink and refills her glass from the bottle on the table. They both drink in silence for a moment.
"You should wear your hair down more often." Williams remarks after a while. "I never knew there was so much of it."
Military women all tie their hair up, or cut it all off, and Shepard has tried both ways over her career. She has also always gotten compliments on the lazy, half-curls of her chestnut mane, on the few occasions she has seen reason to let it fall loosely around her shoulders. It is long and silky soft, falling almost all the way to the small of her strong back. She tucks a few strands self-consciously over one tiny white ear. She fixes the Chief with piercing blue eyes.
"You didn't come over here for girl talk." She remarks mildly. "What are you after, Williams?"
If the Chief is alarmed by having her candour swept so casually aside she does not show it. Her gaze is level and calm in a way that Shepard's seething intensity never is. She takes another drink before answering, attempting to appear casual and unconcerned. Shepard is not stupid enough to buy into it.
"I wanted to ask you something." She says finally, her voice quiet and serious. The bottle is half empty, Shepard realizes as she refills her glass. She is not even approaching drunkenness, which tells her she is not trying hard enough. She downs her fresh drink in just a few mouthfuls.
"About Eden Prime." She says, not needing any nod of assent or confirmation from the Chief. She has braved these kind of raw, desperate questions before. Ever since Akuze, soldiers seem to think she has some sort of wisdom or advice to offer them on the nature of death. She has nothing. She learnt long ago that most people do not react to death in the same way that she does. "About your unit."
She supposes she should feel some sort of connection with Williams. The woman is the same age she was when she lost her entire unit to the thresher maws, and holds the scars of so much death in her wide, dark eyes. She should look at Williams and see herself, young and helpless before the knowledge that kind of savagery brings. She should see the struggle, the need to ask someone why all those men and women are dead. And why she is alive.
"Yeah." Williams admits after a moment. "About Eden Prime."
"I have nothing to offer you, Williams." Her voice sounds weary, even to her own ears. "No great truth, no secret way to deal with it all. They're dead and you're here. That's all I have to say."
There is a moment of silence. They both drink.
"Bullshit." That surprises her, it sounds so poisonous, so full of fire. When she looks up from the swirls of darker violet alcohol dancing across the surface of her drink she meets eyes hard and dark with anger. "You saw your entire unit die on Akuze, just like… just like… " She stops, realizing what she is saying, what she assuming about the woman sitting across from her.
"Just like you?" Shepard laughs. "We're not the same, Williams."
"Oh no." She is trying to control her anger, but Shepard can still taste the bitterness of her words. "I would never assume to understand the great Commander Shepard."
Bold words. Grounds for dismissal from the Normandy, or even court martial if she gets a self-righteous fire in her and pulls a few strings available to her through years of Alliance dickery. She does not react to them, however, merely fixes the other woman with her unwavering blue gaze. The wound in her eyes is making her reckless and emotional, a situation Shepard has been witness to in other soldiers but never herself. It just serves to confirm that they are nothing alike.
"You can't." She confirms softly. "Because you care too much."
"What?" Her voice is sharp. "Are you saying you didn't care when your whole unit died on Akuze?" From the venomous resentment in her voice it is obvious she has no idea how closely she has struck to the truth. Shepard allows a moment of tense silence as she refills her glass.
"Yes." She says finally. "That is exactly what I'm saying."
Williams makes a small sound of disbelief, that dies as a flash of burning sapphire pierces her. Shepard is not accustomed so such disrespect, and her dark eyes shift down, avoiding contact with that fiery gaze. Another moment of silence stretches between them, deep and still despite the pounding of the dance music all around them. She drains the last foamy traces of beer from the bottom of the glass.
"They died for no reason." She says finally. It is a belief she has long kept silent. The beacon led them straight to an empty valley full of thresher maws. No coincidence that, no subtle twist of fate. Her security clearance in the Alliance has only granted her enough access to know that there are top secret files concerning the deaths of the marines on Akuze. It has revealed no details, no greater purpose behind that tragic loss of military life. It has led her to the conclusion that whatever those men and women died for, it was ultimately pointless. "Your soldiers died defending innocent civilians from nightmare foes. They died for what they believed in, what was right and just. Mine died for nothing. The situation is not the same."
"That's not what you said." Ashley counters, stubbornly. "You said you didn't care."
Shepard sighs, defeated.
"What do you want me to say, Williams?" She asks finally. "Do you want me to tell you I have nightmares? Do you want me to describe some poignant, smothering grief?" She tries not to sound mocking, but it is difficult. Grief is not something she respects, not something she has time and energy for.
Williams says nothing.
"I have nothing to offer you. We're not the same. You saw your entire unit die, in blood and agony around you, and it has shaken and disturbed you in a way that no one, least of all me, can understand or explain to you. You've just got to work that out for yourself. Your men are food for worms and you're here, drinking beer. Life is cruel and death is random. Deal with it." Hard perhaps, but life is hard. Death is one of the few things that is easy.
"You can't really believe that. That death is random and pointless. That fifty marines died on Akuze and your survived because of chance." Shepard cocks an eyebrow, and drains the delicate glass again. Williams is letting her lip curl unconsciously, looking at her like she is an alien or a monster. She will never know what it is that makes this woman so passionate about something so pointless.
"Or that a hundred soldiers died on Eden Prime and you survived because of chance?" She asks, and it is not done kindly. "It wasn't chance. I survived because I refused to die. I could have. I even thought about it. But in the end I made a choice not to."
"Bullshit." Williams says again, heat rising in her voice. "I don't believe that. I survived because God was watching over me. That's why any of die or survive."
Shepard just shrugs. She would never claim to be a spiritualist or an atheist, and she does not know what name people who simply never think of such things go by. Philosophy is something she has always considered pointless in a life such as hers, and if there is something waiting before the monstrous, looming darkness of death she will deal with it when it comes to her.
"If what happened to me on Akuze was supposed to be some sort of gift from God, he has a really sick and disgusting sense of humour." She says finally. It is not the answer Williams expected or wanted from this conversation. Sighing, Shepard shrugs her shoulders.
"Just deal with it." She repeats firmly. Williams turns back to her empty glass, wordlessly. It is obvious that she is regretting her decision to come over and speak to her strange, stoic commander. After a moment Shepard's omnitool lights up. Anderson needs to see her.
"Duty beckons." She says, standing up. She pushes the remaining liquor towards the ashen faced Chief. "Finish this up for me, will you?"
"Not a fan of alien liquor, Commander." She replies. Shepard supposes she should have expected a response like that. She sighs.
"One piece of advice I can offer you?' She asks. After a moment the Chief inclines her head, ready to listen.
"Get really drunk, and then laid. You'll wake up with a hang over that will take your mind off things. For a little while at least. It helps." She squares her shoulders and offers a small salute. "Have a good night, Williams."
"Commander."
She does not look over her shoulder to see if Williams has taken up the bottle, or is eyeing any of the young men gathered in the club for the proposed night of carnal pleasure. It does not matter. If Anderson wants to see her, that means that her ship is ready. She doubts she will ever see the Gunnery Chief again.
It does not matter that she provided such dark, unhelpful answers to the woman's plight. Does not matter that she showed, just for a moment, how dark and broken she really is at her core. Williams will be just another soldier who thinks she knows something, anything about the great Commander Shepard. It does not matter. Her life is changing once again, carrying her away from everything she has known up to this point. She is sure of it.
When she reaches the dock, and realizes how wrong she is, it effects her less than it probably should.
This is the way with most things.
This was a very difficult chapter to write. I tried to make Shepard come off as a Renegade without being too terribly obnoxious about it. Really obnoxious commanders seldom demand very much respect, I think.