Shepard didn't notice the cases at first as she entered her quarters. Her mind was on Garrus and the strange Mr. Conroy, hoping the former pulled through and wondering just what the fuck was up with the latter.
Garrus being on Omega, being Archangel, was both unexpected and yet, not the least bit of a surprise. The former C-Sec officer had chafed under the rules and red-tape of his official position…it was part of why he left to help Shepard track down Saren Arterius in the first place. For him to decide to go vigilante was right in stride with what she'd expected from him…and apparently, he'd had some talent at it. Talent enough to make himself a serious nuisance to the merc dogs on Omega, at any rate.
Talent enough that his dossier caught your attention, she reminded herself. Stepping through her small office area, her hard-suit chest-plate in hand, her eyes finally landed on the bed, and she halted.
Four black cases rested there. Three, though of varying sizes, were square. The shape of the fourth made its contents unmistakable.
"EDI, get me Chambers," Shepard ordered as she set her breast-plate aside and began to shed the rest of her hard-suit mechanically.
{Yes, Commander?} Kelly's voice spoke a moment later.
"There are a number of cases in my room. Something I should know?"
{They were delivered to the Normandy less than an hour ago, Commander,} the yeoman replied. {They were not expected but went through full security scans and inspections, and are clean.}
"Delivered? By who?"
{A service. The sender apparently wished to remain anonymous.}
Shepard frowned. The only people who even knew she was still alive were on this ship…except Aria T'Loak and the few goons she'd had in her lounge when Shepard had visited. Aria had no cause or motivation to send her anything, and anyone on this ship would simply have brought them to her personally, not used a service.
That's not entirely true. The Illusive Man knows, and probably half of Cerberus.
Yeah, but again…they'd hardly have any reason to send me packages anonymously. If the Illusive Man had wanted me to have something he'd have either made arrangements with Lawson or he'd have had it waiting here when I first came on board.
Going over, she touched the first case. There was no hiding what it contained, the shape was a dead give-away…and proof the sender was someone who knew her. Cautiously unsnapping the latches she opened the velvet lined box.
Before the Normandy had been destroyed, Shepard had hauled around an old, antique acoustic guitar. She'd come upon it quite by accident when she was sixteen years old. Guitars like this were rare these days, most for the last thirty years having been made with holographic interfaces instead of strings. She'd taught herself to play, and it was one of the few things that brought her peace, that centered her soul.
This was not that same guitar, of course, but as the first, it was an acoustic with actual strings. Where her original instrument had been a classical with a traditional finish (one rather scuffed and scratched with age), this was an arch top steel, lacquered black and looked as if it had never been touched. An artist of some caliber had painted a pair of blue roses along its lower flank, the flowers rendered so as to almost look three-dimensional.
This was no antique. She could tell even before she touched it. Regardless of its lack of HI, this was a brand-new instrument.
Lifting it from the case as she sat on the bed, she felt the slide of the strings beneath her fingers. A few practice plucks told her it was not quite in tune but close.
It was utterly beautiful, and utterly personal. Only a friend would have thought to give her something like this. Only a very close friend would have understood what a guitar gave to her.
Setting the guitar back in its bed she opened the other cases, and what they revealed only solidified her initial suspicion.
The first contained four large bottles, two of expensive Red Line Whiskey, and two of Thessia Shimmerfall Pris Para. The second box held what had to be five hundred Gold Label cigars, more than she could hope to smoke in the next year. The rich scent filled the air as she ran her fingers over their neatly ordered ranks. Tucked in its own pocket in the cigar case was a hand-carved, old-fashioned flint wheel-lighter, a far cry from the utilitarian electric-pulse lighter she'd used before.
From the final box, Shepard drew out a well-oiled swagman. As the guitar it was not scuffed and used as her old one had been but new enough that the rich smell of the leather almost overpowered that of the cigars as she lifted it free.
She knew now, beyond a doubt, who her anonymous benefactor was. There was no note, no confirmation but only one person would have done all this.
Liara knows I'm alive. Somehow, someone found her, someone told her. She knows I'm alive.
Had the Illusive Man located her? Had he sent her a message, made a call, and explained what they had done, that Shepard was alive? Alive…and wanted to see her?
Someone had found her, whether that was the Illusive Man or Lawson or even Tali. Someone had located the young asari scientist and told her…and this was the response.
The gifts showed a concern for Shepard's comforts, for her welfare. Liara knew that the guitar was often the only escape into peace she had. She knew Shepard's odd psychological addiction to the cigars. The whiskey and the hat…these were who Shepard was, ties to the only home she'd really known, to the only happy days of her past.
Yet Liara had not come in person. She had left no note, no explanations, no other indication of joy and relief that Shepard was alive.
And Shepard knew why. Because this Feron was real, and important to her. He made her happy. He had filled the emptiness left when Shepard had died. He had been there for Liara when she could not. Liara didn't know how to tell her all of that, didn't want to tear apart the new life she had found. She had sent the gifts as a gesture of concern and friendship yes, but also as atonement, an apology that what had been between them was no longer. Things just could not be as they might once have been.
Sitting there with the hat in her hands, the rich smell of leather and cigars filling the air, Shepard's unfocused gaze stared off into the ether, into realms unseen and unexplored by any who had never experienced loss.
When she'd stripped out of her hard-suit she'd returned her Miitgard rifle to the rack but the holster belt she'd only draped over the partition between office area and bedroom.
Slowly her gaze lifted to it…or more specifically, to the machine pistols clipped to it, waiting with quiet, solemn urgency.
"What do you mean, packages?" Miranda frowned at Kelly as the pair stood in the CIC. "Packages from whom?"
"Unknown," Kelly admitted. "The courier did not have a name. As I told Shepard the packages were thoroughly scanned and inspected."
"Only a small handful of people even know Shepard is alive. And most of them are on board this ship. Who would be sending her-"
"There has just been a weapons discharge in Commander Shepard's quarters," EDI suddenly appeared, speaking urgently.
"What?" Miranda's folded arms dropped as alarm spread over her face…the first time Kelly Chambers had ever seen the operative anything but composed. Immediately turning Miranda ran for the lift, waving over one of the security officers as she did. Kelly did not hesitate to follow as well.
The lift bore the three swiftly upward. The door to the commander's actual quarters was locked, but Miranda swiftly used her security access to override it.
As the door slid opened to allow the three into the Nest, the bark of a pistol firing snapped suddenly through the air, followed instantly by the distinctive crash of glass.
Miranda instinctively half-ducked, even as she drew her own side-arm and rushed to the steps that led down into the bedroom. There she halted, the officer at her side doing the same, Kelly a moment later.
Shepard sat on her office chair, which was tipped back against the edge of the bed. She had one foot planted on her footlocker and was rocking herself back and forth on the back two legs of the chair. The new leather swagman was on her head, tugged down at a jaunty angle, its hem wreathed in smoke drifting up from the cigar in her mouth.
In her left hand she held a half empty bottle of Red Line Whiskey. In her right was one of her machine pistols. Lined up on the partition between bedroom and office were several beer bottles taken from the in-room cooler. Two were shattered, the ripe smell of foaming beer mingling with the heady scent of the cigar.
"Shepard? What are you doing?" Lawson blinked.
"My fucking nails," Shepard replied sarcastically, then pointed at the third bottle. "Check this out."
Shepard plucked her cigar out with two fingers on the hand holding the whiskey, a move perfected after years of practice. Taking a swig directly from the bottle, tipping both her head and the chair backward as she did so, Shepard pointed the machine pistol and let off a round. The third in the line of bottles erupted as the shot tore through it, shattering in a rain of glass and thick amber froth.
"Did you fuckin' see that?" Shepard hooted. "My small arms instructor in boot would have shit herself!"
Shipping her side-arm, Miranda dismissed the security officer. As he departed Kelly went down the steps, looking at the items spread out over the bed.
Miranda did not come down the stairs, simply regarded Shepard silently. She wished she could say it was a surprise to see Shepard smoking and downing whiskey like she needed it to breathe, but it wasn't. She had hoped that Shepard's tendency toward self-destructive habits could be curbed, tempered. This little display was not an encouraging sign to that end.
"Shepard, I don't think it's a good idea to be discharging your firearm in your room," she said as gently as she was able.
"Oh, don't you?" Shepard asked, and promptly shot the next beer.
"Look, I know this all has to be frustrating for you-"
"You know?" Shepard asked, lowering her feet so that the chair fell to all fours. Setting the pistol down on the footlocker and then the whiskey beside it she squinted at Lawson from under the brim of her hat.
"Not first-hand but I can imagine, Shepard. I do have some degree of empathy."
"Which of your friends sent these things?" Chambers asked. Shepard glanced around at her with a faint grunt.
"Liara did."
"You know that for certain?" Miranda asked.
"Yeah, I know for certain. She's the only one that would have," Shepard retorted. "Which means she knows I'm alive. Believe it or not, this shit is the 'sweet' version of a Dear John letter."
"I'm sorry, Commander," Kelly said gently. Shepard looked at her oddly, not quite able to grok why the yeoman was even there. Miranda's motivation to be there was clear. Her reason for bringing the security officer was also clear. Shepard doubted, however, that Miranda felt Shepard needed an emergency dictate and collate session. "I wonder how she discovered you were still alive?"
"I don't know. I wish I could fucking ask her," Shepard replied.
"She works for the Shadow Broker," Miranda stated. "Some intel must have leaked and he passed it on to her. Shepard, I am sorry, but two years is a long time. If Dr. T'Soni wanted to see or speak to you in person she would have done so. She clearly knows where you are-"
"No shit! I don't need you to sit there and parrot the obvious at me, Lawson. I know, all right? She's moved on with her life. She has someone else. I fucking got that, ok? It's been all but slapped in my face from the moment I woke up. I get it. It's not my place nor my right to disrupt her new life. Jesus fucking thank you."
"I'm not trying to be cruel," Miranda blinked. "You're here because you're needed."
"Yeah, needed. I know. Don't worry. I'll find your fucking Collectors and stop the fucking Reapers and get Nan back if I have to tear apart half the goddamn universe. And after I've done it, I want you and your entire fucking terrorist cult and the rest of this sorry ass galaxy to leave me the fuck alone."
Rising she grabbed a jacket out of the closet and hauled it on, before snatching a handful of cigars and her new lighter, stuffing them in her pocket. She snatched up the machine pistol and clipped it into the belt she'd slung around her hips before Miranda and Kelly had arrived.
"Shepard, where are you going? Shepard?" Miranda started forward, then stopped when Kelly held up a hand, shaking her head.
Straightening the collar of the jacket with angry snaps of her hands Shepard strode up the steps and out the door.
Turning and looking at Chambers with a frown Miranda asked, "What was that all about? All that and you barely said a word to her!"
"Right now Shepard needs to decompress," Kelly told her. "She needs to be angry, ma'am. She can't keep putting her feelings aside. A lot has happened to her in a very short amount of time, and she's had little opportunity to try and find her feet again. She's got to start processing all this and she has to do it on her own. It's not something anyone can help her with, not right now. To try would only shut her down further."
"And if she goes out and gets herself injured, or killed?" Miranda demanded.
"She's a big girl, and she's been a hell of a lot more dangerous places than Omega," Kelly replied. "She'll be back, ma'am, trust me."
The thundering beat of full-blown sensory was still going strong at Afterlife, the club never so much as pausing in its eternal rapture. Weaving through the crowd, Shepard strode up to the guard at Aria's lounge again, knowing better than just to make an assumption and go in.
"She here?" she asked. What buzz she'd gotten from the half bottle of Red Line was swiftly fading and her entire being was all but vibrating in want of another drink…or twelve. First things were first, however, and there was something she had to know.
The batarian squinted two of his eyes at her, before he nodded in recognition. Touching his radio he called, "Ma'am? Commander Shepard would like to see you again."
He nodded at whatever response filtered through, then jabbed a thumb at the lounge door. "Go on in."
As it had earlier, the closing door cut out nearly all the sound pulsing from the dance floor below. Unlike before, however, the room was not full of body-guards and hired guns. The two dancers were gone as well.
Aria stood before the sofa, looking out of the huge windows at the writhing mass of hedonism below. She had a drink in her hand. Two turians in armor were the only show of security, both barely looking at Shepard as she stepped in.
"I knew you'd be coming back," Aria said, glancing around at her, before lifting a brow. "Changed out of your working clothes, did you? I like it. You've got down-to-reality tastes. Like that you look just like your picture."
"What picture would that be, I wonder," Shepard replied, not really wondering at all.
"Come on, Shepard. I know why you're here. Let's not dance just now, all right? It makes me weary."
Setting her glass down she picked something up, something small, and gestured to Shepard to come over. As Shepard drew near she could see it was an OSD. Aria drew out a PDA and slid the OSD into it before activating it.
Then she turned the PDA silently, offering it to the commander. Wordlessly, Shepard took it.
Her own face looked back up at her. Her own face…and Liara's.
It was the last photo they had taken that night the Normandy went down. Both lounging back against the bed, side by side. Shepard was half-smiling, focusing more on taking the actual shot. Liara's smile was more genuine, happy and comfortable.
The couple was frozen in a moment in time. They didn't know it, but in only seconds their world would shake and tremble as the Normandy came under attack, as their peace was shattered forever.
"After you left here earlier today I contacted her, told her you were here."
Shepard's gaze moved from the image to Aria with a snap. "You contacted her? You know where she is?"
"Shepard, you and I both know how this galaxy works. It's dismal, bleak…and nothing is ever free."
"What do you want?" Shepard asked warily.
Aria waved a hand and shook her head. "That's not what I meant," she said. "Some time ago, Dr. T'Soni did me a favor. It put me into her debt…and I dislike being in anyone's debt. With your arrival I was able to repay her. She had asked me, that were you ever to come to Omega I was to let her know. When I did so this afternoon she made a request of me…a simple enough one to fulfill. I trust you received your packages? The cigars and alcohol were easy enough to come by. Even that lovely hat didn't cause me too much trouble. The instrument, however…where on Omega would I possibly find such an old, human-specific analog instrument?"
Shepard's head was spinning again. Aria T'Loak, underworld queen of Omega…had been in debt to Liara, a shy, sweet scientist who had no place in the dark underbelly of any society?
"Dr. T'Soni had apparently thought of that as well. Not five minutes after I was off the call from her than a salarian merchant contacted me that he had my delivery. Seems Liara had already anticipated you would arrive here soon and sent the instrument. It was good fortune it arrived with almost perfect timing."
"This…doesn't make any sense," Shepard murmured, her gaze returning to the photo in her hand. "Why were you in debt to Liara? And…how did she know I was even alive? She had to know…that guitar was custom-made, sent ahead as you said…she knew I was alive? She knew I would be coming here? How?"
"I'm only telling you what I know, Commander," Aria replied. "Dr. T'Soni did not reveal all her secrets to me, and I did not ask. She requested I send those items to your ship and I did so. That was all she asked to consider my debt paid in full but as it was such a small request…and since you took care of Archangel so swiftly and neatly…I am going to tip you that photo. She doesn't know I have it and I see little harm in giving it to you…a thank you, if you will, to you and to her. As far as providing you with her contact information that is a bridge we are not going to cross. Had she wanted to speak to you I have no doubt she would have requested I pass that along as well, or she would have tried contacting you directly. I have no desire to immerse myself any deeper into off-station affairs that have little to do with me, it will only bring unwanted irritation."
Had Aria been anyone else, Shepard wouldn't have let it drop. She'd have beaten the information out of her if she had to…but Aria was right. Liara didn't want to speak to her, didn't want to see her, and putting pressure on Aria would only bring down the brunt of her considerable power and influence.
Liara knew I was alive…quite a while ago, to have that guitar commissioned. She knew I was alive. How? Why?
"Thank you," she murmured, slipping the OSD out of the PDA and passing the latter back to the asari woman.
"I will be seeing you around again, Shepard…of that I have no doubt. For now, good evening. You know where the door is."
As Shepard left the lounge and was once again immersed in the overwhelming music, one thought continued to ring in her head, louder than the waves of sensory could ever hope to be.
She knew. I was alive…and she knew.
"Well now, this is a coincidence."
The male voice that drew Shepard's eyes upward was familiar…and thankfully audible. She'd left Afterlife only to find another, smaller club a few streets away. Hardly catering to the same level of crowd the music was an awful blend of elcor and hanar, but it was at least mellow.
Into her third glass of charous (damned place didn't serve any decent human drinks at all), Shepard was once again well on her way toward drunk. As her eyes fixed on Joseph Conroy, the man smiled and gestured at the empty chair opposite her.
"May I?"
She made a half-hearted gesture of agreement and as he sat down, she plucked the cigar from her teeth and ashed it onto a nearby napkin.
"I see you found your proper smokes," he commented, drawing out his own pack of battered cigs. "Mind?"
She snorted her answer, and as he pulled one out and set it in his mouth, she spun her new lighter across the table. His hand came down and halted it, and he lifted a brow in approval before snapping it alight.
"You are a woman full of surprises, aren't you?" He asked as he passed the lighter back.
She leaned back in her chair, thumbing her swagman back a little, regarding him moodily. When she said nothing he ventured, "Not much in the mood to talk, I take it?"
"The fuck are you?" she grumped, picking up her drink.
"Just a man looking for a drink and a meal," he told her.
"Bullshit. I don't buy that you being here is just a coincidence. And I don't buy that you helped me and my people with Archangel out of the goodness of your heart. I am in the mood to break some noses or relocate some kneecaps so why don't we take the easy road here, and you just tell me who you are and what the fuck you want."
"My name is Joseph Conroy," he replied. "Former military like most mercs and now just trying to survive day to day. I have never lied to you, Commander."
"You know who I am?" she snapped.
"The Butcher of Torfan? First human Spectre and the hero of the Citadel? Al-Jilani and her media weasels plastered your image on a hundred different channels a dozen times a day when you were alive. After your death, the Alliance itself put you on posters, made you into the human ideal, the hero every little human boy and girl should aspire to be. Well, for about six months anyway, before they replaced you with a composite they invented. You might be able to blend in a little here, Shepard…but you're hardly impossible to recognize."
She scrutinized him a moment, letting out a stream of cigar smoke that all but obscured her eyes. "You were Alliance?"
"Once upon a time," he answered. Ashing his cigarette he waved for the waitress. As she went to fetch his drink he said, "I won't crowd you. It's clear you'd rather be in your own company right now. But I did want to thank you for saving my life. Twice, actually…by my count."
"Interesting math," she told him. "From my end it looked more like you saved my life. Once."
He waved his hand with a faint smile, his eyes sparkling a little. "I wouldn't say that. You would have handled those vorcha just fine on your own, I have no doubt. I merely…evened the odds a bit, made things a tad easier. You, however, did knock me silly with the butt of your rifle when you could just as easily have shot me in the back or let Archangel put a bullet between my baby blues."
She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "You gave me a smoke. Piss-fucking-poor one, mind, but it's just bad manners to shoot a man right after they give you a cig."
He chuckled a little. "Oh is it? I must have skipped that day at etiquette school."
She smirked, then shook her head. "Fine, so I knocked you on your ass rather than shoot you. That's once, and it still doesn't jive. If even one member of those merc gangs spotted you helping us your life wouldn't be worth a squirt in a back-alley toilet. So fucking give."
The waitress brought his drink and he winked at her before taking a healthy sip. "I served on the Winnipeg," he stated as he set the cup down. "Small fighter frigate in the fifth fleet. Whilst you were stopping the incursion on the Citadel and opening up the station we were hip deep in geth ships and, quite frankly, getting our asses handed to us. A lot of good men and women died…a lot of fine ships went down. The Winnipeg was one of them."
Shepard said nothing, only looked at him, the deep simmering anger in her eyes fading a little, softening into sadness.
"We took a bad hit. Didn't directly compromise the core but it did breach containment. There was a bad eezo leak. Just before the ship came apart myself and seven others managed to make it to the lifeboats, but we were all exposed to lethal levels of radiation. I am the only one left. I have leukemia…of moderate severity. It was enough to get me an 'honorable' discharge from service with a fairly tiny pension, but I'm a soldier and not one to just lay around and wait to die. So I became a merc, doing odd jobs here on Omega."
He spoke as if describing the weather for an upcoming weekend holiday, and paused only to ash his cigarette. "My condition can't be cured, only treated. Eventually it will outrun the doctors and that will be that. I decided that I was doing little good for myself or for others, and that I would much rather die as a soldier than withered in a bed somewhere, too weak to even stand. I knew signing up that run against Archangel was suicide, but it was as good a way as any to die on my feet, holding a gun…the way I was meant to."
He smirked, gestured at her with the butt of his cigarette. "Then some pesky little ghost appears out of nowhere and asks me for a smoke. A marine, someone who should have been dead…and up she pops like some kind of guardian angel…zombie…thing."
Shepard couldn't help herself. She laughed. "So the fact that my various body parts weren't orbiting some distant planet inspired you to live."
"My, you certainly do think a lot of yourself, don't you?" he teased, grinning when she laughed again.
Shrugging he stabbed the end of his smoke out in the tray nearby. "I don't know," he said. "Maybe in the end I am just a fighter at heart. Maybe I just can't allow myself to give up. I suppose if there's something in this sorry universe important enough for you to come back from the grave and fight for it…well, then maybe there's something important enough around for me to fight for as well."
She hummed faintly, sipping at her drink. "Coming back from the grave wasn't exactly my choice," she murmured. "And I wonder if it wouldn't be better for everyone if I had just stayed dead."
"It's hard to know what to do sometimes," he agreed. "It's hard to understand what to feel. To have your very air taken away from you and yet still be expected to breathe."
She shook her head. "What am I fighting for, Conroy?" she asked, then gestured to her left. A pair of drunks, barely able to stand, were struggling against one another, probably not even aware of why they were even brawling. "This? People like that, a galaxy that doesn't give a shit?"
"You've never seen beauty or hope?" he asked casually. "Never anything good or right?"
Her eyes unfocused a little, and she looked at her drink, swirling it in the glass. "Beauty and hope fade, disappear. Reality takes anything good or right and grinds it down until it's dust."
He looked at her intently a moment, then shook his head. "You don't believe that," he stated. "Not really. If you did, you'd take that gun on your hip and subtract yourself from the equation. No one fights as hard as you do if they don't have something worth fighting for. No one tries to drown their sorrows if they don't have sorrows, and no one has sorrows unless they care about something."
"First a soldier, then a merc, now a philosophy professor," Shepard snorted, then added sarcastically, "Is there anything you can't do, Mr. Conroy?"
"Well, let me think. I make a pretty mean blood pudding, enjoy advanced calculus, I can ski and dance the tango and make you laugh which I suspect is no easy task so…no, I think I've got everything covered."
"Well then," Shepard smirked, picking up her glass and holding it out for a toast. "Fuck you. Fuck you very much."
Conroy tapped her glass with his own and grinned. "Flirting with me again, I see. My irresistibility remains adamant, completely undefeated."