"Just tell me straight, doctor, is she going to wake up?"

Three days after being released from the med bay, Shepard was still hobbling around the ship on one of Joker's old crutches, albeit in a slightly better mood – well, most of the time... Here, now, stood at the end of Liara's bed with Dr Chakwas, his mood was anything but better.

"For the last time, Commander, she's stable. She won't get any worse."

"That's not answering my question. Will she wake up?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Now that I don't know."

"I... just take care of her, Karin."

"What did you expect me to do, Shepard?"

Wordlessly, Shepard nodded, and limped out of the med bay. Compared to what he had to do next, hearing the life or death news about Liara felt almost easy. Maybe that was why he'd chosen to hear it now...

"Commander," Joker chipped in, over the ship's comms. "The Orizaba's here. Admiral Hackett says he'll meet you in your quarters."

It was a short and reluctant walk up to the captain's quarters, and Shepard's spine was aching by the time he reached them. That sense of discomfort however, was nothing compared to the dread which passed over him as he entered, and saw Admiral Hackett waiting for him, at his desk.

The admiral had his back to Shepard, and to the commander's surprise, he was examining the glass pane above Shepard's terminal, and little miniature suspended in it. He watched as Hackett reached out a bony finger, brushing a few flecks of dust off one of them – with a pang of surprise, he realised it was the obsidian-tinted form of Sovereign...

"Seems a long time ago, doesn't it?" Hackett murmured, hoarsely. He didn't even turn round to face Shepard, but had apparently spotted him reflected in the glass. "Sovereign, the Citadel... even Aratoht."

"It's been a long road," Shepard nodded, wearily.

There was another pregnant pause, before the admiral finally turned to face him.

"Sit down," he muttered.

Gratefully, the commander hobbled over to the bed, abandoned Joker's crutch at the foot of it, and slumped down onto the end, shoulders sagging slightly.

"I've known you were a good man for a long time, commander," Hackett began, as Shepard simply sat and listened. "Two years ago, you ordered my fleet to save the Council, despite everything they did to you... After Aratoht, the first thing you told me was that you tried to save those batarians... the second was that you'd turn yourself in for the crime..."

Their conversation – it was a monologue, really – took another pause. Shepard's head was aching too much to speak, as the admiral continued...

"I don't need to know what happened up there. If you want to, you can tell me, but I don't need to hear it. I don't need to understand, to know you did what was best. I only have one question..."

"What?" the commander mumbled.

"How many would have died?"

"I... don't understand."

"If you'd activated the Crucible. How many would have died then?"

"Not as many as have now. But every man who supported that thing would have sold his soul..."

"Okay, now it's my turn to be confused, commander."

Hackett had told him not to explain. He'd told him that he didn't need to hear it. But there was no other way to make him understand... Slowly, hesitantly, Shepard began to tell him everything. The Illusive Man, the Catalyst, the Reapers' origins, the designated fate of the mass relays...

It took a while. To his credit, Hackett listened the whole time, eventually pulling up a chair from beneath the desk and sitting opposite the commander. Shepard didn't know how long they sat for, playing out every last one of his decisions, weighing up what might have been. Eventually, they reached the same conclusion the Spectre's own adrenaline-soaked mind had reached at the time.

"Mass relays gone... the fleet decimated, the geth destroyed... We would have avoided casualties," Hackett reasoned, "but it might have taken decades to rebuild."

"It would have taken years for the other races to even get home," Shepard nodded, soberly. "And you couldn't have any sort of galactic government, not with those kind of delays."

They sat awkwardly for a few more minutes, before the commander finally voiced the thoughts in the deepest, darkest recesses of his mind.

"I killed thousands of men," her groaned, finally. "Again."

The answer he got wasn't the one he expected, that was for sure. They weren't words of consolation, or justification. All the admiral said was:

"Yes, you did. And you'd do it again in a heartbeat."