A/N: Right, as I write this, I'm uploading a new chapter(s) to all four of my fics. What's the occasion? Well, from tomorrow, updates are going to be... opportunistic. I have two weeks of pretty damn vital exams coming up, so if I do manage to upload at all, it'll be fitted around exams and last-minute revision, so it probably won't be following the upload schedule. Here's how it stands for each of the four fics:
Defiant to the End - Still suffering from writer's block on this one, so updates are unlikely, as I have none in reserve after today's, Chapter 14.
Galaxy at War: N7 - I have a couple of chapters in reserve, and another half-written, so I will be uploading occasionally. Don't, however, expect the daily updates that have been maintained since the story's beginning. They'll resume once my exams are over, but until then, expect bigger gaps and fewer uploads.
The Cambrai Files - These are incredibly quick to write, and I have four in reserve, so these are the most likely to be uploaded, more as filler content for Galaxy at War than anything else.
Reconstruction - Again, I have several chapters in reserve, and my head is swimming with ideas for this one at the moment, so expect a few sporadic updates for Reconstruction, like Galaxy at War.
So, to all readers and reviewers - thank you for your support this far, and please, bear with me over the next two weeks. Once they're out of the way, normal service WILL be resumed...
It had been two weeks, and everything had changed aboard the Normandy. The ship was hovering in orbit over Eden Prime, playing sentinel to the hosts of refugee ships still flooding in. Back on Earth, the Citadel had been opened up once more, and the survivors on the Wards were being carted back here, or to Rannoch – the two worlds had become sanctuaries to the refugees.
They were sanctuaries to the wounded, too. The fight to clear the last of the Reaper troops from Earth had only just concluded, and the battle for Palaven was still underway. It was the latter that had affected the ship most drastically. Garrus had insisted on going with the turian fleets – reducing poor Tali to an emotional wreck as he did – and had taken both Javik and James with him. The day after, Tali had returned to Rannoch with Shala'Raan, unable to stay aboard the Normandy without him.
That left just a skeleton staff aboard the Normandy. The flight crew, Traynor, Joker, EDI and Chakwas. Kaidan was still here, too – apparently, his injuries had been more serious than he'd let on at the time, and Chakwas had ordered to stay with the ship instead of joining the others in battle.
Shepard was feeling lower than ever. Hackett's feeble attempt at consolation hadn't helped, nor had the countless others. Garrus and Joker had tried to cheer him up, EDI had applied ruthless logic to the matter, and before he left, James had tried to get him drinking, before Chakwas put a stop to that. In summary, they had all tried, and they had all failed.
No matter what he did, or said, Shepard kept coming back to the same conclusion. It was the Citadel all over again, Aratoht all over again. Hundreds of thousands dead from his decisions, and for what? A clean conscience? His conscience was drowned in too much blood to be clean...
"Commander?" chimed EDI's electronic voice.
"What?" he grunted back, sullenly. He was lying back on the bed, toying with his Phalanx pistol – he had made a habit of keeping the thing beneath his pillow ever since the Collector attack...
"Doctor Chakwas asked me to remind you that you have a check-up in... minus two hours."
"You really can't do sarcasm, EDI."
"Who says I was trying? The point still stands, Commander..."
Utterly ignoring the fact that he was technically talking to the ship, he looked up at the ceiling, imagining the little blue orb – he still didn't think of EDI as that droid out of Joker's dreams – was hovering there.
"Tell her I'm sick," he muttered.
"If you are ill, then surely you need to see the doctor more than ever. I could ask her to make a call to your quarters?"
"You could try, but I have a gun. If you want the doctor to keep on breathing, I'd advise you keep that door locked."
"Very well..."
Silence reigned once more, and that dreadful list began to work away at his mind, the rasping, shadowy whispers tugging at every synapse in his brain.
"Hey there, Skipper," Ashley murmured.
"Had to be me," Mordin volunteered. "Someone else might have gotten it wrong."
"Prayers for the wicked must not be forsaken," Thane added, and for some stupid reason, Shepard clasped his hands together...
"Shepard-Commander," Legion barked, as the guilt piled up.
"You did good, son," Anderson rasped, in some vain attempt to console him. "You did good. I'm proud of you..."
Shepard wasn't sure how long the whispers went or for – he wasn't particularly what they said, either – he merely knew that by the time their supposed consolations stopped, he was feeling more guilt-stricken than ever, and the pistol in his hands looked like an inviting prospect.
Slowly, cautiously, he examined the thing. He couldn't quite believe he was even thinking this, but... it was a way out, wasn't it? He'd killed enough men with this gun to know what it could do... Huh. He'd killed enough men – how many was it, exactly? Was he over a million yet? It couldn't have been far off... Aratoht was a third of the way there. Add in all those enemies who had seemed "unimportant" over the years, add in the thousands in the skies over Earth – hell, add in the millions on Earth! His sloth had left them to die at the Reaper's hands... claws... whatever.
Yet again, he peered at the pistol's muzzle. It really was inviting – a black void like the one in his own brain, which in an instant could be ignited, and could snuff him out, just like that.
What would the galaxy be losing, anyway? Its most accomplished killer? The so-called greatest hero of the war it would want to forget, the war it would want to relegate to the realm of nightmares and black history? It would be losing nothing. Better than that, it would be losing a relic, a piece of human wreckage it really didn't need. He was washed-up, broken, and bloodied by a million corpses.
Ponderously, he raised the pistol to his face, examining the muzzle in ever-closer detail. Every muscle in his body was tensing up, primitive instincts trying to stop, but his brain was overriding the lot of them.
"What the hell are you doing?" hissed a new voice – not one of the ones in his head, but a fresh, clear voice from across the room.
He peered up, away from the gun barrel, and his jaw dropped. Stood on the opposite of the room, hands on hips, face aghast, was Liara.