Four years later, Shepard was checking his brother's pistol.
"I don't see why you hold onto that thing," said a young Batarian, a year or two younger than John, who was sitting on a crate. "It's a shit pistol."
"Yeah, but it's a shit pistol with a place in my heart. Tell me you don't have anything with sentimental value."
"I sell people into slavery for a living on a ship called The Ryncol."
"That's no excuse. So do I, and it's a good drink."
The man grinned, before firing off his clips upon a makeshift target, painted with Alliance colors.
"You know, I do have somethin'."
"Mmm?"
"All three of my umbilical cords. Dad ripped 'em off himself."
Shepard laughed, as did the Batarian.
"You aren't half bad. I hope we keep you."
"I've already made it onto the main ship."
"Everyone does. I'm human, a colony kid, former prisoner, and now look at me!"
The alien pushed himself up off the crate, chuckling quietly to himself.
"You said you were a colony kid then," said the Batarian.
"You haven't heard my story?" asked Shepard, giving a puzzled look.
"Course I heard it, I'm just making light conversation."
"Well in that case go fuck yourself."
The Batarian chuckled again. Shepard didn't.
"That wasn't a joke kid."
"Hey, no, I get it. We all have the one story."
"'Cept mine is constantly passed around."
"Don't get too down about it, You've shown a lot of Batarians that humans ain't half bad… Most of 'em, anyways."
"Well you know what they say."
"What?"
"Screw politics."
Shepard and the Batarian laughed, the human's grin returning, before Shepard returned to target practice.