The post-mission debriefing with Hackett can't conclude fast enough. Years of service allow Shepard to stand straight and answer as ordered, but there's a disconnect between her and the tactile reality of the Normandy. No mission has ever been personal like this. Grim curiosity, seasoned with the beginnings of suspicion, had fuelled her through investigating Hackett's tip—and what they'd found had tilted her world sideways with the inexorable pull of a shifting gravity well.
Ontarom had been something else.
"We'll take care of Toombs from here, Commander. With therapy and luck, he might have a normal life again some day. Whatever else this has been, I hope this brought you some closure, Shepard. Hackett out."
Toombs' eyes haunt her. Flashing like lightning, furious and snapping; later, empty and blank like grey marbles. One moment she sees him in that dingy prefab, a ghost made flesh, and the next she sees an explosion of sand that tosses him into the air to be snapped up by a thresher maw.
Alone, and then not alone. But Shepard has learned what happened to their unit hadn't been an accident—it had been murder. For all the scars Akuze had left on her, the sharp edges had worn off the memories in the intervening years, so they no longer cut her open with the slightest pressure. Not excised, just buried to the point they didn't intrude on her daily functions. She'd moved on—she had to.
Eight years is a long time, after all.
While they'd waited for a pickup from Fifth Fleet, she'd sat with Toombs. Confiscated his gun because she had been afraid that, after finding out that no, she's not the Sole Survivor, he'd do something rash now his lust for vengeance had abandoned him. They hadn't talked.
What could she have said? I'm sorry I spent all these years with the moniker Sole Survivor? I'm sorry those bastards experimented on you? I'm sorry I never thought to search for you?
Why didn't you contact me when you freed yourself?
She'd broken her own damn rule of 'if there's no body, don't assume they're dead' on Akuze. A thresher had swallowed Corporal Lloyd whole, and she hadn't thought to question how few bodies had been shipped home.
Alenko had been assigned to guard the scientist while they'd waited for a pickup because she'd trusted him, out of everyone present, not to shoot Dr Wayne. Alliance regs are clear on the matter of prisoners.
Coaxing Toombs into accepting the Alliance team's care had been as much about coaxing herself to let him go. The Normandy isn't equipped to care for a severely traumatised torture survivor; he's better off in the hands of experts. Toombs had been mollified somewhat when Dr Wayne's new guard had shoved him towards the door. The last she saw of Toombs, he had been gently led outside by the pickup team.
Alone, then not alone, then alone again.
With the debrief over, Shepard removes herself from public view. Rattling the crew with an emotional outburst is the last thing anyone needs; they deserve better from their CO.
The cargo bay is empty at this hour; Garrus and Wrex are terrorising the crew in the mess hall—the latter more so than the former. And on the way down she'd noticed Williams and Alenko locked in a quiet yet intent conversation. Neither had noticed her stalk by, and right now she's glad to have some distance between her and today's ground team.
Wrenching open her locker with more force than strictly necessary, Shepard sets to running a system check on her hardsuit and disassembling her weapons for cleaning. A soldier needs to know her sword and shield won't fail her in the field. Unfortunately, her hands are so used to the ritual they can work on autopilot, leaving her mind uncluttered and free to roam.
The old grief and guilt sit in her chest with the gravity of a star. Anger is easier, so she grasps at that instead.
Lloyd would have claimed the entire workbench for himself were he here. Vargas, Brooks, Romano. She hasn't thought of them in a long time.
Knowing they died in an experiment, not an accident, is worse.
"Commander?"
Being a CO comes with responsibilities she can't shake just because she had a bad day. She straightens at once, wrestling on her poker-face-slash-taking-orders-from-an-unpleasant-superior-officer-face. By the time Alenko reaches her side, her expression is even. "Lieutenant. What can I do for you?"
He shifts on his feet, drawing in a breath. "Can I talk to you? Off the record?"
Speaking privately is now a regular occurrence for them. He only asks as a formality, and to confirm this is personal in nature. "Of course. What do you need?"
He hesitates for another half-second. "Commander—what we learned on Ontarom was beyond the pale. Are you all right?"
The question throws her. Anderson is the only person who ever asks, usually over drinks when they're on leave. As a kid navigating Earth's streets, Shepard learned to never betray when she was bleeding, lest the sharks close in. And later, as an officer with responsibilities, she can't undermine her crew's faith in her with emotional bursts. "Fine."
"In my experience, 'fine' is the go-to response of someone who isn't remotely fine." At her glass-sharp glance, he hastily adds, "But if I'm overstepping here, just let me know."
Shepard turns over the screwdriver in her hands. "You're not overstepping, Kaidan. I just—hell, I barely know where to begin with this, let alone articulate it."
"Fair enough," he says. "I can't even imagine what you're feeling right now. Losing your team is one thing, but what those scientists did..." He clears his throat. "Do you want a hand with your gear?"
She hesitates. But Alenko isn't just any jarhead; he's a fellow tech expert. Plus, and she hesitates to admit it even privately, his company is always nice. Right now she needs something to ground her. "Sure."
They work together in the quiet. There's always been something personal about maintaining her arms and armor. In the field, they're an extension of her, and as such she needs to know every nut and bolt as well as she knows her own body. Alenko must be aware of this, too, because he handles her pistol with as much care as he might his own, if not more.
It slips out without meaning to. "I was twenty-one when we were assigned to Akuze. If Toombs only recently escaped, he could have been their prisoner all this time. Eight years. Eight."
Alenko's eyebrows climb to his hairline as he does the calculations himself. "Still young to go through something like that. And Toombs… I guess it's a marvel of human tenacity that people can survive years of torture. I don't know how anyone comes out the other side of that alive, let alone sane."
Her smile is grim. "The sane part is always questionable."
Hackett spoke of closure, but she's lost it instead of gained it. Eight years of pulling herself together, piece by piece, undone in half an hour.
Her screwdriver clatters on the bench as she turns, pressing back against the bench, clutching the edges in a white-knuckled grip. "All this time, I thought Akuze was a fluke. The galaxy is more dangerous than we know. Exploration always carries risks. But this—?"
She can't remember the last time she was this unsettled; the Normandy's dark walls and low lights offer no comfort in their familiarity. She shouldn't be lapsing her control, not here, but Alenko's steady presence beside her—helps. He waits her out, letting her talk on her own terms.
She can't remember the last time she had someone to rely on. Not like this.
An exhale rattles in her lungs. "I saw a thresher pull Toombs under. All these years I thought he was dead. And now I have to wonder if those scientists found anyone else alive. If they died in subsequent experiments. Just—dammit, Kaidan. That was my unit. Alliance black ops fed us to thresher maws as a science project."
Alenko considers for a few moments before offering a tentative response. "Didn't Admiral Hackett say they'd gone rogue?"
Normally she appreciates Alenko's glass-half-full mentality. Today she pinches the bridge of her nose. Only when she's certain she can keep her voice even does she say, "It doesn't change the fact that someone, somewhere, thought luring thresher maws to a colony was a good idea. Fifty marines and a pioneer team of twenty are dead because of them. If I could have saved anyone, even if it meant I'd have died—"
"You did save someone, Shepard. You saved Toombs today." Beside her, Alenko's expression softens. "I doubt there's a soldier alive who doesn't wish at some point to sacrifice themselves to save someone else."
Survivor's guilt is a constant companion to many a marine, and they both know it. Even if he isn't wrong to give that gentle reminder, simply naming the weight in her chest won't relieve the burden. "I just wish I found Toombs sooner. Found some trace of what those scientists were up to."
Alenko's eyes flick up to her then, their whiskey-brown depths equal parts warm and earnest. "Shepard, it wasn't your fault then, and it still isn't your fault now."
Despite everything, his unwavering faith eases some of the tension from her shoulders. "That means a lot to hear."
"It's only the truth, Shepard."
They lapse into silence again, broken only by the clatter of dropping a tool or a quiet hiss when the casing on her pistol slips off the rails and jams when they try to reattach it. Alenko makes for a good partner—a good assistant, she means, and ignores the implications of her first choice of word. Not only does he know his tech, but he also knows how to not get in her way. On the rare occasion their fingers brush, it's pure accident. Even if she can feel the hot ghost of his touch after they apologise and rearrange their hands. It's oddly intimate—and Shepard knows after eleven years in the navy when to shove a thought aside before it can take root and become a problem later.
Save it for shore leave, she tells herself.
Alenko packs up their tools as she stows her gear in her locker. The door clicks as the locks engage, and sealed with her armour is the bulk of her anger. The unease is still there, making her own skin feel like a stranger, but now she has enough of a handle on it to deal with the rest of her shift. Shepard eyes Alenko. He doesn't seem bothered by witnessing his CO succumb to an inevitable moment of humanity, as much as the brass might wish their personnel are above it. Off the record, he'd said, so she has the utmost confidence in his discretion.
"Kaidan? Thank you."
He smiles at her, then, just a corner of his mouth while the corners of his eyes crinkle. "Anytime, Shepard."