Convalescence – Commander Shepard
–
The Commander's dreams were uneasy. It was his first night back on the job. First night in over two years where his unconsciousness was not a consequence of brain death or even chemically-induced. First night as a zombie. The thought had first occurred to him on the shuttle back from Freedom's Progress – he was undead. Zombie Shepard. The idea of being one of the twentieth-century's shambling, moaning boogeymen would have been almost laughable if he hadn't felt so damn much like one.
Tired. Confused. Falling apart at the seams. Shepard was having trouble piecing everything back together. Maybe he was just hankering for some tasty brains.
It was all too much for him right now. Not everything had made it through the Lazarus Project intact, but thankfully his military training had, or he'd probably still be hyperventilating on the floor. He had died? And now he woke up on the other side with Cerberus logos stamped on his armor and guns? The mere thought had made his drug-addled head spin. He was almost grateful to hear human colonies had been disappearing – it gave him something to do, a comfortable rut to fall into until he'd had time to think things through.
By any reasonable measure, Freedom's Progress had gone well. They had come away with an eyewitness account of the attack, one that corroborated the Illusive Man's other intel. They had lucked out, and thanks to Veetor's unlikely presence (and rare love of excessive surveillance) they had a target. It was a monumental step towards putting a stop to the disappearances. Still, Shepard had returned to Minuteman Station feeling worse than ever. Joker's appearance had been a welcome surprise, of course, as had the reimagined Normandy 2.0. Simply stepping onto the ship, any fool could see that it was the same ultra-sleek, high tech stealth frigate its predecessor had been.
Still, Shepard hadn't been able to spare the effort to appreciate it. Dodging the friendlier crewmembers' attempted introductions, he'd found his way to his personal quarters and flopped down on the bed, almost instantly asleep.
–
He awoke to a familiar sight. A pale face, mouth set in determination, hovered in the haze above him, its dangling black curls tickling his face. He blinked stupidly, trying to force his eyes to focus – they clicked mechanically with each blink.
"Having trouble?" an accented voice asked. "Your eyes probably need recalibration – sometimes on the Condyles the optic nerve shifts for a bit before it makes up its mind. It'll stop in a day or two."
Something snapped in Shepard. He felt adrenalin surge through his system and his mind was suddenly filled with terror and murderous anger for the stranger sitting by his side. He flailed out, reaching frantically for the pistol on his beside table. Miranda, surprised by his sudden explosion of movement, leapt to her feet. In an instant, she'd grabbed his pistol and flung it out of his reach, causing him to roll off the bed into a painful heap on the floor.
"It's me, Shepard," she said calmly, stepping back. "I was checking your vitals." From his position on the floor, Shepard stared grimly at her boots, his body still shaking from the sudden rush. His fear reluctantly bled away as he caught up with the situation. After a moment he tried to rise to his feet, but only managed to flip himself over onto his back, where he collapsed, defeated. One of his armor plates dug painfully into his side but he lay still, too tired to shift positions – whatever drug that had been keeping him on his feet on Freedom's Progress had evidently run its course.
"Muscle weakness is to be expected," Miranda continued after a moment. "We had planned a longer steroid regimen before awakening you, but the mech attack forced our hand early. You will just have to get back in shape the old fashioned way." Shepard felt her hands under his neck as she tried to help him back into bed. "I can give you something to take the edge of the soreness if you want."
"Get out," he muttered, batting her hands away. She stepped back and gave him a very disapproving glare.
"It's very important that I monitor your health, Shepard," she said, voice frustrated.
"Get out," he repeated, not bothering to open his eyes. There was a long silence before he heard her sharp footsteps turn and walk away, leaving him spread eagle on the floor. Soon the room was quiet except for the burble of the fish tanks.
Shepard was still for a long time, dead to the world. Everything hurt. Nothing searing, barring the prickling blisters left over from a glancing shot he'd taken on Freedom's Progress, but an all-encompassing dull pain seemed to fill every ounce of his body, leaving no room for anything else. Phantom sensations flickered at his mind like he was treading water with limbs he did not possess. In his head, he did his best to keep the pain at bay, but his thoughts were just as scattered. Memories, some strong, others maddeningly ephemeral, jostled for his attention. He idly wondered how many of them were real and how many were slipped in by the Cerberus surgeons while he lay on their operating table. He didn't know if memory alteration was possible, but it seemed like the sort of thing Cerberus would do.
He tried to sort it out. He was Shepard. John Shepard, born on the SSV Nobel to Lieutenant Hannah Aarons and Captain Morgan Shepard. They were married when he was three. His father died in a batarian attack when he was nineteen, shortly after he'd enlisted. He couldn't remember how he'd felt about that. Couldn't think of anything bad to say about his father, so he must have been upset at the time. He'd graduated N5, then served on… eleven ships before the Blitz. Got the Star of Terra. Graduated N7. Three more ships, then the Normandy. And Saren. And the Reapers.
Easy enough. All stuff he could have read in a history book. Harder stuff now. He once wanted to be a lawyer of some kind, mostly to spite his parents. Gave that up quickly. He used to hate coffee – he was sure of that. Then he got used to it when he found out he needed it to function. Always got by on the cheap crap without trouble. He had a weakness for a real food, though – some kind of berry, maybe – but it wasn't coming to him. He'd very nearly quit the Alliance for good after Elysium. He liked to listen to music to help him sleep, but never while he was working. He'd had a childhood friend… Marcus or Mark or something. Someone important. Dead now, or maybe they'd had a falling out?
He did not know. And worse, he did not know if he should know. Parts were gone, but what parts? Other things he knew he'd forgotten now shouted in his mind's ear as if they'd happened yesterday. It was maddeningly complicated.
He didn't know how long he lay there – perhaps an hour, perhaps more – but eventually his impatience managed to overcome the chaos filling his thoughts. He was pretty sure he'd always hated wasting time (or had he?), and there were things to do. With considerable effort he disentangled himself from his blankets enough to rise to a sitting position. Cradling his throbbing head in his hands, he took a good look at himself. He was naked from the waist up – Miranda had removed his armor and neatly stacked the plates on the nearby couch – revealing flesh paler and yellower than he remembered, and criss-crossed with fine, even scars. Shepard ran his fingers down the length of one, noting how the translucent scar tissue let through a weak red glow from some machine hidden down beneath. What did Cerberus do to him? He flexed his left wrist a few times, feeling how clean and mechanical the joint felt. It had never been the same after he'd broken it on Elysium, always stiff and creaky, but now it moved smooth. Perfect.
A little more of his old life lost.
"AI," he said, leaning against the bed for support as he shakily rose to his feet, "EDI. Can you hear me in here?" EDI's spherical countenance materialized from a little projector across the room.
"Yes, Commander," she said in her mathematically-perfect, calming voice.
"Keep Miranda out of this room." She gave a displeased blat, her agreeable blue 'mouth' turning red.
"I'm afraid I do not have the power to restrict Operative Lawson's privileges, Commander. Under the Illusive Man's orders, she has full access to the ship."
"Even my goddamn quarters?" Shepard asked, peeling the intravenous drip patch off of his arm and pitching it to the floor. Just this simple action made the room spin around him.
"Yes."
Shepard rubbed his face in frustration, trying to coax his pounding headache away. Some part of him wanted to go downstairs and start a shouting match with Miranda, but he realized that his bargaining position would be somewhat compromised if he couldn't even stand up.
He needed medical help to get through this. His pride let him admit this much, but to ask a Cerberus agent? Not right now, not while he was still struggling to understand his place. There had to be another way.
He grimaced – he knew there wasn't. Too bad. He had work to do, and he could hardly do it while curled up in his room like an infant. He was Commander Shepard, and old or new, Commander Shepard knew there were things more important than pride. He looked again to the blue orb still staring at him from the opposite side of the room.
"EDI, does the ship have a medic onboard?" Anyone but Miranda.
"Yes."
"Send him up."
"Yes, Commander."
–
"I would have thought you'd have known better," a cultured voice said, "than to invite a female crewmember to your bedchambers." Shepard raised his head from the bed so quickly he felt his neck creak. Dr. Chakwas' familiar face was smiling brightly as she stepped into the room, a medical bag in her hands. "The crew will be gossiping about this for days."
Shepard bit back the shock (and the wave of nausea) behind his own beaming grin.
"What can I say, Doctor? I couldn't stand one more moment without you." They laughed, and suddenly the Normandy didn't feel so empty anymore. It felt… more like home. Shepard let Chakwas help him sit up. She did not miss his grimace of pain, and in seconds she'd drawn a syringe from her bag, prepared it, and gently jabbed it into the commander's shoulder. Almost immediately he felt the cool embrace of the painkillers take him, and let out a satisfied sigh. "You don't know, Helen," he said, staring blankly at the ceiling, "how glad I am to see you. And that's not just the drugs talking."
"The feeling is mutual, I assure you. Being back here with you and Joker… it's a dream come true. Really." In Shepard's muddied mind, some remnant of Alliance rules about decorum resisted, but they were drowned out in a rush as he leaned forward and embraced her. Chakwas had always reminded him of his mother, a comparison he dearly needed right now.
"What the hell are we doing here?" he muttered quietly into her shoulder. Chakwas smiled as she broke the hug and eased him back onto his pillow.
"Well. First we are getting you feeling better. And then we are doing exactly what you want us to do. I don't care about this symbol," she said, tapping the Cerberus insignia on her uniform, "You're my Commander. Not Cerberus." Shepard nodded.
"It means a lot to hear you say that," he mumbled, listening to her rustle through her bag again. "Jacob and Miranda do what I say on the field, but only because the Illusive Man told them to. If he decides to betray me, I know what side they'll be standing on. You and Joker are the only people in my corner." Chakwas nodded her understanding as she applied an IV patch to Shepard's arm (incidentally, almost identical to the one Miranda had had there until he'd ripped it off).
"It is a lonely corner at the moment, Commander," Chakwas agreed, "but it'll grow. You have a talent for inspiring loyalty." Shepard frowned. Technically, he knew it to be true, but when said like that it sounded entirely too deliberate. If he had control over who felt loyal to him and who didn't, then why hadn't he returned from Freedom's Progress last night with his favorite quarian in tow? Tali had been happy to see him, and he her, but it was hardly two hours and they'd parted ways again. He'd just wanted to stay with her, just hear her voice, just something to grasp to the life he'd left behind. He'd wanted so hard for the Illusive Man to be wrong, and for things to go back to the way they were before, but the glow-eyed bastard had been right. She'd… moved on. Found a new life. As much as Shepard tried to be happy for her, it hurt to see her leave him. It didn't speak well for his chances with the rest of his crew, either. Tali had been one of his best friends on the Normandy – if she wouldn't join him, what were the chances of recruiting the others? Who was going to leave their new lives to rejoin his suicidal crusades?
No one. He was on his own, with a new crew – a new Cerberus crew – a new ship, and a whole lot of betrayal just waiting to happen. He would count himself lucky that he had Joker and Chakwas, and leave it at that.
"Now," Chakwas said, finally satisfied with her work, "tell me how you feel."
Shepard chose to take the fully medical interpretation of the question, and did his best to describe his symptoms. Confusion, memory loss, dizziness, blurry vision, muscle weakness, phantom sensations, and pain. Chakwas began gently prodding each of his new cybernetic joints in turn and asking him to describe the pain, and by the time she'd finished her examination, it seemed like Shepard might as well have just listed every part that didn't hurt. It would have been faster, anyway.
"I admit I am unfamiliar with cases… like yours," Chakwas said eventually, grasping his hand comfortingly. "I do not think you have any precedent. But I would guess much of this is to be expected. Your best recourse is probably to let the pain run its course. Your body will fix itself in time." It wasn't exactly what Shepard wanted to hear, but it was better than more drugs. "If your joint pains persist, we may need to investigate surgical correction options. Without a better idea of what they did to you, I'm afraid that's the best I can do."
"I'll get Miranda to hand over the records," Shepard promised. He silently imagined the fight that would ensue, but it did not change his mind. Miranda would follow his orders, or she would find herself stranded on the nearest convenient planet with his bootprint on her perfectly-proportioned ass.
"As for your mental state," Chakwas continued, leaning back in her chair, "it may be helpful to talk to an asari. Skilled asari are often very helpful for getting thoughts into order – they can supply an outside perspective that your mind is simply too close to see." Shepard nodded, realization dawning. He remembered Liara's repeated attempts to help him organize the vision from the Prothean beacon – the way the blue calmness of her mind could put things into their boxes better than he could. It was disconcerting, really, how much his memories right now resembled the frantic, seemingly-random flashes of the Protheans' demise that had hounded his dreams for so many months. Liara hadn't cured the nightmares, but she had given them some semblance of order. She had helped him before – perhaps she could help again, even if she couldn't lend her biotics to the cause. Surely she'd be willing – she'd practically jumped at every chance to touch Shepard's mind before.
"Maybe we could find Liara," Shepard mused, trying to decide how much he believed that.
"Perhaps," Chakwas agreed, "though I suspect any asari reasonably-sane asari could do it. In the meantime you might also talk to the ship's psychologist."
"We have a psychologist?" Shepard asked, skeptical.
"Indeed. Miss Chambers. She and I had lunch the other day by means of introduction. I quite like her."
"Sheesh. Next you'll tell me we have an onboard orchestra and petting zoo."
"Not that I know of," Chakwas said, grinning, "but I admit I've never been to the lower decks. Cerberus has spent a great deal of money to get your help, Commander." She gestured loosely around the spacious room, with its clean, utilitarian furniture and the enormous – but presently vacant – aquariums that dominated one wall. "I guess they didn't have the time to buy fish."
"It's all fake," Shepard muttered. "It isn't the same without my crew."
"Take heart, Commander," Chakwas said, giving his hand one final reassuring squeeze. She closed her bag and stood. "Anything else I can do for you?"
"One more thing. This," he said, pinching a fingerful of the short, greasy hair that had started to grow back since the last time Cerberus had shaved him. "I feel like I haven't washed my hair in years. Would you mind cutting it off?"
"Of course, Commander. Can't save the galaxy unless you look your best."
–
It was a few more hours before any of the crew saw Shepard again. He stepped out of the elevator onto the CIC freshly-shorn into his traditional buzzcut and reluctantly suited up in one of the black and gray Cerberus uniforms he'd found in his closet. He had spent the afternoon reading through dozens of news articles he'd had EDI send him – every major news story of the past two years. He'd tried to use the UI that came with his cybernetic eyes but had found the words superimposing themselves upon his vision far too jarring and had quickly switched back to datapads. The news was bad enough on its own.
The geth cleanup operations continued. The repairs to the Citadel continued. C-Sec had briefly begun a major inquisition into what had caused Saren to go down his dark path until, to Shepard's disgust, turian clan politics had interfered and the Council had ordered the investigation halted. The batarians were seeing the beginnings of a schism as the hegemony continued to retract from the Council, despite the protests of thousands of batarian merchants who resented the loss of sales their species' increasingly-poor reputation was bringing. Pirate activity had increased three hundred percent as the Council races continued to patrol and protect only their own holdings. The humans' controversial addition to the council had led to deep rifts between many Citadel species, and hate crimes, especially against humans and quarians, had nearly doubled in the past two years. It went on and on.
It was depressing stuff, but what upset Shepard the most is what he didn't see. He didn't see references to the Reapers. He didn't see preparations being made, alliances being forged, new communications networks being developed. He didn't see initiatives to study the Citadel, to understand the technology that could be (and had already been) used against them. Pompous hanar politicians had led the charge to write off Sovereign as a geth creation, not liking the idea that their much-vaunted Enkindlers had been just one of many sentient species to be harvested by the true creators of the mass relays, but Shepard knew the Council wouldn't have let the Reapers drop based on one cantankerous race of zealots alone. They let them drop because it was politically expedient to do so. After all he'd done, they still didn't believe him. The Reapers' coming invasion was being allowed to languish under the specter of the geth. Instead of banding together to face the greatest threat they'd ever known, the races of the galaxy were breaking further apart. It made Shepard sick.
He did his best to put all that aside as he examined his new ship. At Chakwas' suggestion he'd forced down a meal and actually felt a great deal better than he had when he'd awoken – well enough to start getting to know his new 'crew', anyway. He chatted briefly with Kelly and found her a great deal cheerier than he'd expected any Cerberus employee could be. She introduced him to some of the CIC staff – navigators and gunners and simulation specialists. Despite its larger size, the Normandy SR2 had a crew no larger than its predecessor, courtesy of a great deal of computer automation, not least of which was the addition of EDI. Alliance warships had officially joined the rest of the galaxy in distrusting advanced computer intelligences, but apparently Cerberus had no such qualms and many of the ship's crew were tasked not with running the ship itself, but with babysitting the computers that did it for them. Shepard found it fascinating, despite himself, and marveled at how far the instrumentation had come in just two scant years.
He had to admit, it was a ship fit for a king. Every bolt, every bulkhead, everything was spotless, tuned to perfection. Shepard could not remember the cost Miranda had quoted for his own resurrection, but he had a feeling it paled next to what it had cost to revive his ship. Still, without the original crew it felt hollow and lifeless. Shepard had little doubt construction of this Normandy had begun well before he'd lost his – everything about the ship screamed that it was Cerberus' attempt to outdo the Alliance at every turn. Not to mention the logos which Cerberus had seen fit to paint on roughly every surface.
Ignoring the pile of messages at his personal terminal, Shepard waved his new crew back to their jobs and made for the cockpit. It helped his mood immensely to see Joker sitting in the pilot's chair. The cranky pilot seemed very much like a permanent fixture – it was hard to imagine the Normandy without him. Shepard flopped unceremoniously in the seat to Joker's right.
"Here," he offered, remembering how Kaidan had often kept Joker company on the bridge while working on the old Normandy's computers, "I'll be Alenko."
"Sorry Commander, you're not nearly dreamy enough to be Alenko. No offense, just sayin'."
"Fair enough. How are we doing?"
"ETA to Omega about... five hours," Joker replied, glancing at a screen above his head. "I'm dragging my feet a bit, though. Thought you could use the time to get to know the new Normandy. I can cut it down to three if you want."
"I'm in no rush, believe me."
"Don't blame you. A ship this pretty's gotto be savored. Can't just take her in all at once." He patted the Normandy's dashboard lovingly. Silence passed between the men. For his part, Shepard spent it staring out the windows at the blue-shifted energy coalescing off of the ship's elegant hull. It was still beautiful.
"So..." Joker continued after a moment, interrupting the quiet. "Sorry again for killing you. I really want to promise you'll never have to come pull my ass out of this chair again, but man..." He squirmed contentedly, deeper into his new leather seat. "It's so comfortable, Commander! Can't promise anything." Shepard laughed.
"Next time I'm leaving your crippled ass here to die," he said. "Cerberus can rebuild you. Maybe put in some work ethic or a proper sense of humor."
"Don't know about that, but I'll bet those eyes of yours are a hit with the ladies."
"Take 'em," Shepard said, leaning back and sheathing his eyes behind their lids. "Ten to one says they're feeding everything I see to the Illusive Man." It was a chilling thought, but again, it seemed right up Cerberus' alley.
"Ouch. Really think so?"
"EDI?" Shepard asked by way of answer. She appeared atop the dash.
"Yes, Commander?"
"Are my eyes cameras?" There was a thoughtful pause.
"Of course, Commander. An eye is a biological camera. It is logical that a cybernetic eye would be a camera as well." Shepard rephrased.
"Are my eyes transmitting data anywhere except for my brain?" There was a beat of hesitation, followed by another disapproving note.
"I'm sorry Commander," EDI replied, mouth red. "I have a block on answering that question."
"Pretty sure you just did anyway. That's all," Shepard said, dismissing her with a wave of his hand.
"I apologize, Commander," she said, and disappeared from view.
"Sheesh," Joker said, shaking his head. "So we both have Cerberus robo-spies watching our every move. Kinda breaks the whole illusion of trust, huh? And here I was feeling all fuzzy towards 'em for fixing my ship."
"They can't be trusted, Joker," Shepard warned. "Nobody is secretly good. If you're good, you don't try to hide it behind crazy-ass experiments and torture." Joker shrugged.
"They're not all bad, Commander," he said hopefully. "They brought you back to life and let me fly when the Alliance turned their backs on us. That's something, at least."
"There's an angle here, Joker. They didn't do this out of the goodness of their hearts and I don't like not trusting my team," Shepard said, crossing his arms petulantly. He knew he was being at least a little childish – after all, they had brought him back to life – but he didn't care. Dishonesty was perhaps the one thing Shepard hated above all else, and Cerberus was nothing if not dishonest. Everything was a front, everything had ulterior motives. "I want my old group back," he whined, "and I'm not gonna get it."
"Christmas is ruined forever, huh?" Joker asked, grinning. "Still, it must have been nice to see Tali. At least you know she's okay."
"Yeah," Shepard admitted begrudgingly. "I suppose."
"Always liked Tali," Joker continued. "Smart, you know. Remember how whenever you turned a human phrase around Liara she'd just, like, go wide-eyed?" Joker took on a fake, airy falsetto. "By the Goddess," he stammered, staring about frantically, "I... I don't have much experience with... err... I mean to say... Oh, I must seem so dreadfully foolish right now!" It was a surprisingly good impression of Liara and Shepard couldn't help but laugh.
"It didn't help that you kept making them up." Joker had been truly awful to the poor flabbergasted asari, inventing idioms like 'eight feet below the walrus' and 'quiet as three home-grown monkey tails' whenever he spoke to her, just to watch her squirm in confusion. Shepard would have put a stop to it if it hadn't been so damn funny.
"What can I say?" Joker asked, shrugging, "I'm a trend-setter. Point is, Tali didn't do that. She'd just stare at you for a second – maybe she looks it up in her helmet or something – and then keeps going. Uses her head. My kindof girl."
"Didn't realize you had a kind."
"Oh sure. There are tough jockish types like you that can beat up bullies on the beach, and then there are distinguished sorts like me and Tali," he stroked his scraggly beard for emphasis.
"Distinguished?" Shepard asked, dubious.
"I'm thoughtfully stroking my beard, Shepard," Joker protested, "How much more distinguished can you get!?"
"But Tali doesn't have a beard."
"How do you know? She could look like Santa Claus beneath that helmet."
"I looked it up, long time ago," Shepard replied. "Quarians have quills, and these little," he held up his hands to his cheeks, "geth... plate... things."
"Geth plates? Creepy."
"It's not so bad. They're not asari, but still pretty human."
"Alright, Loverboy, I get it," Joker said, grinning cheekily, "I won't muscle in on your girl." Shepard just glared at him, which only caused Joker to look more and more self-satisfied.
"She's not my girl, she's my friend. And you shouldn't be muscling in on any girl. EDI might get jealous and go full reaper on you."
Joker winced. "Not cool, Commander," he said, shaking his head disapprovingly, "Not cool."
–
Codex entry: Grafttec Cybernetics' Condyle-6 Ocular Implants
Medical technology, genetic and cybernetic alike, has largely been considered humanity's greatest contribution to galactic technological advancement. Though not as famous as Sirta foundation and its now near-ubiquitous medigel bioplasm, Grafttec Cybernetics has remained one of the galaxy's foremost developers of biomechanical technologies.
Grafttec has its origins in an American scientific think-tank in the mid twenty-first century. It capitalized on the now-well-known Graham's Paradox, first described by co-founder James Graham, to quickly expand into the largest biomedical corporation on the planet. Graham's Paradox states that as the neurons of the brain are mapped in greater and greater detail, the variations between individuals become a greater and greater barrier to development of neuro-mechanical interfaces taking advantage of these pathways. James Graham realized that the pipe dream of complicated technology controlled entirely by thought could simply never be economically feasible. While interfaces of astounding complexity could be manufactured, the somewhat-arbitrary way that the human brain stored memories made it necessary for each interface to be custom-tailored to each individual brain's unique microstructure. This made wide-scale application of complicated cybernetics essentially impossible, due to the crippling development and installation times required for each patient.
So, while its competitors continued to pursue the holy grail of computers entirely controlled by the user's mind, Grafttec turned its efforts to improving bio-integration. Grafttec products used simple neuromechanical interfaces for basic mental control, augmented with small external computers (usually worn on the belt or collar) for control of advanced features. This allowed for their cybernetics to be installed cheaper, wider, and faster than any of their competitions', and cemented Grafttec's status as a world leader in biotechnology.
After First Contact, the influx of alien technology cost Grafttec its undisputed ruler status, but the company remains one of the largest cybernetics corporations of any sentient race. Grafttec's proprietary bio-integration techniques allow cybernetics to merge with organic flesh seamlessly, leading to faster recovery times, fewer side-effects, lower maintenance, and, most importantly, subtler visual integration. Cybernetically-enhanced individuals have always drawn prejudice from the larger public, and so Grafttec's much-hyped, nearly-invisible products are often in high demand compared to the clunky, obvious technology of some of its competitors.
Grafttec's commitment to invisible cybernetics, while a clear marketing boon for the company, nearly led to disaster after the release of their Condyle-1 ocular implants. These cybernetic eyes – nearly indistinguishable from their organic counterparts – featured tri-paned stereopanels situated around the conventional central camera, capable of not only enhancing stereoscopic and distance vision, but also detecting and interpreting ultraviolet and infrared radiation. They became an instant hit among human soldiers galaxy-wide for their capacity to increase accuracy by up to 26%. However, they were also the first model to include a miniaturized hard-drive and short-beam transmitter, capable of capturing and storing up to 100 hours of visual data.
While military minds praised the record function's enormous value for reconnaissance, civilian sectors were less impressed. Condyle-1's were very difficult to detect with conventional security scanners, and they became deadly tools in the hands of corporate spies or paparazzi. Elai Tandrell, a popular asari singer, sued Grafttec for three hundred million credits in damages after discovering her bodyguard had been using Condyle-1 implants to capture and sell revealing footage to the press. Meanwhile, representatives from the Council, C-Sec, and other large governmental bodies expressed fears that the eyes could be used to obtain dangerous secrets in the wrong hands.
The Condyle-1 model was quickly discontinued. Later Condyle models retained the recording function but had no internal hard drive, requiring the use of an external and easily-detectable storage module. Most controversially, later Condyles were given a strong, artificial glow that made them almost impossible to conceal. Many cybernetically-enhanced individuals expressed outrage over the change, claiming that Grafttec was subjecting them to a life of undeserved ostracism. Illegal modding of late-generation Condyle implants become commonplace – skilled surgeons could disable the glow or even conceal it beneath clonally-grown organic flesh. Internal hard drives and radio-cushioned transmitters were often implanted into the optic chiasma of the brain, restoring the covert recording function of the original Condyles. Though Grafttec has publicly expressed its displeasure with the modders, and points out that modding of any kind automatically voids their products' warranties, no official legal action has been taken.
Condyle-6 ocular implants were released in mid-2185. They feature fixes to several common bugs known to plague the Condyle-5's, along with a more robust user-interface containing hundreds of new commands that can be uploaded into any standard omni-tool. Image-enhancing stereopanels now feature seven total microlayers, including a new, proprietary pigment that enhances color distinction in the red spectrum by at least 35%. Most notably, the Condyle-6 expands upon previous models' HUDs, allowing data streams and even Haptic Interfaces to be projected directly into the user's brain, instead of onto holographic panels.
–
A/N: So, chapter 3. Back to a few of the main characters. I really enjoyed writing this one.
On Shepard's character: I've always liked War Hero and Spacer because they are the least melodramatic of the options. I think all the others lend themselves too easily to 'shell-shocked Shepard struggles to overcome demons of his/her past', which just doesn't interest me much. My Shepard is not a complicated man – he's just a hard-working guy trying to do the best for everyone.
Hope you enjoy! Stay tuned for chapter 4 in the next few days!