It was not exactly the kind of place Anderson ever expected to see Shepard, but that was where Admiral Hackett asked him to go. He would have volunteered of course, but it meant something to be asked, trusted with such a delicate pickup.
Shepard sat on the Normandy's tailgate as the ship hovered over the beach, waiting patiently for the reclamation squad. She did not get up; rather she waited until security helped her to her feet.
Helped her to her feet, not dragged her to them. He'd briefed the unit how they should behave. This wasn't dragging someone into custody: this was bringing her home. Shepard was a damn hero—even if he could only surmise that she had done what she'd done for a damn good reason. The evidence was right here, Shepard, the SR-2 and such of her collaborators who would not be separated from her. He didn't expect many crewmen to remain—she would have counseled them to jump ship.
Already several had turned themselves in, proud to have served, unwilling to find safety or anonymity.
She looked bone tired, her face battered and bruised, nicked and cut, as if it had been one fight after another with no time in between to rest and do more than smack a hasty application of medigel to the injuries. None were deep, though, none would scar…
…but he thought he recognized the abrasions on her bare forearms: the defensive wounds that came from fighting a turian. Carapace scuffed skin like no one's business. He'd seen it.
Hell, he'd experienced it.
"Hey, Shepard," Anderson shook her hand carefully; her knuckles showed signs of wear and tear.
"Hey, Anderson." She looked haunted, but was master of herself.
Well, who wouldn't be haunted? He'd expected her to be something of a nervous wreck and he suddenly had suspicions about those defensive wounds. Sometimes a friend had to help another friend to break down, and Shepard was the type who needed that wall-to-wall counseling in extremity.
And Shepard had a very good friend who happened to be turian.
Not that Anderson expected to find him here. Shepard would have insisted he leave, if only to see what could be done about preparing his people for the coming invasion.
"I'm officially here to arrest you. However, Hackett is taking your willingness to be arrested into consideration. So don't bust my chops and I won't bust yours." She was an N, so she'd understand.
Shepard's mouth looked a little less grim and her eyes seemed somehow brighter. "I'll try."
"Good enough." He didn't have to stomach to put her in handcuffs, but he did accept her dog tags when she held them out.
"Also…" She moved to reach into a cargo pocket but paused, waiting for permission to do so.
Security on this mission wasn't comprised of the nervous sort of soldier. In fact, he'd picked them for that very reason. He trusted Shepard; he didn't need some rookie getting nervous when an N7 wanted to reach into a pocket or move suddenly.
Shepard produced an OSD. "This is…ah, I came across it." She handed it over. "Consider it a goodwill gesture—it should put a crimp in the Illusive Man's day."
"Sounds more like an insurance policy," Anderson remarked, pocketing the disk.
"What he doesn't know…"
Anderson chuckled at this, cuffed Shepard on the shoulder. "So?" he motioned to the Normandy.
"My helmsman and the ship's doctor stayed. I required everyone else to leave before I surrendered," Shepard answered.
"Of course you did."
"Hey," Shepard called to security, which had begun to head toward the elevator at the end of the cargo bay, with the intent of securing the helmsman and the ship's doctor. "Don't go breaking my pilot." The warning came out calmly, but contained the steel of someone used to giving command and used to having those commands followed. A good officer's tone.
"Joker?" Anderson asked, surprised.
Shepard nodded. "And Dr. Chakwas."
It was surprising, though perhaps it shouldn't be. Shepard had a way of attracting the best, of holding her crew's loyalty. There was a reason most of the SR-1's crew ended up in the same place, especially after rumors of her return began to circulate. Probably leaked by Cerberus to shake things up.
Damn, he hated Cerberus; bunch of terrorist secret squirrels. That brought up the impending interrogations Shepard would have to sit through—though he'd found a way to keep the interrogators behaving nicely. He wasn't going to have one of his crew beleaguered and bullied; not the least because Shepard, out of training or out of spite, would fall back on her name, rank, and serial number.
Hackett was in this up to his neck; Anderson wasn't sure how the admiral figured in, but first Bahak, then Shepard's surrender, it just seemed too opportune. Cause and effect, even.
"Well, when you need the best," Anderson shook his head. "Joker never seemed alright after you…disappeared."
"Yes," Shepard nodded, falling into step beside him.
"They reworked the old girl," he approved as Shepard cued the elevator—presumably—to take them to the CIC.
"I can give Cerberus props for being engineers, if nothing else. She's…really something." Affection for the ship was clear.
Well, spacers got attached to their ships, often thought of the ship as 'home' and their apartment at their ship's home port as temporary quarters only. This ship, apart from being like the SR-1, seemed worthy of affection. It neatly balanced civilian comfort with military functionality.
"This is the crew deck. Unless you have objections, I'll sequester myself in the XO's cabin. I suppose there's the cargo hold but the window was never the same after—" Shepard cut herself off, the abrupt full stop hinting that she had nearly revealed more about her ground team than she wanted to.
She would need to get over that.
She sighed, then, and closed her eyes. "The window was never the same after Grunt bashed his head against it."