It was a little too much like voodoo for James Vega's liking. Too opportune. He got to his feet, staunching the flow of blood into his face. David Anderson—resigned from the post of Councilor—stood with an escort of two security goons all armed with assault rifles.
Good idea on Omega. "Admiral Anderson…?" He certainly had admiral tags, now.
Anderson lowered his rifle, frowning as the last of the batarians limped away. "Dust yourself off and follow me."
Then, when Vega straightened up only very slowly.
"That's an order, Lieutenant."
Vega frowned at security, but followed along. It was one of those rare moments when someone said 'do this' and disobedience didn't seem possible. Anderson hadn't raised his voice, hadn't given one hint of being overbearing. He simply repeated the canned catchphrase of all officers who needed to reinforce a verbal command.
Not that he didn't respect Anderson—the man was an N7 and, old or not, could probably break him in half.
It would be interesting to see him try, but Vega's deep-seated certainty was that Anderson could and would, if necessary. "Where're we going?" Vega demanded after about thirty feet of silent marching.
Anderson had the gait of a career soldier, an ingrained sort of quick march that indicated someone of surety with somewhere to be and a fixed time limit to get there…but that someone was above rushing around like an FNG.
Vega wasn't dumb, but he did not consider himself the most observing of individuals. He'd observed this about the military, though: the longer you were in, the more ingrained the basics got until even instinct would give way to 'programmed behavior.'
"I'm taking you back for more training," came Anderson's simple answer.
Training? What 'training?' It was pretty clear, so he thought, that his being out here mean he wasn't interested in more training. Come to think of it, Anderson should be sending him to the brig. Or, more accurately, someone's lackey should be putting him in the brig.
Suddenly…he didn't like how this was playing out.
"You need to get past what happened on Fehl," Anderson said, as if he somehow heard Vega's train of thought. There was something in Anderson's tone that kept the snapped response Vega usually reserved for people who said he needed to 'get over Fehl' from sounding. Maybe it was the fact that Anderson didn't actually say 'get over.' Getting past was a different thing altogether.
Maybe it was the fact that one didn't get to be an N7 without making some ugly choices. He didn't know about Anderson's but the man probably had them.
And there was another 'something' in Anderson's tone that made Vega uneasy. It wasn't like being told to grow up. It was more like his uncle slamming down that pile of books: if you want to get in, better start studying. Still…was he really just going to take this? He was being volun-told…and that was one thing he had a problem with… "What the hell for?"
"Time for you to be the soldier we expect of you."
"No disrespect, sir," and he meant that, "but I'd rather not 'get past it.'" It didn't seem right to even try getting over it.
He shuddered, a parade of faces drifting past his mind's eye, and always, always, with hers figuring into the parade, repeatedly, accusingly. He shuddered again, wishing the fight was still on, that Anderson had minded his own damn business…
"Hmph. You're a damned fool if you think I'm going to let a soldier as good as you are piss your life away in this shithole," Anderson's voice carried a bite to it, like a verbal slap to the face. Not an insult, but the kind of slap used to bring a guy who was dead drunk back to some form of consciousness.
'This shithole.' There was emphasis in the words. The fact that he was feeling so sensitive to tone and wording made Vega even more uneasy. There was a heavy implication that life was chock full of shitholes just waiting to be crawled through. 'Better shitholes,' if that were possible.
He did not like the way his day was suddenly going.
"Where're we going?"
"You're coming with me to Arcturus."
"Arcturus? There's nothing for me on Arcturus!"
"I've got something for you. Something you've never had before."
Oh, he did not like the sound of that…
"Look, just throw me in the damn brig—" Vega's words stalled as Anderson led him into a docking bay. There it was, the unicorn, as if anyone could mistake those sleek lines, the elegant backward sweep of the hull, like a femme fatale showing off a thigh rig where a garter should have been.
The SSV Normandy. It gave him a funny wobble in the stomach to see her there, waiting quietly but with a palpable sense of menace, the kind of menace exuded by any predator you knew could kill you and not care.
But she was beautiful. He couldn't quite stop himself from, as they walked towards the airlock, reaching out. He could just brush the hull with the very tips of his fingers.
Beautiful.
…and weird, because the Normandy was Shepard's ship.
"Close. But you'll be guarding the brig, not filling it." Anderson had, at some point, turned to watch the hesitant caress of the ship. In fact, as the older man glanced at it, Vega caught a sort of wistful look.
The Normandy had once been under Anderson's command, though she was now and forever remembered as being Shepard's ship. Yeah. It'd be a real wrench to get benched from a ship like this.
And he didn't usually get goo-goo eyed over a ship.
"You've got one prisoner to keep an eye on."
Vega watched the airlock opened, looked at the word Normandy plastered across the ship's side.
"Who?" he asked suspiciously.
Anderson snorted as if this should have been obvious. "Commander Shepard."
The bottom dropped out of Vega's world.