Dear Mr. and Mrs. Vandas,

It is with profound sadness that I write to inform you that your son, PFC. Nickeli Vandas, was killed in action in Farah Province, Afghanistan during an attack on the combat outpost where he was stationed. While attempting to render aid to a fellow Marine who had been wounded, PFC Vandas was killed by enemy mortar fire. Regrettably, due to the nature of this attack, PFC Vandas' remains were unable to be recovered.

Nickeli was well liked by his fellow Marines and, while I understand the pain his loss must bring you, it is my hope that you might take solace in the knowledge that even as he is mourned, your son's spirit lives on in the hearts and memories of the men and women who served alongside him, and that his will always be the legacy of those honorable souls who have laid down their lives in the name of the highest calling of service to this nation. The people of this nation and the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan will forever owe him a great debt for his service and sacrifice.

Yours very truly,

Ronald J. Komich,

Lt. Col., USMC

Commanding Officer, 2nd BN 7th Marines

"This is tha' M7A4 'Lancer' assault rifle," The veteran said in a thick, accented tone as he paced with the weapon cradled in his arms. "It's part of tha' Alliance's second generation of small arms—the Lancer 'came standard issue eighteen months after the First Contact War."

From where he sat, Nick gave a nod to indicate that he was still listening. His instructor, an old, retired Kiwi sergeant with a thick silver mustache, turned the rifle over in his hands, a reminiscent smile on his lips. "They shipped my regiment out to Shanxi with M7A2 prototypes as combat testing. Good rifle—accurate, easy to clean, and reliable as all hell. 'Cracked the stock on mine over a turian's head when it overheated during a counterattack. Hahne-Kedar couldn't be bothered to add a bayonet lug, the cheap bastards. They've replaced a lot of the guts over the years—new driver coils, improved heatsinks—but the receiver's still mostly the same."

"Here," The sergeant grunted, indicating for the corpsman to stand and passing the rifle to him. "Give 'er a feel."

Resting his index finger along the edge of the trigger guard, Nick brought the weapon to his shoulder, aware of the ache that throbbed in his upper arm as he aimed it at the far wall. His visit to the infirmary had concluded in a rather protracted series of injections, all of which he'd received in precisely the same spot on his shoulder.

The nurse administering them had explained to the wincing marine that these were all routine inoculations and gene injections given during boot camp and deployments. He'd simply had the misfortune of getting them all at once.

On the bright side, he had been given his choice of band-aids and, once it had been explained to him that the large, pink jellyfish with a laser cannon was a 'Blasto', he'd politely insisted on two.

"It's light." Nick remarked, testing the weight of the rifle in his grasp.

"Too light and a bit front-heavy, as a matter a' fact." The Kiwi tsked. "Gives it poor recoil control and sloppy follow-up shots at range. Out in the fleet, it's pretty typical to weigh down the stock with a bit of scrap alloy. Helps balance it out a bit and reduces recoil—also gives you a bit more to swing around, should the need arise."

"Unremarkable rifle besides that. It's got decent knockdown power beyond two klicks, but the optics are nothing special, so you won't be making a lot of shots passed about a third a' that. You'll get 'bout twenty-five to thirty rounds before it overheats, dependin' on conditions."

"Anyway," The instructor continued, "Let me show ya' how to field strip 'er."

With a tired sigh, Anderson settled into his seat, idly sliding his glass of brandy around on the surface of the table as Flux's sound system thrummed in the background. It was probably unbefitting to be seen drinking in uniform this early in the afternoon, but the old naval officer couldn't be bothered to care about appearances right now. He'd just spent the past three hours having Saren and the Council verbally kicking him and Udina around the Presidium.

Twice now the turian Spectre had made a fool of humanity, which was two times too many by Anderson's count. The Alliance officer wished he could muster the energy to be outraged or even angry, but he found that he was too worn-out to be more than quietly frustrated.

He was joined at the table by Shepard, the lieutenant commander's expression similarly dour as she fell into her seat and took a long sip from her beer.

"Well, that went…poorly." Anderson murmured after a moment, taking a drink as well.

"I don't know what Udina was thinking, putting us in front of the Council to back the accusations against Saren." Jane grumbled, shaking her head.

The Council had dismissed the meeting an hour ago, retreating to their chambers to "deliberate", though they had made their position fairly clear before adjourning. It was for the sake of procedure, of course, meaning they likely wouldn't be recalled when the Councilors reconvened to officially hand down their judgement.

From there, they'd probably be held on the station a day or two more until some official conclusion was reached regarding the geth attack. Beyond that, well, who knew? While her Spectre candidacy hadn't been brought up during the meeting, it was clear that her chances had been diminished by the whole affair.

To the redheaded N7 the whole affair was maddening—inaction forced upon the Normandy while the Council and the human embassy were embroiled in politicking, and it did nothing for her frustration knowing the Council wasn't being unreasonable.

"I mean, are we even sure Saren was involved?" Jane questioned cautiously. "All we've got to go on is what the dockworker said, and he was hardly a model citizen."

"I'm certain he was involved." Anderson snapped, quashing any further debate. "Saren has always had it out for humanity. He's thought we were upstarts since the First Contact War."

"What's the history between you two?"

The captain's expression darkened at the question, and he took a long drink from his glass before answering.

"Twenty years ago, I was on your shoes, Shepard." Anderson confessed in a hoarse murmur. "I was the top graduate out of ICT and they were grooming me as humanity's first spectre. They sent Saren to evaluate me on a mission to take out a krogan warlord. He sabotaged the operation and a lot of innocent people died as a result. He claimed the whole mess was my fault and ruined any shot I had at spectre candidacy. It was the Alliance's biggest political setback since the end of the First Contact War."

"I'm sorry." Jane said after a few seconds of thought, unable to muster any other reply.

The decorated captain shook his head. "It doesn't matter. What's important is that we stop Saren now."

Shepard seemed to consider this for a moment before bobbing her head in agreement. "There was that detective we met—Vakarian. He said his investigation stalled, but he might still have something."

"Then we'll have to track him down and see what he knows." Anderson affirmed. "Fifth Fleet command wants the Normandy prepared for her shakedown run—properly, this time. They're shuttling in personnel from Arcturus and we should have our full complement within the next few days." He gave a slight flick of the wrist, transferring a crew report to Shepard's omni-tool. "From there, give it another twenty-four hours to receive orders and make inspections before we get underway."

"Which gives us less than four days to track down some sort of proof or Saren gets off scot-free."

The captain gave a solemn nod.

Shepard reclined in her seat, opening the file he'd send her and scrolling through the long list of names as she sipped her beer. It was mostly bridge personnel and a few engineers, but scattered throughout was the rest of the Normandy's marine detachment, which she supposed meant Jenkins would be shipping back to his unit that Anderson had "borrowed" him from when they'd hurriedly set out for Eden Prime. Tipping her bottle upwards a bit to down the rest of her drink as she read, the officer had to scroll back up the list when a name caught her attention.

"I didn't realize Vandas was Alliance." The commander remarked, leaning up to place her empty bottle on the table.

"Twenty-four hours ago he wasn't." Anderson replied bluntly, his own glass not far from empty.

"Back on the ship, you told me that you weren't so sure about him. Why bring him aboard now?" The commander asked, tacking on a belated, "sir" when she caught a stern look from the captain.

"Because Udina wants to keep track of him." Anderson replied with a frown before pointedly surveying the crowded nightclub. "The rest I can explain some other time."

"You getting used to that thing yet?"

Nick glanced up to find that Chief Macklyn had been quietly watching him fiddle around with the omni-tool attached to his wrist. The corpsman shrugged sheepishly, shifting slightly in his seat. "I'm starting to figure it out, yeah."

The shuttle jostled slightly and the corpsman quickly extended an arm to secure the dark blue seabag occupying the seat next to him. Suddenly conscious of it again, he adjusted the navy colored beret perched uncomfortably on the top of his head.

The past few days had seen some interesting development, to say the least. Though his accommodations hadn't changed significantly, they'd stopped treating him like a prisoner if nothing else. While he hadn't exactly been free to roam the facility at will, there was no longer an armed escort shuttling him around and he'd been afforded a few amenities like the omni-tool that he'd spent hit off-hours getting accustomed to. The old Kiwi training the marine had taught him some of the basics, but Nick knew already that adjusting to all the new tech was going to be a hurdle. He'd come to understand that "element zero" was what made it all work, but had been hopelessly lost when the mustachioed veteran had tried to explain the mechanics of it.

For now, he'd have to be content with knowing a few simple commands for the holographic microcomputer attached to his arm. He could figure out the more complicated stuff given time, but until then he'd have to be careful how he approached his lack of technical know-how.

Given that, according to his service record, he'd been in for several years now, it was bound to arise suspicion. Worse still, they might think he was genuinely an idiot.

The shuttle shook as it touched down, settling heavily on the deck a moment later. Rising from the bench where he sat, Nickeli slung the strap of his duffle bag over his shoulder and started toward the door.

"Remember." Chief Macklyn rumbled, shifting in his seat near the cockpit. "The Normandy's in dock four twenty-two. Report to Captain Anderson once you're aboard."

The medic gave a nod, one hand holding onto the strap of his seabag as he negotiated the step out of the shuttle onto the pad where they'd touched down.

In addition to the five hundred credits in an account that'd been set up under his name, it contained the sum total of everything he owned—a few sets of fatigues, socks, underwear, a spare pair of boots, and a few other essentials he'd been provided with. He expected he'd be back charged for them, in usual military fashion.

His beretta and knife were stowed at the bottom, tightly wrapped in a shirt and well out of sight, though any sort of search or metal detector would quickly reveal them. Still, he hadn't the haziest idea of what sort of regulations they were subject to, so it seemed like asking for trouble to walk around with them in plain sight.

The medic ducked slightly, securing his beret with his free hand as the shuttle throttled up and lifted off, the howl of the blue and white craft fading into the station's busy ambience.

Nick spent a moment surveying his surroundings, the strap of his duffle bag still securely held in his grasp.

The landing pad where he'd been dropped adjoined a wide causeway that hosted a steady trickle of foot traffic. The passing pedestrians, a mix of humans and aliens alike, paid the marine no mind, too occupied with their own business to concern themselves with a singular Alliance soldier in their midst.

Nickeli's destination, the C-Sec Academy, was within sight from the landing pad and he arrived after a short walk. Entering through a brightly lit corridor, he emerged through the set of double doors at the far end to find himself in a large atrium, crowded by a sea bodies clad in blue uniforms.

Eventually the medic navigated the crowd and worked his way to what appeared to be an information desk off to one side of the plaza. On the other side of the counter a tall, plated alien idly tapped away at his console.

The alien, a turian, Nick recalled, stood a full head taller than him, clad in lusterless blue and black armor. The species' martial reputation was well earned—the officer's pointed digits looked more than capable of doing harm and the angular, hawklike features of his face gave him the air of a bird of prey on the hunt.

Nick found it unexpectedly disquieting. It had been one thing to read about their biology from a training manual or to find the casualty on Eden Prime, but it was a very different thing to see a living one, its dark-colored eyes watching him with predatory exactness.

"What can I do for you?" The turian asked. His voice was raspy and…layered? Nick couldn't find the word to describe it, but the alien seemed to speak with a bassy undertone that the human didn't hear so much as he felt in on the fine hairs on the back of his neck.

"Private First Class Vandas, Alliance Navy. To report aboard the SSV Normandy."

"Identification, please."

Following the carefully rehearsed set of motions that Macklyn had spent the past three days drilling into him, Nick tapped his arm a couple inches below the elbow, activating his omni-tool and sending orange light coiling around his forearm. He carefully selected a panel from the circular dial that appeared on the back of his hand, pairing his index and middle fingers to drag the small orange rectangle off the menu.

There was something almost surreal about it—the faintest sensation of something almost indescribably light on his fingertips as he carried the tiny hologram through the air. He was physically manipulating computer data with nothing more than the invisibly small nanocomputer on his wrist and his bare fingers.

His selection stuck to his fingertips for a brief moment before winking out as he flicked it toward the officer, the screen of his console giving a flash to confirm it had received the transfer.

Turning to the display and taking a moment to verify Nick's credentials, the C-Sec officer gave a nod. "Everything seems in order." The turian hitched what passed for his thumb toward an elevator. "The Normandy is berthed in Dock Four Twenty-two, just up the elevator."

"Thanks." The corpsman replied, shifting the strap of his duffle bag as it began to bite into his shoulder. Making his way to the lift and stepping inside, he hit the button and was privately relieved to find that he had the car to himself. Setting down his seabag on the floor beside him, he grumbled quietly and rubbed at the dull ache in his upper left arm. His wound, nearly two years old now, only bothered him on occasion and he had full functionality, though the sudden change to the cool, moist air of the station from the dry countryside of Afghanistan had aggravated it.

It was a dull, pervasive ache from the bone, usually something he could push to the back of his mind. At its worst however, the sensation would surge and spread until it invaded his thoughts, leaving him to grit his teeth until the moment passed. But those moments had been when the injury was more recent, and the corpsman liked to think they were behind him now.

The elevator crawled its way up the shaft, the muffled grinding of the motor the only indication that the car hadn't gotten stuck.

After what seemed an eternity, a long metal pier rose into view on the other side of the elevator's thick glass door and the corpsman gave a relieved sigh. Taking a moment to adjust the beret on his head, Nick recovered his bag as the car lurched to a halt and the door opened.

Unlike the day the ship had arrived, the docks were deserted, and the only sound was the ambient thrum of the station's systems. The Normandy sat silently in her berth, moored with a set of massive arms that extended from the wall of the docking bay and linked to the dock by a narrow bridge near the bow.

Apparently the vessel was a prototype. Nick hadn't been privy to the details, but he'd been told the ship was the first of its class—cutting edge propulsion, advanced sensors, the works.

And goddamn if it didn't look the part.

The vessel, its silver hull gleaming faintly in the light of the hangar, bore its name emblazoned in proud letters along its side. The ship's long, streamlined shape gave it the look of a raptor, the sleek form of a bird of prey constructed for the singular destiny of combat.

Nick gave laugh, staring as if he couldn't believe his eyes. He was about to serve a tour aboard a goddamned spaceship. Here he was—born before the invention of world wide web, about to be an honest-to-God space marine. The corpsman wasn't sure if it was more appropriate to be completely awed or utterly gobsmacked.

The sensible part of him told him his posting would be dangerous—perhaps more dangerous than anything he'd faced during his time in the Afghanistan, but there was something undeniably exciting about the prospect.

The elevator gave an inpatient ding, stirring the marine from his trance and prompting him to step out of the threshold, allowing the door to slide shut behind him.

Spending a moment more glancing about the otherwise vacant docking bay, Nick made his way toward the boarding ramp, his footsteps crisp against the scuffed metal walkway.

Beside the airlock one of the ship's marines stood sentry, clad in dark blue plate armor with his helmet clipped to his belt and a sidearm at his hip. The soldier looked young—perhaps around the corpsman's age, with a round face and short hair the color of charcoal. In armor, he stood two or three inches taller than Nick.

His thick brow furrowed as the marine drew nearer. "State your business, please."

"Private First Class Vandas, reporting aboard." The medic replied, adjusting the strap slung across his shoulder.

The watchman, a private by the single white chevron on his collar, brought his hand to his ear. "This is watch, requesting the deck officer to the airlock."

A brief, garbled acknowledgement came from his earpiece before falling silent, leaving a heavy silence hanging between the two as they stood in the confines of the covered boarding ramp.

"So, uh," The marine began after a moment, "You our new corpsman, then?"

Nick nodded. "Yeah. How could you tell?"

"Combat boots. Most of the crew prefer utilities 'cause they're lighter."

"Oh, well, I'm Vandas."

"Tolo." The guard replied, extending his hand which the medic shook firmly.

As their introductions concluded, the airlock swung open, revealing a stern-faced man in an officer's uniform, the single gold bar across the top of his shoulder shining in the faint light of the boarding ramp.

Nick quickly snapped his heels together and straightened himself to render a crisp salute. "Private First Class Vandas, requesting permission to come aboard, sir."

The lieutenant, a serious, bald-headed man with a thin silver beard and mustache, returned the salute, giving the young marine an appraising look. The faint wrinkles in his expression deepened and it occurred to Nick that he was considerably older than the lieutenants he was used to seeing. Perhaps it was a Navy thing. "Your orders?"

"Yes, sir." The corpsman answered, quickly producing a datapad from his duffle bag and delivering it to the man's waiting hand. Inspecting the document briefly and glancing up at the corpsman, he gave a quit grunt, tucking the tablet under his arm. "Permission granted, Private. Come with me, please."

Sidestepping to allow the enlisted man space beside him in the small compartment, the two stood in silence as the airlock cycled. When the door in front of them opened, the officer strode out, leaving Nick a few steps behind him.

"I'm Lieutenant Pressly, Normandy's navigations officer. Commander Shepard is aboard but not on duty and Captain Anderson is ashore," The old officer reported, his polished, square-toed shoes clanking against the metal deck as he walked toward the CIC. "The captain has informed me he wanted to speak with you once you were aboard, but until he returns you'll be getting yourself acquainted with the ship."

"Aye, sir." The corpsman replied dutifully, surveying the command deck.

"Bosun!" Pressly called and a crewman supervising a row of consoles sharply looked up.

"Sir?"

"Have Sergeant Major Ouder report to the CIC, and inform Doctor Chakwas that Private Vandas has come aboard."

"Aye aye."

Conscious that he hadn't yet been dismissed, Nick stood by quietly, his hands folded behind his back as he awaited further instruction. A minute or two later, one of the doors on the far side of the CIC parted to reveal the form of the marine detail's senior NCO.

He wore dark blue fatigues and black boots like the rest of the crew, the only material indication of his combat duties the black holster strapped to the side of his thigh. Still, even out of armor he stood several inches taller than Nickeli and he carried himself across the CIC with long, purposefully strides.

The sergeant major's expression darkened subtly as his eyes fell briefly on Nickeli before he turned and presented himself to the deck officer in a gruff voice. "Reporting as ordered, sir."

"Ouder, this is Private Vandas, your new corpsman." Pressly stated distractedly, now preoccupied with a datapad a crewman had just handed him. "He'll need to report to Chakwas and find his berth, but I figured I'd turn him over to you first."

"Sir." The old marine grumbled before turning to regard Nick with a cold look. "This way."

The two walked in silence the direction Ouder had arrived from and down the curved staircase to the second deck. The sergeant major called the elevator and stepped aboard once it arrived, his face fixed in a tight frown as Nick meekly joined him.

The corpsman expected an outburst once the door had closed—some explanation for the icy reception he'd gotten, but the silver-bearded marine said nothing as the car lurched and began to slowly descend. The young medic fidgeted uncomfortably, still trying to marshal his thoughts as the lift's other occupant stood fast like a granite pillar, his hands locked behind his back at parade rest.

"Do you—what's the…" The man didn't so as much twitch as Nick stuttered, stumbling over his tongue as he tried to speak. Pausing a moment to take a breath and collect himself, he tried again. "Is there a problem, Sergeant Major?"

"The 'problem' is that you've got no place on this ship." Ouder explained without turning his head, his tone quiet but tense. The young marine flinched, surprised and confused by his pointed answer.

Sensing by his silence that the medic didn't know what he meant, the squad leader continued, anger slowly ebbing into his voice. "I saw your service record. I've been around long enough to know a Navy Intelligence whitewash when I see it—which means every word of in that file is bullshit."

Nick swallowed, suddenly conscious of how dry his mouth had become and how suffocating the confines of the elevator suddenly were.

Ouder shook his head in disgust, his lips curled downward in a scowl. "I don't know what the hell you did or whose son you are to get the Navy to sweep it under the rug, but I'll bet Anderson does, so that means he either needs you for something, or he's got no choice but to keep you aboard. Whichever it is, I want to make something perfectly clear;"

The sergeant major turned to Nick and jabbed a finger into his chest, anger burning in his eyes. "If for one instant you're a liability to this ship, I will put you in the fucking ground." His voice had dropped to a low, raspy growl. "Do we have an understanding?"

The corpsman gave a slow nod, his expression hard as he returned the sergeant major's gaze.

Ouder withdrew of bit, looking the man over before giving a sneer. "Have you ever actually set foot on Dawn's Venture?"

Nickeli made no reply, his jaw locked tight as he took a steadying breath.

The sergeant major gave an acrid laugh. "And they give you a medal for 'exceptional courage' for saving somebody under fire."

A surge of anger raced through the medic's gut like liquid fire as he spun to face the man, his fists closed in tight balls at his waist. He vaguely registered feeling the elevator jerking to a halt.

"His name was Mike." The American spat through clenched teeth.

Surprise flickered in Ouder's eyes for a fleeting instant, sensing by the rawness of the medic's voice something that he hadn't expected. The veteran marine turned as the door opened and quickly exited into the hangar, his anger suddenly wavering.

Nickeli felt his own indignation slipping away too, now regretting raising his voice. As angry as the sergeant major's prodding had made him, the medic hated losing his composure.

The exchange had been unbecoming of them both, but Ouder hadn't been wrong—Nick hadn't earned his place, it had been political maneuvering that had gotten him aboard the Normandy. In fairness, it had all been well and truly beyond his control, but it still left him with a lot to prove.

Taking a deep breath to slow his racing heart, the marine followed his superior out of the elevator.

The hangar had become more crowded since Nick had first boarded the ship, an array of crates and other cargo occupying most of the starboard wall, and a handful of crewmen worked in small groups scattered around the bay.

The most prominent delivery was a large armored vehicle that rested atop six rugged black wheels, its angular hull painted with an immaculate coat of matte white with black and dark red detailing. Its turret assembly hung suspended from the ceiling by a small overhead crane as a handful of technicians inspected the vehicle.

"Sergeant Scarpasky!" Ouder barked, catching the notice of a woman standing on the far side of the bay next to a row of tables. Spotting the squad leader, she handed the tablet to the man standing beside her, pointing out something before wiping her hands with a tattered rag and tossing it aside.

"We're still short two cases of grenades and they sent us Kessler twos instead of threes like Anderson wanted, but the rest of the small arms are signed-off on. We can start moving gear to the forward arms lockers as soon as we get the go-ahead, which I figure means tonight or tomorrow." The woman said by way of greetings as she approached the sergeant major, her tone bearing a faint Eastern European accent.

The sergeant had her hands casually hooked in her pockets, standing three or four inches taller than Nick in worn combat boots that looked like they had been shined recently. She wore navy pants and a simple black tank top, displaying toned, fair arms painted with a few smears of silver weapon cleaning solution.

The woman looked in her mid-twenties and had hard, though not unpleasant, features and neatly cropped black hair. She glanced between the two marines expectantly, dark blue eyes inspecting Nick with curiosity.

"Sergeant, show Private Vandas to his berth and get him acquainted with the ship." Ouder instructed sternly, still wearing the same unhappy frown he had during the elevator ride.

"Aye aye," She answered, Ouder turning sharply on his heel and stalking off toward engineering. As he disappeared from sight, Scarpasky chuckled dryly, raising an eyebrow at Nick. "Well, he's in particularly a fine mood today."

Receiving only a blank stare from the younger marine, she gave a mildly defeated sigh before shifting her focus to the task at hand. There was a long pause as she looked him over, something clearly on the tip of her tongue. "Nickeli, right? Our corpsman."

"That's correct, Sergeant." The medic replied, the woman giving an amused smirk when he tagged on her rank.

"Well, Ouder said to get you acquainted, so that makes introductions first thing. You probably ran into Tolo standing watch, but Caroline and Furlong are on liberty, so they'll have to wait, and I'm sure Khang will introduce himself on his own time." She led on towards a group of crewmen gathered near the armored vehicle, their approach garnering a few curious looks. She glanced over her shoulder at him. "You ever been posted starside before?"

Hesitating as he recalled the details of his Alliance service record, Vandas shook his head after a brief moment. "This'd be the first, Sergeant."

"Well, things are a little different aboard a ship." The black-haired team leader stated before turning her attention to one of the crewmen on the roof of the fighting vehicle. "Brice! Get down here and meet the new guy."

A man looked up from the datapad he was reading, giving a nod when he spotted Scarpasky. "Brice" had been hunched over an access panel, and it wasn't until he slid of the roof of the personnel carrier and landed on the deck with a heavy thud that Nick realized just how large the man was.

Though the marine greeted the pair with a warm smile, he had a broad, powerful torso and it didn't escape the medic's notice that the man stood tall enough to comfortably rest his arm on the top of the his head, leading the corpsman to imagine trying to hoist him onto his shoulders in combat only to be cartoonishly pancaked by the enormous man.

"Nickeli, this is Sergeant Nalwitz, he handles the big guns. Nalwitz, Private First Class Vandas, our corpsman."

"You don't say? Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Nickeli. Welcome aboard." The huge marine smiled, brown eyes full of cheer as the two shook hands, the medic's appendage disappearing into the man's large palm.

He looked to be in his early thirties with a few faint lines visible in the creases of his brow and a five o'clock shadow that matched his dark brown hair.

Vandas gave a somewhat awkward smile, unaccustomed to being called by his first name. "Thank you, Sergeant." Brice shot an amused look to Scarpasky who offered a shrug and a slight smirk. "Though I prefer 'Nick', if it's all the same to you."

"Of course. Where you from, Nick?"

"Earth."

"Really? And how is Earth these days?"

"Old." The corpsman answered dryly, eliciting a deep laugh from the older man.

"That it is, I suppose." The sergeant chuckled, glancing back to Scarpasky. "I'm sure you'll fit in fine here, Nick. Now, I'm know she's got all sorts of places to drag you off to, but it was nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too." The young marine replied, watching the man began to clamber back onto the roof of the transport before turning back to the sergeant.

She headed for the elevator, indicating for him to follow. Once they were a few steps out of earshot, the team leader gave a laugh. "Nobody's going to bite your head off on your first day, Vandas—least of all Brice."

"Yes, Sergeant." Nick replied dutifully.

They stepped into the waiting elevator and Scarpasky keyed in the second deck. "But do yourself a favor and lose the beret."

"Yes, Sergeant."

"And quit calling me that." She complained at last, beginning to sound a bit flustered. "It makes it sound like I should be old, but I'm not that much older than you."

The medic spoke through clenched teeth, trying to avoid cracking a grin. "Yes, Sergeant."

Scarpasky scrutinized him intently, trying to decide whether or not he was being serious. After a moment, he was betrayed by the ghost of a smile and she laughed.

"Alright, wiseass," She said, giving him a playful shove. "We'll find your berth and resume introductions later. Call me 'Amy', though—the only real sergeants around here are Ouder and Khang, I'm just some screw-off they gave an extra chevron to."

Nick's smile broadened, happy to once again find the casually flippancy he'd left behind when he'd been transferred from a rifle company. As odd as the past few days had been, it felt good to be around other marines, such as they were. There was still a lot left to figure out, but he'd hold onto the little things wherever he could.

"Is it always like this starside?" The medic asked.

Amy shook her head. "Nah, not always—Navy still likes its pomp and ceremony, but Normandy's a special case. She's got a lot more hardware packed into her than most frigates, so there are no separate accommodations for the officers. Don't get me wrong, Captain Anderson runs a tight ship, but everybody knows everybody else."

"What's that mean for the marine detail?"

"It means Ouder cares a hell of a lot more than most." The sergeant explained sincerely. "I know he might make himself hard to like sometimes, but he has his ways. A lot's being asked of us and, frankly, it's probably an assignment better suited for an N-corps strike team, but Anderson got Shepard and a squad of fleet marines instead."

"What do you mean?" Nickeli asked, adjusting his seabag.

"Normandy's a prototype—advanced drive system, cutting edge propulsion, all that stuff. She's designed for deep reconnaissance and intelligence gathering. A special operations units would be able to make the most of being inserted behind enemy lines—us marines are just here in case things have to go groundside."

"So, if it's so much better suited for a strike team, why does the ship have a marine ground team instead?"

"Because that would make entirely too much sense." Amy chuckled dryly. "The short answer is that the entire project was a joint effort between the Alliance and the Turian Hierarchy—supposed to be a reconciliation of sorts. There were a lot of people in Parliament and Alliance Command that thought it was a boondoggle from the start, and the only real reason it ever got off the drawing board was because the Alliance wanted to please the Council. Even then, Captain Anderson and Admiral Hackett burned through whatever goodwill the project had to get her crewed and prevent her getting relegated to picket duty. There's a lot of ego riding on this at a command level and, since no-one will ever admit to being wrong, the opposition is looking for any excuse to call the venture a failure."

"Which means nobody's gettin' in line to make our jobs any easier." Nick summarized, a rather unimpressed look on his face.

"Pretty much."

The elevator rocked slightly and Amy ushered him out with a wave as the door opened. They stepped out into a cramped cafeteria, occupied by few off duty members of the crew who sat in the small, cubic booths. A few ate or read quietly, while a small group was off in one corner watching some form of sport being played on a screen that hung on the wall.

"This is the mess." Amy stated before pointing out a door on the far wall. "The cargo hold and the galley are back there. The food's nothing special, but standard Navy fare is still better than anything they ever fed me groundside."

The sergeant turned to face the elevator, indicating a set of hatches on either side of the lift. "Port and starboard access ladders to get between decks. They're a pain in the ass to climb wearing your kit, but they are good for when you need to get to the hangar in a hurry."

Continuing the impromptu tour, she led toward an adjoining room with Nick in tow, the corpsman careful with his bag as he negotiated the narrow isles between tables.

Though not careful enough it seemed, and the Vandas sheepishly mumbled an apology as a crewman eating in one of the booths narrowly avoided being hit with his pack as he walked by. The man frowned and shook his head, muttering some rather unkind observations about the Nickeli as the marine disappeared into the other room.

In the adjoining room were the crew quarters, packed several rows deep with double berths. Despite the confined space, the room was tidy, if a bit spartan, and Nick could see a few members of the crew in the racks, their faces illuminated in the darkened bunkroom by the glow of a datapad or the curtain pulled closed as they slept. From the other room, the main circuit chimed the changing of the deck officer, the announcement muffled by the soundproofing in the bulkhead.

"I figured you'd prefer a bunk over a sleeper pod." Amy said, keeping her voice down as she tapped at a small interface on the end of one of the rows of beds. "Let's see, I'll put you in…Oh," Her devious grin glimmered in the faint light as she pressed a few buttons. "You'll be hotbunking with Caroline." The sergeant announced with a pleased look. "I figure I may as well introduce you to her sooner rather than later."

"Anyhow," Amy continued, "You can toss your bag in the corner for now and sort your things into your footlocker later. No one'll bother it."

Nick did as instructed, not sure what to make of the woman's scheming glee and currently unwilling to hazard asking. Unslinging his seabag from his shoulder, he propped it up in the corner and stretched, relieved to finally be rid of his load.

Turning, he found Amy reading something from the orange display of her omni-tool. "Where to now?"

"Actually, that's going to be the end of the tour." The sergeant stated, the glowing hologram evaporating as she deactivated the device. "Message from Ouder—Captain Anderson just came aboard and he wants you to report to his quarters." She gave the corpsman a wry smirk. "In trouble your first day, newbie?"

Nick chuckled dryly, though he couldn't help but feel a pang of concern at the news. He hadn't done anything wrong yet—well, aside from the little incident in the elevator, though he expected Ouder wasn't eager to turn around and report the details of what had transpired to the captain. Still, if that was what this was about, he might be in more trouble than the message let on, and the enlisted man somehow doubted that pointing his finger at the sergeant major and saying, "he started it" would get him anywhere.

"Anyhow, you had better go see what the captain wants." The sergeant said at last, dismissing him with a nod towards the door. "Second deck, port side. Just hook a right when you come out of the lift."

With that, Nick took his leave, ignoring the sharp look he caught from the crewman in the mess as he made his way back to the elevator.

Finding it empty, he tapped the controls and leaned leisurely against the wall as the car began to slowly climb to the second deck. Fixing his feet in place and torquing his upper body, the medic gave a groan as his back produced a series of satisfying pops and cracks.

Back at Paladin, Nickeli had gotten accustomed to spending his days doing paperwork from the relative comfort the office chair in his dormitory. While the corpsman hadn't exactly been sitting around getting fat, he'd spent most of his waking hours on his feet for the past few days and he was still in the process of breaking in his new boots, which certainly didn't help any.

Admittedly, the enlisted man had gotten a bit…softer since he'd been transferred to a service company from the infantry, but he was still in remarkably good shape, all things considered. The marine patted his stomach, reassuring himself that he hadn't let several months in a hospital bed and the administrative work that followed entirely robbed him of his physique—after all, he'd been pulling hard to get back to a line company.

The elevator came to halt and Nick stepped out, brushing a hand through his hair and pulling at the bottom of his shirt to get rid of a few wrinkles as he rounded the corner and halted before the closed door to Captain Anderson's quarters.

Taking one last moment to compose himself, the medic pushed the grey button on the door frame to key the intercom as he'd seen Ouder do.

Or, rather, he thought it was the intercom, though in the fleeting instant that the door began to open Nickeli realized to his horror that he might not have a perfect recollection of his first time aboard the Normandy.

The unfortunate marine had little time to consider anything else as the door rose to reveal Anderson seated at his desk with Shepard leaning against a wall nearby. Given the way both had looked up from what they were doing, it was clear they'd been conversing before he had blundered in.

"Sir, Private First Class Vandas reporting as ordered, sir." He stated, snapping to attention and rendering a smart salute, though he could do little about his quickly reddening face.

Anderson stood, returning the salute. "Come in Private, and stand easy."

For his part, the captain had mercifully decided to overlook the younger man's blunder and he displayed no outward acknowledgement of the interruption, his coffee visage locked in a neutral expression as Nickeli stepped inside and stood with his hands clasped behind his back.

Shepard felt no similar compunction and behind the veteran naval officer, the lieutenant commander made a halfhearted effort to mask her smirk, her jade eyes filled with amusement.

"Private, I'm sure you're acquainted with Commander Shepard." Anderson began, gesturing to the woman who greeted him with a small wave. "She's been made aware of your rather…interesting background."

"Time traveler." Jane chirped, giving a wide grin. "Cool."

Pausing briefly to give the N7 an exasperated look, the ship's commanding officer continued. "Accommodations have made to help you get acclimated. Gunnery Chief Williams—you may remember her from Eden Prime—has been charged with putting you through supplemental instruction in additional to all of your standard drills and fitness regimen. In the meantime, you're to continue to familiarizing yourself with the ship and your duties. Report to Doctor Chakwas if you haven't already done so—you'll be working in the medical bay when you're not groundside."

"Aye aye, sir." Nick acknowledge, hesitating for a moment before speaking again. "Thank you for bringing me aboard, sir. I'm grateful for the opportunity."

To his surprise, the captain shook his head, a slight frown creasing his worn face.

"Don't be." Anderson said wearily, garnering a look of surprise from the corpsman. "I'm not going to lie to you, Vandas—you stumbled into a hell of a mess down there on Eden Prime. The Alliance is still reeling from the attack and Ambassador Udina had me ensure you were posted aboard the Normandy because we need to play our cards close to the chest. I can understand this might be frustrating to hear, but the truth is there are things beyond our control at work here and I don't know where you really fall in any of this."

The decorated officer looked exhausted saying this, the odd light cast by his desk lamp accentuating the deep wrinkles of his face and the dark rings beneath his eyes as he met Nickeli's gaze. Behind him, Shepard no longer looked amused and a pensive look had replaced her gleaming smile

It took Nick a long moment to process this before gave the captain a nod, a sober look fixing itself on his face. "I understand, sir. I'll do my best."

Anderson gave a nod, a faint smile appearing for a fleeting instantly before his omni-tool sprung to life with a loud chime and the officer gave a groan as he read the message that appeared.

"It's the ambassador—my presence is 'required' at the embassy." He dismissed the orange display with a tired scowl and glanced to Shepard. "Commander, I'm leaving Private Vandas in your charge." Turning for the door, he returned their salutes as he departed, still spouting instructions. "Make sure he gets his equipment requisitioned and reports in to Chakwas."

"Aye aye, sir."

"And get some sleep!" He called as he left the room, glancing over his shoulder to look at Jane. "I won't have Udina running us both ragged."

The lieutenant commander's only reply was a chuckle as the door finally closed. Falling into a more casual posture, she turned to regard Nick with her thumbs hooked in her belt.

"So," She began, nodding for him to follow her out to the common area. "What do you think of the Normandy so far?"

"It's, uh—it's a lot to take in, ma'am." The corpsman provided as they left Anderson's darkened quarters.

"And how do you like the crew?"

Nickeli considered mentioning what had transpired with Ouder in the elevator for a moment, but ultimately decided against it. "I've only been introduced to a few of them, but they seem nice."

There was a long silence between the two of them, and she chuckled. "It must be a hell of a change, huh?"

'Hell' was a rather apt word for it, the marine mused.

"Yeah, it is." The medic said distantly before quickly snapping back to a more lively tone. "I never got to thank you for saving my life on Eden Prime, ma'am."

Jane laughed. "The Normandy's a small ship, Nick, and there are a lot of officers aboard, so at least for me you don't have to be jumping up and down to snap to attention and all that. And you can just call me, 'Shepard' or 'Commander' if you really have to—I like to know my crew."

At this, Nick seemed to relax a bit, his shoulders slackening a bit and his crisp stride becoming a bit more casual.

"Alright, Commander." He said, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Where to now?"

He'd have been lying to say she wasn't a fairly attractive woman.

Her crimson locks were arranged in a simple bob cut that lined up neatly with her jaw, her bangs swept to one side to reveal cheerful green eyes and a mottle of rosy freckles. She stood several inches taller than Nick—around an even six feet the medic guessed—and the fit of her snug, though not tight, fatigues were admittedly pleasing to the eye.

That wasn't touching the fact she was also over half a decade his senior and had a caliber of military training and experience far above and beyond anything he'd ever seen, but still.

"The med bay. Chakwas is probably wondering when you'll report in."

Making their way through the empty common area, Shepard led the way to the infirmary, the door moving aside to reveal the good doctor working at her station. Hearing the door open, she glanced up from her work and gave a polite smile.

"Commander," She greeted in a polished English accent.

"Doctor Chakwas, Private First Class Nick Vandas." Shepard introduced, indicating the marine who had followed her in. "Private Vandas, Major Chakwas, our chief medical officer."

The surgeon gave a laugh at this, seeming rather entertained at the N7's addition of her honorific.

"There's not a soul on this ship who treats me like a major, least of all you, Shepard—it would require that you actually listen to my instructions when I tell you you need bedrest." She turned her attention to Nick with a warm smile. "Just 'Doctor' will do, Nick. It's a pleasure to see you again."

The corpsman returned her smile and gave a slight bow of the head. "It's good to see you as well, Doctor. I'm looking forward to working with you."

"And I with you. I hope you're well—I recall you came aboard in rather rough shape after Eden Prime."

"I'm on the mend, ma'am. Thank you for asking."

Shepard clapped her hands, taking her cue to duck out. "Well, I'll leave Chakwas to run you through your duties aboard. Come find me when you're done."

"Aye aye, Commander." Nickeli affirmed, watching her turn to leave.

"Get some rest, Shepard." The doctor chided motherly, drawing a rather exasperated groan from the departing officer. "You spent all afternoon off duty and we both know you didn't sleep a wink of it!"

The door slid shut a moment later, truncating any reply from the commander and leaving the pair to their duties.

"Well then," The doctor began, turning to Nick with a cheerful look. "Let's get started."

A/N: I really, *really* didn't intend to make this chapter the absolute monster it turned out to be (At ~8.3k words, it is the longest chapter so far by a margin) and I did what I could to avoid making it a long series of dull introductions (which means we've still got a few more members of the crew to meet).

What's really important is that it got me where I wanted to be as far as the plot is concerned—consider it a gift for waiting nearly three months for an update. Now that I'm no longer dragging my feet with these particular sections that drag on too long for exposition's sake, things can start to move along.