40 – One Last Elegy

Where T'Lore's navigational skills got them this far, to find what something like what Gorman had in mind they had to enlist the help of the Citadel's on-station VI – an unblinking, unyieldingly helpful projection of a purple asari named Avina.

Avina's unsolicited advice did help Gorman to wrap his head around where their destination lay. The Citadel's inner ring was the true center of authority, the so-called Presidium. That's where the Council sits, where the Ambassador works, and where Shepard agreed to meet. The real beating heart of the station, however, were the 'petals', properly known as the Wards. Each Ward boasts not only a sizeable population but more amenities than one could fit in a year-long visit. As Avina rattled off some of the points of interest she imagined a man like Gorman may find interesting, he picked the best of the bunch.

At the request of Kalu's tired feet, they took a taxi. Of course, it was hovering, and of course, it was driverless. They expected no less luxury from the galactic capital, after all.

The skycar touched down a stone's throw from the gift shop of the Citadel's very own Museum of Human Culture. Even in the smallest sector of Tayseri Ward, there was enough color and bustle to rival any Earth city. The Museum wasn't in a particularly artsy corner, though, rather the alley behind the artsy corner. Gorman picked this spot for a couple reasons: they had time to kill before T'Lore's reservation at wherever 'Agarth's' was, and he wanted to see firsthand what the apparently newly-opened museum was doing to show humanity off to the rest of the galaxy's citizens. On the ride over, T'Lore pointed out the window the asari museum just around the bend – a magnificent cathedral of spires and arches.

The four of them walked inside an unassuming circular doorway and the extent of human culture stood before them.

"That's it?" Gorman blurted.

A sleek set of display cases were arranged along a curved back wall. From left to right, the inscribed dates above the cases stretched from a million BC to present day. Yet…there was barely anything worth looking at.

Stone tools, a bronze sword, a model printing press, a model train…the majority of human development was here reduced to a few disparate items and a few grainy holographic images of period art, architecture and sculpture.

Modernity was represented by a handful of odd objects – a microwave, a floppy disk, a model of a 2000 Ford Fiesta…and to Gorman's surprise, a BlackBerry phone. The final display showed a rocket ship, accompanied by a paragraph about how humanity 'finally grew out of infancy, catching up to the rest of the galaxy'. He had to go back and examine the other written descriptions some more to see if they equally undermined one of the greatest human achievements. Indeed they did. For every invention, there was a line about how one of the Council races perfected it millennia ago, implying that humans were not only uninventive but slow to learn.

He was regretting his decision to come here. The so-called Museum was aggravating his human pride – something he never realized he had until recently.

At least the non-humans were having fun.

"That was us!" giggled T'Lore and Sally every time they saw another display.

Kalu had already given up on this place, and went outside to try and hail another cab. Gorman was not about to leave without something done about this prejudiced provocation of an institution. No staff, virtual or otherwise, were in the main hall. He marched to the gift shop, intent on finding and speaking to whoever was running this sham.

"Can I…help you?" rasped a voice from the desk Gorman was looking over. He turned his head left, then right, then down.

There was a spherical little fellow in a diving suit right under his nose. This new creature was encapsulated in round brown armor with a leathery texture to it. Two circular lights were where its eyes should be, and a breather like a gas mask was where it spoke from. It was even shorter than first thought, as evidenced by the small platform it had to stand on to reach the Commander's waist.

Gorman asked two questions, one from the head and one from the heart.

"What are you? Are you running this place?"

"I am…the proprietor of this museum," the rotund fellow responded. Every phrase heaved out of its breather felt forced, and it had to pause for loud inhales between every few words. "Do you find it…adequate, Earth-clan?"

"Adequate?" Gorman paid no heed to his new nickname. "The whole thing's a trainwreck. You've left out, like, everything."

"By design…Earth-clan," the creature raised a stumpy hand and pointed a finger at the Commander's comparatively exposed face. "I have weighed the sum of Earth-clan accomplishment…and displayed it succinctly and uncompro…misingly. You will not find…a truer representation, no?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Gorman shook his head in unbridled confusion, "This is the Museum of Human Culture, and there's barely any culture! Where are our great heroes? Where are our great works of art? Have you even been to Earth?"

The sphere was unrepentant.

"I have no need of a visit…Earth-clan," it attempted to look him right in the eye, but once it mounted the desk it only reached his chin. "I have spent the last…several weeks studying your culture…extensively on the extranet."

"Oh yeah?" Gorman didn't need much effort to tower over the museum's owner. Once again, he unleashed the 'Gorman Glare', and pinned the creature down with two sharp hazel eyes. "And what did that tell you? That human history happened over a weekend and amounted to nothing?"

"Take your…heroes, for example," the creature justified its choices, "Across all of your historical figures…there are only two Earth-clan…worthy of any respect. Henry George…and Jon Grissom."

"Who?"

"And I'm the…ignorant one?" its breather let out a rasping laugh. It tapped a button on the desk with its foot, and the circular exit opened at the front of the shop. "Come back when you…learn your own history, fool."

"If only your miserable excuse of a museum did its damn job!"

Gorman realized mid-sentence that he was wasting his own breaths. He looked the creature dead in its dull lights for eyes and marched back to the exhibits. The asari and the quarian were waiting for him, mild concern written on their face and visor.

"Were you arguing with a volus?" T'Lore asked.

Learning the name of the species was one thing, but as Gorman scanned the displays one last time, his mind was focused on another task. He reached through one of the holograms and plucked the BlackBerry right off of its stand. As expected for an exhibition with a clearly shoestring budget…no alarm blared, and no security camera could be seen.

"Gift shop's that way, captain," Sally joked.

He dropped the phone in a vest pouch and headed for the arriving taxi outside. The quarian skipped along behind him. The asari was less supportive, but she sighed and followed the Commander out of the front door. The museum trip couldn't have gone much worse, but hopefully she'd make it up to him with the next stop on their whirlwind tour.

The skycar's next parking spot was somewhere much more high-end. There was something different about Kithoi Ward, as Gorman supposed there would be between all of them, but up on an elevated pedestrian freeway the lights were just that bit dimmer. In the taxi, T'Lore had taken the tour guide role again, and explained how the concepts of 'day' and 'night' really have no bearing in a place like this. Hours could melt away if you're not careful – which gave the other tourists in the car an idea of what types of activities the Wards are known for.

"Reservation is for two," T'Lore waited until they landed to break the news. "Commander, I'd hoped you would join me." Gorman looked at the others for their reactions.

"We can look after ourselves," Sally nodded. She opened her omni-tool. "Pierre wanted to meet up, anyway. I'll try and find him."

"And I'll stay out of trouble," Kalu leaned back in the seat, and folded his arms with a smirk. "Only if you two do the same."

"No promises," was all Gorman could say. He was wary that T'Lore still hadn't divulged anything more than a location for what she wanted them to do at this place…but in fairness, he also hadn't told Kalu about his brand new phone.

The Commander and the asari hopped out of the taxi as it rose back into the air. 'Agarth's' was engraved on a tasteful neon sign outside a small, windowless section of tower block. With a name like that, he'd been imagining a nice restaurant. In fact, a restaurant would be a good idea – he had worked up an appetite between craning his neck at prothean architecture and yelling at round aliens.

Once inside, he was reminded less of Michelin star establishments and more of dentists' waiting rooms. Coffee tables, couches, potted plants, digital magazines – but all with a utilitarian, stark style to them. The angles looked jagged, the couch uncomfortable. Two salarians were flicking through their tablet screens on one side, a turian and asari pair on the other. They all glanced up – then back to their devices. At the far end of the room was a kiosk of some description and an entrance hatch not unlike that of a ship. Strangely, no one was manning the station, just a gently floating pinkish balloon.

"We've got the reservation for 11. Name's Witta."

Gorman stopped looking all around to turn and see T'Lore speaking to…nobody. If that wasn't enough to raise his brow, the response from thin air was enough to raise both.

"This one welcomes you to our establishment." The voice was eloquent, but its speaker was yet to be seen. There was also something about it that made Gorman's hairs stand on end, the way it sort of shimmered into his ears that could only be explained as the work of his implanted translator. The voice continued. "This one wishes to be reminded of which experience you requested."

"The human experience, the one I asked for on the holo," T'Lore affirmed, "It's for my friend. It's his first time here."

Something human-specific? He was still trying to forget the tragedy of the museum – was this really what she insisted they do? And what sort of experience? Were they officially 'friends' now? One question, however, took priority. As discreetly as possible – so as to not make a scene in front of the other patrons – he tapped the asari on the shoulder.

"Who are you talking to?" he whispered. Not subtle enough, as quizzical eyes across the room drifted just over their screens.

As a response, T'Lore gestured forward – to the balloon. He gave it another look. It was no balloon at all, but an oblong, bumpy, pinkish mass, floating and bobbing with a glistening sheen to its…skin. Its strings were more like appendages, its entire form like some kind of above-water jellyfish. Strikingly, there were no sensory organs whatsoever within view. No eyes to see, no mouth to speak. Despite all that, it had the ability to communicate…and apparently check a reservation. In terms of new species on the Citadel Gorman was two for two in being freaked out, but the primal fear of the old days was replaced with a newer curiosity. This particular species didn't seem to have hands or legs – so how did it live on land? How did it use any sort of technology? Who is the 'one' they keep mentioning? Now was not the time to ask any more from his inexhaustible list of questions.

"This one acknowledges your request," its tone was unchanging, pleasant satisfaction at all times. A yellow beam of light emerged from a deskside projector, giving Gorman and T'Lore a one-time scan. "Please take your two cards and proceed through to the chamber on the leftmost side."

At once, two shiny rectangles popped out of the desk like toast from a toaster. T'Lore pulled them out, gave the jellyfish a curt nod and started walking to the hatch.

"Thanks, buddy," Gorman rubbed his eyes, stopped staring at the floating clerk, mumbled out his gratitude and quickly followed his crewmate through the hatch. On the left side of a narrow corridor was a similar entrance. Scanning one of the cards on a neighboring console was enough to let the two of them inside.

He was now in a big, wide, open room…with nothing in it. Four walls, a ceiling, a floor. Every surface was covered in glowing green dots, evenly spaced, but otherwise there was not an object in sight.

"Alright, I've had enough," he finally said, "What are we going to -"

"Put these on," T'Lore instead drew open a glass cabinet built into the wall behind them. From the cabinet she presented, of all things, a pair of gloves. The Commander begrudgingly took the mittens and stretched them over his hands. They felt strange. Almost feeling-less, like the gloves weren't on his hands at all. A second layer of skin.

Events were starting to add up in his mind, not adding to make any more sense but adding to his general uneasiness. First the asari's withholding of information, then the odd waiting room, then the otherworldly being manning the desk, now the feelingless gloves…he was holding his breath for the next surprise.

"And finally, put your card in this." T'Lore handed him one of the cards, then a full-on headset. A remarkably lightweight set of thick goggles were the last piece of the puzzle. A slot in their top was card-shaped. Finally something that Gorman vaguely recognized – he was holding one of those fancy prototype virtual reality headsets! He knew better than to think the technology hadn't progressed in the last couple centuries…and braced himself accordingly for what they might show, and what relation they had to the gloves. The card, which bore the name of the asari that booked the session, slotted firmly in, but before the goggles could fit around his head, he wanted to try asking one question again with his new assumption.

"So, we're heading to some virtual world?" he guessed, "Neat." Then he remembered her request to the clerk. "Somewhere on Earth?"

"I knew you'd figure it out," T'Lore at last was candid with him. There was an inconspicuous screen next to the cabinet that she was now gesturing towards. "We've got a few choices. There's the human fantasy genre, one based on old human spy vids, another about a place on Earth called 'Ro-me'…"

"Anything from my time?" Gorman's eyes lit up with possibility.

"Well, yes, one from Boston, actually, but -"

"What are we waiting for, let's do it!" his confusion was quickly turning to excitement. Dormant alarm bells rang in his head. He was being given the golden opportunity to go back home, right here, right now. His brain didn't care for specifics – it switched to homing mode.

"Kevin," the asari tried to get a word in, "I wanted to hold off on telling you about this place for a reason. This is supposed to be fun, I didn't want you to get worked up about -"

"It's fine, it's fine, it's fine!" Gorman interrupted, unable to contain his newfound eagerness. "I'm ready," he nodded with vigor.

"…If you're sure," T'Lore sighed and tapped a few more buttons on the screen. She donned her headset, and he did the same. The view inside was just of the room itself, the clarity pristine and perfect.

The green dots that littered the room gradually got dimmer until the room was engulfed in black.

The first sense that appeared was sound. Noises of rustling trees, calm waters and ambient crowds. In an instant, the sounds were joined by vision. He was on a footbridge overlooking a lake. Green grass, willowy trees, swan boats and busker jazz. Pedestrians ambled by without care or notice. Office towers stood watch along the garden's perimeter, chief among them the mighty Hancock. Where once stood four walls, now there were no limits. He was back in Boston, right at one of his favorite spots in the city…as if it was all a dream. All he was missing was a cone of chocolate chip ice cream…and her.

This should have been one of the best moments in his recent life – the vindication of every stress and strain, every battle, every lost moment. He really, really wanted to enjoy this.

But for some reason, he just couldn't. The pervasive unease he'd overcame after Calypso was rearing its ugly head. Something just wasn't right. It could have been the vibrant colors, the simulated smells, the staleness of the air…but he was starting to feel completely disoriented. He clutched onto the railing, a desperate attempt to ground himself in this existence. The railing felt real in his hands, but even his archaic brain knew when it was fooled. Ignorant bliss was just out of reach.

He remembered he wasn't alone here. Where was T'Lore? He flicked his head around, but it only made him dizzier.

Then, approaching down the footbridge, was a man. The other pedestrians were paying him no heed. He was pale, tall and lanky, with neat brown hair and stern hazel eyes. He was wearing only the best in early 2010s agent-wear; a navy turtleneck, a bulletproof vest and khakis. It didn't take long for the Commander to recognize himself – and his doppelganger looked equally dumbstruck. He sized the true Gorman up, and spoke first.

"I think I mixed up the cards," he said.

For the true Gorman's spinning mind, this was the last thing it needed. It made some critical connections. If T'Lore had his card, he was staring at the asari, and if he had her card…

He looked down and saw the wrong color.

"…And then what happened?" asked Kalu.

"You really want to know?"

A couple hours later, two humans entered an establishment deep within the metal sheen and neon glow of Zakera Ward's 173 Block. In one of their words, 'the safest bet in the galaxy' was O'Neill's Irish Pub. Founded just the year prior, the pub boasted 'authentic' Earth décor – wooden tables, live music, genuine stout – but to a certified Irish pub expert like Commander Gorman, it was a decent effort at best. Holographic screens still dominated the walls, the music was a hopeless mishmash of accordions and synthesizers, and therefore he didn't have high hopes for the stout. Also, as a point of interest, he never once saw a bright pink 'hanar' floating around at any pub back home.

When Kalu got Gorman's message over the omni-tool, he dropped everything to meet him here. There were only a few hours left until the planned meetup with Shepard. As they waited for their drinks, Gorman was spilling the details of what happened at Agarth's.

"Let's just say…good thing I had a light breakfast," the Commander continued. "The whole experience was a nightmare. I was home, but not at all. I wasn't even in my own skin. People nowadays do that for fun?"

"Usually it's for roleplaying, not reminiscing," Kalu explained. "I've never tried it, but I've heard that it can be very addictive. That's why it's so expensive, after all."

"I didn't even ask about the price," Gorman realized with a groan, "Now I feel even worse for T'Lore. She warned me and everything."

"Where did she run off to?"

"I don't know. She just got me to a cab and said she'd give me some time alone, time to sort myself out. Made some excuse, said she had something important to do. Wouldn't stop apologizing, even though it was all my fault."

The bartender brought forth two brown pints. She was tattooed, with a screen on her left eye and a nametag that read 'Aurora'. Gorman made eye contact and nothing more. He'd had enough surprises for today – he wasn't even going to bother asking anymore.

"Funny," Kalu took his first sip, "That sounds exactly like what got me to the Tara depot." He rose a solitary finger from his glass, the one with a narrow gold band around it.

"What are you implying?"

"I'm implying nothing. It's clear that she cares about you."

"Only because I merged minds with her back on Polaris," Gorman stated his interpretation.

He'd forgotten it wasn't common knowledge. Kalu almost spat out his drink.

"…You did what?"

"Uh oh, I've heard this one before," another patron turned to face them, a gaunt, short man with a wide grin under a scally cap. "Hope you're ready for your new blue daughter!"

Gorman's mind froze, his head recoiled and his expression cringed. His knowledge of asari biology was shaky at best, his knowledge of asari reproduction even shakier…so the possibility was outrageously real. He was going to need more than a single pint of Guinness tonight. The patron laughed all the way back to his buddies at the other end of the bar, allowing Kalu to lean in closer.

"He's joking…I think."

"Tammy and I always joked about wanting kids," Gorman's coping mind instead found itself dragged back to the past again. He was barely talking to Kalu, just staring out into space. "The joke would always end with 'after our wedding, if we're not sick of each other by then'. Shame how that turned out…"

"Snap out of it," Kalu decided to take a more authoritative approach, literally snapping his fingers in front of the Commander. "I've gotten to know you over the past few weeks, Kevin. You're not the type to let the past stop you."

That was enough to get Gorman to laugh. He downed a big gulp of his drink – unlike Kalu, he'd properly waited for the color to settle. It tasted like it came not from a brewery but from an industrial processing vat, so, not much different than the old Guinness.

"You know how much you've gotten done in that short time?" Kalu gave his shoulder a hit, "You've blown up whole platoons of geth, brought down some batarian bigshot, saved the asari on the Siren and the salarians on Virmire. Damn it Kevin, you made that closeted Terra Firma supporter Pierre work with a turian! And you know what the stupidest part is?"

Gorman raised a brow. Kalu continued.

"You did it all without asking for anything in return, just the next step to Earth, no matter how small. Let's face it, you're not a real Alliance man, you're not getting paid by anyone. That didn't stop you from doing their dirty work without hesitation."

"What would you have done?" Gorman turned it around, "You wake up a billion miles from home with nothing but the clothes on your back and a gun in your hand. Coincidentally, the galaxy's gone to hell at the same time. What do you do?"

"Honestly, I'm pretty sure one of the simulations at Agarth's covers just that," Kalu chuckled, then gave his honest answer. "I'm too selfish," he admitted, "I'd start breaking things if it got me home sooner. Take the law into my own hands rather than abide by it."

"Ends justify the means, eh?" Gorman didn't totally disagree with his line of thinking.

"That's why I'm glad you were in charge. I know now that sticking to your guns makes far more friends and far less tombstones."

"Depends. Sticking to my guns told you to send the Bluntnose off a cliff, Kabiru."

"Fair point."

The two men finished their drinks, and promptly asked for two more. When the lights never go off, time can be a blur – and that was exactly what happened. Two drinks turned to three as Kalu regaled Gorman with the long-awaited full story of how he got the job at Tara IV. Three turned to four as the story turned to recent events, whatever Kalu was up to while the Commander was busy saving lives. The triumphant Bluntnose maneuvers on Mavigon, the heroic carrying of supplies up Ferosian staircases, the marvelous time he had watching a vid in XMAX on Polaris, topped off with the valiant defense of the colony on Calypso. By the time four turned to five, Gorman's accent became significantly more pronounced.

"So that's where yah learned to bang a uey," Gorman laughed, "It's no Hahvahd Yahd, but it sounds like hell on wheels."

"That's Lagos for you," Kalu shrugged, "If you can survive traffic there, you can survive anything."

Suddenly, the terrible music died down and the microphone became open. That could only mean one thing. It was karaoke time.

"Karaoke? In this paht of the galaxy, at this time o' day?" Gorman slurred.

"Not a fan?" Kalu, evidently the heavyweight of the pair, was still sharp.

"Y'kiddin', right? First bit o' luck I've had all day, a goddamn Citahdel miracle! Watch n' learn, kid."

Kalu could only watch as Gorman stumbled off the barstool and up to the stage before anyone else had a chance. An unplugged yet authentic microphone, just for decorative purposes, stood alongside him.

"What, no duet?" he called down. Kalu raised his hands in rejection. Gorman pointed at the bar staff. "Bahtendah, it's time f'some propah friggin' music. Somethin' wicked old. Maybe…"

The staff begrudgingly had to search for a while – after all, he'd probably been the source of half of their daily income. The lights lowered, the real microphone popped off a socket in the wall, and the eyes of O'Neill's Irish Pub slowly settled on the pale man tugging at his turtleneck on the stage. He cleared his throat and focused his inebriated mind as hard as he could on remembering the lyrics. The bass kicked in.

What followed was a truly special moment in time. As Gorman belted out a powerful ballad – one of his dad's favorites, one of 1969's greatest hits, and one where the lyrics really clicked – he felt the sensation he'd been craving all day. A satisfying release of pressure. Lately he'd been running into as many problems as he could handle, but up on the stage he could let all his woes out…and he did. The song didn't just remind him of home, whether by the lyrical genius of its writer or the fact that it was often heard in his youth, but the song was home. Here in this dingy bar, a speck on a gigantic space station in the middle of a gigantic galaxy, a lost human finally found where he belonged…if only for a few minutes. One last elegy of a dead generation. By the time it ended, his voice was hoarse and a tear was in his eye. A few people clapped. Most were silent. Kalu was speechless.

Gorman plonked back down on the barstool.

"Y'evah heah anything like that befoah?" he confidently smirked.

"Do you ever listen to music from the…let me think…1800s?" Kalu retorted, but his cynicism only lasted so long. "That was something else, Commander."

Strangely, the murmurs of the rest of the bar – which had perked up once his performance ended – started to die down again, enough to hear the clanking of boots from the front door. The bootsteps got louder, and then they stopped.

"Kevin William Gorman?"

Gorman and Kalu turned around on their stools. Before them, chins upright, arms behind the back and feet together, stood two Alliance soldiers in full armor. Two berets rested on their cold faces.

"It's Commandah," Gorman nodded back, "Whaddaya want, an autograph?"

"Kevin William Gorman, you are under arrest for -"

"Jeez, was my singing that bad? Or is this about the BlackBerry?"

"Shut up, Kevin," Kalu barked through his teeth at Gorman and addressed the armored gents. "What's this about, marines?"

The leading trooper cleared his throat.

"You are under arrest for impersonation of a military officer. You have the right to -"

"Impersonation?" Gorman was indignant, hopping off the stool to go toe-to-toe with these toy soldiers. "Son, do you have any idea who I am?"

The other marine pulled out a tablet and began flicking through its digital contents.

"Your active ship, the Antwerp, has no record of you until a couple weeks ago. As for your current ship, the 'Shackleton', it appeared nowhere on the roster of any Alliance transport fleet. It has been appropriately grounded, and its cargo seized."

Just like that, Gorman snapped out of his stupor. Two words penetrated his mind more than any other. He was under arrest. This was very real, and this was very bad.

"Shit," Gorman blurted. "I-I'm as Alliance as any of you, Captain Chen set me up!" he exclaimed, although the officers probably got the other meaning of that phrase and not what he meant to say.

"The SSV Antwerp is currently on deployment. Sir, if you could just -"

"Talk to Commander Shepard," Gorman insisted, quickly running out of options, "He'll vouch for me. In fact, he's expecting to meet me shortly."

"Shepard's not meeting you anytime soon," the marine gave a knowing smirk.

"His ship's also been grounded," added his colleague, "Ambassador's orders."

"If you'll come with us, gentlemen," the other one gestured outside, where sure enough a skycar with Alliance colors was waiting to whisk him away…but now maybe Kalu as well.

"Hang on, what did I do?" Kalu had to ask.

"Association with a known criminal, Mr. Kalu."

Gorman felt dizzy and defeated. His crew couldn't help him, Shepard was out of action, any allies from his journey were out of reach. This situation was even more dire than he imagined. He gave one look to his friend, then back to the waiting troopers. It was now or never – he was going to have to break out the vintage SWAT team 1-2-3, a move pioneered by the Commander himself to deal blows of maximum effectiveness in the unfortunate event of close quarters combat.

He went for 1. He threw out his right arm…missing the mark entirely and clattering his poor fist against the marine's plate armor.

The two soon found themselves in the back of the skycar.

Kalu was silent by choice. Gorman was out cold.