THE DEAD ZONE

Chapter 1: That Funny Feeling Again...

1.

When John Shepard was a kid—back when Dad was still around and Mom hadn't even made senior officer yet—he used to get…feelings. Most people got feelings, sure, but these feelings? They were different. A feeling during a high-stress situation was probably just your brain keeping you alive. A feeling when you were walking home from school and the biggest danger you had to face was whether you cleared the curb? A normal brain didn't conjurer up images of total galactic annihilation—or, if they did, it was just to get back at Jackass Zack, the bully who kept thinking people needed to brush their teeth with toilet water more often. Jackass Zack left Shepard alone after Dad disappeared, so the long and short of it was: Shepard had no reason to be getting feelings on a secure Alliance base.

That was childhood. Adulthood was adulthood, which meant he didn't have time for that kind of thing. He could put the memory of those feelings back in the past and, most of the time, they followed orders. In his entire adult life—which legally and philosophically started the day after he signed his soul over to the Alliance Naval Academy—he only ever remembered that Little Shepard and his Feelings twice.

The first time was on Elysium, because the moment he finished his beer, the feelings came back. Exactly thirty seconds later the building across from the bar exploded, and thirty seconds after that he was snatching a rifle off the hands of what he to this day swore was a batarian Special Intervention Unit commando.

The second time was on the SSV Normandy, in the cargo hold, the landscape of Eden Prime speeding past them, as he watched a turian Spectre named "Nihlus" say, "I move faster on my own." The feeling came back then, too, and wouldn't you know it: five minutes after that, Corporal Richard Jenkins was dead, half the colony looked razed, they saw a geth ship bigger than the Destiny Ascension (which somehow felt more real than the geth that'd poured out of it), and Nihlus had taken a bullet to the back of the head.

There was another turian there, apparently—that'd been the story from a dockworker on site and from the Alliance, too. Shepard never got to confirm that, though, because the mission ended when Gunnery Chief Ashley Williams—a tough sonuvabitch who'd just watched her whole squad bite it—got herself pulled into a Prothean Beacon. Shepard managed to pull her away but he ended up getting fused to it, or whatever the hell happened, and in the split second where he was able to maintain consciousness he saw—

(screams, flesh being ripped from bone, a cacophonous horn that tore open the sky, the footfalls of fleeing people no escape cannot be stopped CANNOT BE STOPPED)

…yeah. Whatever he saw, it fried his entire central nervous system—knocked him into a coma for six months. It took an extra four weeks for his memory to start functioning again, and by that point enough muscle mass had atrophied that he'd need serious physical therapy to walk and sprint and punch and shoot the way he used to. Then there was the fact a quadrillion dollar Prothean Beacon was destroyed on his watch; a Spectre was killed on his watch; a colony had pretty much been lost on his watch; and, damn, there was probably something else he was forgetting. The point was, the Alliance didn't think the Star of Terra on his uniform would save him from the press, from Parliament, and most importantly, from the Council—not while this "Saren Arterius" was a Spectre.

When Shepard could remember his own name, he was handed a piece of paper. The fact it came from a man he deeply respected, "Because I'm not letting those goddamn vultures get any satisfaction from this," didn't help at all.

Honorably discharged. You didn't make Spectre, kid. And while you were busy not making Spectre, we went ahead and unmade you as an N7, too.

Damn his feelings. Not because they'd let him down, but because they'd picked the worst way in the world to go about warning him. You couldn't even get in front of a psychologist with "feelings." You needed to actually go crazy for that, and the feelings—the Beacon, hell, life in general—they all left Shepard perfectly sane, just to really fuck with him.

Though, every now and again—at totally random times, in random places, with no consistency that he could see—Shepard sometimes doubted the "perfectly sane" part. Sometimes, out of the corner of his eye, he'd see people glow green. Just for a second, and never while he was directly looking at them, but that's what it seemed like.

Not the most interesting way to go crazy, but, maybe things got more interesting down the line.

2.

Shepard reassembled his cane, took a couple of tentative steps to stretch out his right knee, and stepped through Citadel Security. A maelstrom of people greeted him on the other side. End of the workday on the Wards, so the crowd was heavy and probably wouldn't die down for another couple of hours. His destination: Flux, a club with non-offensive music that served good zero proof drinks. There was an attempt at a casino there, too, but no, not going down that route. You didn't need a feeling to know that a Shepard and his money would quickly part.

Waiting for him, at the usual table, was the man who'd given him the discharge papers. And like every other time they'd met, the man stood up like he'd just realized, about thirty seconds earlier, that maybe CO's shouldn't invite their old XO's out for drinks.

"Shepard," David Anderson said. Sorry, Captain David Anderson. Still the most decorated officer in the Alliance, and that gap had only gotten wider after he'd saved a colony from the geth and some weird mutant plant (and the ExoGeni Corporation, too, not that the press was telling that part of the story).

Shepard took Anderson's hand and gave it as hard a squeeze as he could. Not because he was happy to see Anderson, but because you could only take so much pity from your mentor before the alcoholism started.

"Anderson," Shepard said. "Part of me thought you'd have to cancel. Last I heard, you were playing around on the Moon."

"Mmmph," Anderson said, "might have to cancel the next one, if that's what you're leading with. Looks pretty bad, being on a top-secret mission and having people say, 'Last I heard…'"

"One of your crew's gotta be an ANN source. Either that or your reports get sent to the wrong email."

"My money's on bastard in a white suit, but, this is a holy place. Let's forget I even mentioned him."

"Still think you summon him every time you say his name?"

"That man bends time and space, Commander. Feel free to pretend I'm lying, but you put me in a locked room some three hundred feet underground, he'd still find a way to give me a lecture."

They chuckled and sat down, but Anderson's smile didn't survive the descent.

"I just called you Commander, again, didn't I?"

Shepard did as convincing a shrug as he could manage. "What's the worst that could happen? I get thanked for my service? A round on the house?"

"You'd have to drink for that to happen."

"I drink plenty."

"I'm not giving you a hard time about it, god knows I'm not."

"Good, because the docs say eight litres of water a day. I fight with them enough as is."

"Mmm. Mmmm." Anderson glanced at the table, played around with a vile of blue liquid. "All right…I know a cliff when I see one. Let me back up." He looked at Shepard, his face neutral. "How are you doing, Shepard? I mean it: if you're fighting with doctors—"

"C'mon, Anderson, I'm just jerking you around." Shepard waved a hand across the table like that'd magically dispel the tension. "I'm not seeing any doctors."

"And that's not supposed to worry me?"

"I'd hope not—you've got a ship and a mission you're not technically on, I figure those things take priority."

"Twenty-eight years in the Navy, Shepard—I've gotten pretty good at multitasking."

"This isn't worth the effort." Shepard leaned forward. "You're not somebody that went out for milk when I was five and never came back. You don't owe me anything."

"I owe you a better life than the one you've got now."

"The VA? The Alliance? Maybe. You? No—no that's not how that all played out."

Anderson was going to say something—and Shepard had a pretty good idea what it was going to be—but he grabbed that vile of blue liquid instead. Anderson didn't drink, but he did when he met Shepard, and yeah—yeah, that was part of it. That was part of the problem with this whole thing.

"I'm not fighting you on this," Anderson said, putting the vile down. "But understand something: you don't get to pick what I feel guilty about."

"So long as you know it's all in your head, then fine." Shepard leaned back, looked to the side, then looked back at Anderson. "But let me say this, then, and we can move on. Notice what I just said there: we can move on. We've done this five times and, so help me god, this is the one where we leave smiling."

"I know what you're going to say," Anderson said, taking another sip. "Go ahead and say it, but trust me: I'm already thinking it."

"That feeling guilty about Saren causing this makes it seem like the guilt's got nothing to do with me? That what you think I'm about to say?"

Anderson hesitated, then took another sip. "That'd be it."

Shepard leaned back. "Well…good, now we can move on."

"Tried that four times already—seems like I don't have it in me."

"If I actually thought that was the whole situation, I wouldn't be coming here in the first place."

"Mmm…mmm."

Anderson finished his drink and Shepard shifted in his seat. Four times, yeah—this'd be the fifth. And the worst part was, it'd happened quicker this time. The dissolution: that point where the guilt got too much and two people who felt bad for each other figured all there was left to do was fight. There probably wouldn't be a sixth, but there would be a good, long talk in the mirror about how that shouldn't make Shepard feel relieved.

Shepard sighed. If there wasn't gonna be a sixth, then at least stick to the promise—stick to leaving on a smile.

"How're the kids?"

Anderson's eyebrow rose, over the rim of the vile. The look hung there for a second, but after some time and probably some effort on Anderson's part, a small—infinitesimal—smile broke over the horizon.

"More of them, now," he said. "Managed to swipe someone from the Corsairs, a Service Chief by the name of Jacob Taylor. But Alenko and Williams are doing all right."

"Williams still beating herself up over everything?"

"You said everything: you put two and two together yet? With her name?"

Shepard scratched at his chin. "Great—now I feel like an idiot."

"You figure it out?"

"No, I just know it's gonna be obvious."

"What's the first thing that comes to mind when I say, Shanxi?"

Shepard smacked his own forehead. "God, I knew it—I knew it was obvious." He let out a whistle. "General Williams' granddaughter. Jesus, so that name's still a pariah."

"If it isn't, nobody's bothered to tell her."

"Between the two of you, then, there's enough guilt on that ship to destabilize the drive core."

"Mmm. Mmmm."

Shepard grimaced. "That's me ribbing you—that's just all that was."

Anderson looked out over Flux, out towards the great big windows that showed you all the Ward arms and just a peak at the bright purple nebula. "Jokes end up being true, every now and again," he said.

So much for the plan—a sentence Shepard had gotten used to saying since the Lieutenant Commander bars had to go in the drawer.

There was a way around this, if he wanted to go that route. It'd take a monumental amount of shots to the gut and a hefty helping of "Nobody cares about your tiny sacrifices, Shepard," but…he was still a marine, if by "marine" you meant caring about whether human colonies got some peace and quiet. Didn't matter if Anderson was right and this Saren asshole was controlling the geth—it'd be true even if the Council was right and the geth were just attacking of their own accord (though admitting the Council could be right was almost enough to make Shepard believe Anderson. Almost, but not quite enough). You care about other people, son, then you do what you can to help them see tomorrow. If that's making sure the drive core doesn't destabilize then, by-gum, you do your damn duty, marine.

So Shepard said, "Can I see her?"

Anderson turned his head so quick it might as well have altered the Citadel's spin. "See her?"

"The Normandy. You're technically still test driving it, aren't you? Not like there are any big secrets aboard." Shepard leaned forward. "Besides, worst thing they can do is court martial you for letting a civie run around in the hardware. Unless, that is, you've got some big mission that nobody's supposed to know about."

Anderson was supposed to look relieved, like Shepard was putting in serious effort to mend a city's worth of broken bridges. If he said no then, great, everybody could win—so long as Anderson didn't look the way he was looking now.

Anderson was looking like Shepard had just cancelled his birthday.

"You know I'd get you in if you wanted."

"So what's with the hesitation?"

Anderson shook his head. "I can't for the life me of understand why you'd want to."

"Hey," Shepard levied a finger right at Anderson's head, but without gritting his teeth (somehow) he managed to turn that into an open palm, ready to be shook, "I don't get to pick what you feel guilty about, you don't get to pick what regs I want to break. Deal?"

Anderson stared at the hand, and for a second it looked like this was going to be it, another failed mission on Shepard's part. But…Anderson eventually took that hand, and while he didn't smile, he did say the golden words.

"Deal," Anderson said.

They got up from the table and both men reached for their omni-tools. Shepard waved Anderson off—reminding him Anderson had paid for the last three attempts—and told him they'd meet outside. Shepard just wanted to tip the bartender in person, since pretty much every other bar in the Milky Way would tell a teetotaller to pound sand.

That was good, because once Shepard started to leave, he noticed a turian on one of the TV screens, tuned to Citadel NewsNet. Or, at least, he saw the name: Saren Arterius. That would've put Anderson over the edge again, seeing the Spectre still running around, still raking in accolades even after the Alliance accused him of orchestrating the Eden Prime Massacre (hell, half the accolades were probably because humanity had accused him of that, and all the evidence disappeared with that quarian Anderson had tried to track down). Frankly, even though Shepard tried to avoid getting invested in any of that, he would've been fine not seeing Saren's face too.

But, this time, he couldn't ignore Saren. Because even though the TV was across the club and, the way Shepard was walking, he only got a partial side glance, there was something unmistakable happening to that image.

Saren was glowing green.

And unlike all those other times Shepard saw a glowing green person, no matter how many times he looked away, the green stayed were it was.

Shepard left Flux with the vague understanding that he'd be having one of those feelings again, if his head wasn't busy trying to implode into a black hole.

3.

Shepard could guess how most of the Normandy's crew would react. His hair and beard had grown out a fair amount since the hospital discharge, and there was the limp and the cane on top of that, so whatever they remembered him looking like, that wasn't the Shepard they were gonna see. The first few crewmembers would notice some transient-looking man shuffling along with the Captain and think, not my department, if the CO's gone crazy then Pressley or Alenko will take care of it. But then they'd overhear Anderson use his name, or maybe one or both of Alenko and Williams would be in the CIC—given that they both saw him just before he got to go home, they might make an educated guess. Either way, someone would hear "Shepard" and, before you knew it, a game of telephone would start up on the Navy's most expensive frigate. By the time he got to Deck Two, everyone would know, and then Shepard would get to decide if he regretted doing this or if he'd survive the process relatively unscathed.

Turns out, that's pretty much exactly what happened. Anderson told Pressley who he was letting on the ship and then the human capacity for language took over from there. Shepard didn't need a feeling to realize how things were going to play out. Sometimes, you just got an intuitive understanding of most military people react, because you'd been around enough reactions from military people to notice a pattern.

As they walked down the CIC, with Pressley being the only one who around the galaxy map who did something other than stare, Shepard said, "I feel like I'm either the Prime Minister or in a morgue."

"A lot of these people felt pretty secure," Anderson said, "knowing you'd be their XO."

"I could hardly name a third of them."

"You'd have learned them all by the end."

Getting out of this unscathed was…maybe gonna be more of a challenge than he thought.

The marine contingent—the people he was really dreading seeing—split their numbers between decks Two and Three, same as when they left Arcturus for Eden Prime. The marines, they were a bit more proactive in surrounding Shepard—though only slight. Minimum safe distance, it looked like: enough to get a good look at the zoo animal, but not so much that a conversation was going to break out.

Except for the new guy (almost said FNG but, you lose the right to that lingo once you leave), who gave everyone else a look that bordered on judgemental, before standing in front of Shepard and snapping off the crispest salute he'd seen since…well, since Chief Williams at the "Thank You For Your Service (Now Leave Through The Back Door)" ceremony.

"Commander—uh, Shepard," the man said. "Service Chief Jacob Taylor. Honor to meet you, sir. Heard all about how the Alliance screwed you over."

Shepard paused, then extended a hand (made sure to smile, too), and said, "Pretty sure it was old age, Chief. I just can't take Prothean Beacons the way I used to."

Jacob ended his salute and shook back.

"Heh, well, based on what I heard? The fact you managed to survive that with your brain in one piece is pretty much a miracle."

"Who says I did? You? Or the four krogan in clown make-up dancing in the background?"

"All right, all right—glad to see you're taking everything in stride, sir. Uh, Shepard." Jacob looked over his shoulder, then pointed towards some lockers. "I've gotta get back to my duties, but appreciate you taking the time to talk."

"Good luck to you, Chief. With Anderson at the helm, you're in good hands."

"Don't I know it." He looked at Anderson, fired off a salute just as crisp as the last one. "Sir."

"Dismissed, Chief," Anderson said. And when Jacob left, he turned to Shepard. "Good kid. Biotic, too. Comes in handy—Saren's got krogan, on top of everything else."

"With what money?"

"Damned if I know. Shepard, I'm this close to going to the Shadow Broker."

"There's throwing in the towel and then there's whatever that is."

"If you know exactly what STG needs to hear for some support on this then, please, I'll hire you as a consultant right on this goddamn floor—right now, before we take another step. But Saren's got pull and the Council—"

"They're protecting their brand, Anderson," Shepard said, turning to face Anderson full-on. "Saren could've been holding Nihlus's severed head and they'd still go to bat for him. But since we're about a hundred-percent short on evidence I don't think they need all that much prodding to keep the upstarts from snooping."

"I thought we agreed, you don't get to tell me what I feel guilty about," Anderson said, glaring.

"This isn't guilt this is me—this…" Shepard looked around, at everybody who was watching the homeless man yell at Humanity's Greatest Hero. "Let's not fight in front of the kids."

"I'm glad you're well enough to joke, Shepard," Anderson said, not missing a beat. "But some friendly advice: stow the dismissiveness around the regulars."

There was a snarky retort in there, somewhere—but that wasn't the reason why Shepard was here. So he zipped his lip and pretended Anderson was legally allowed to give him orders again.

"Read you loud and clear, Anderson."

It took a second, but Anderson's face softened. And then the tour started up again. Another regular—Dr. Karin Chakwas, the medical officer who'd done what she could for Shepard all those months ago—was busy keeping another patient fit for active duty, so loop back to her if they could. Flight Lieutenant Jeff Moreau might make an appearance, too, though you had to remember how he wasn't the most mobile person in the Alliance. That left Deck Three, and it didn't take a genius to guess this, but Shepard figured that'd be where the rest of the marine contingent was waiting for them.

Confirmation, the moment he and Anderson stepped off the elevator.

"A-tench-hur!" Following that, eleven pairs of boots scrapped the Normandy's cargo hold floor; eleven arms snapped into place just below brow level; and eleven bodies formed a tunnel leading from the elevator to the Mako. At the front was Staff Lieutenant Kaidan Alenko, who made eye contact with Shepard but held the salute a few seconds longer. When he pulled away from the line, he fired off another salute as soon as he was standing face to face, eye-to-eye, with Shepard; everything was plastic and obvious and as brittle-looking as a doll house, until Alenko lowered his hand and held it for Shepard to shake.

"Commander," Alenko said. "Welcome back to the Normandy, sir."

Shepard stared at the hand (can't just take it and pretend this is okay, can you?) but, eventually, completed the circuit. The marines just inside Shepard's peripheral vision let out a breath when he did, so let that be another reminder that he was doing this for them, not because he actually thought he was gonna get healed.

"Lieutenant," Shepard said. "Running a tight ship, I see."

"Barely keeping pace, sir," he said, taking a split second to look at Anderson. "Have to say…most of us expected never to see you again."

"A fair expectation, all things considered."

"Well…glad the odds were in our favour, then." Alenko turned to address the marines. "At ease—let's not crowd the man, all right?"

"For your own safety," Shepard said, over Alenko's shoulder. "Public shuttles still haven't gotten the hang of temperature control—or air filters."

Some chuckles as the marines dispersed, including—yeah, including Chief Williams. Alenko, the bastard, noticed where Shepard's eyes had landed.

"Happy to put on a show for you," he said, turning back to Shepard, "but I think you can guess where the idea came from."

"Along with a warning to keep it strictly confidential," Shepard said.

"Aye, Commander."

Shepard watched Chief Williams head to a workbench over on the far side of the cargo hold. He'd been on the bad side of the Glasgow Coma Scale for the Chief's introduction to the rest of the crew, the final decision to let her fill Jenkins' spot, and any other growing pains between Eden Prime and now, so Shepard had no idea whether Williams fit in with anyone or if they heard her last name once and decided, too bad for you—the world's not finished kicking your family while they're down, just yet. Probably didn't matter all that much either way, given how he had ears and remembered what Anderson said perfectly fine. Enough guilt between the two of them to disrupt the drive core, well, Anderson hadn't said anything to contradict that, had he?

"I'll keep that between the three of us," Shepard said.

"I'd…" Alenko paused, looked at Williams, turned back to Shepard. "Giving out advice on this isn't…it isn't really my wheelhouse. But I think it'd be better if you spoke freely, sir. Just my opinion, I might be completely wrong on that."

Shepard was keeping an eye on Williams during all that. She'd kept her head down since she reached the bench.

"Understood, Lieutenant," he said.

"I've gotta get back to my duties, but," Alenko held out his hand again, "it really was a pleasure seeing you again, Shepard. Only serving one mission under you is…well, I learned enough on Eden Prime to last a lifetime."

"Appreciated," Shepard said, shaking Alenko's hand again. "I knew you'd be a damn fine officer the moment we hit dirt. I like to think Anderson keeping you around means I was right."

"You were," Anderson said. He dismissed Alenko and placed a hand on Shepard's shoulder in the same movement. "Letting you on this ship, without either of us getting in trouble—FLEETCOM would expect me to keep an eye on you. Every step, every conversation. So," he took his hand off, started moving towards the engine room, "try not to leave Deck Three while I check in with the engineers, all right?"

Shepard should've felt some relief at that, but he managed an appreciative smile anyways—a convincing enough one, by the looks of it. "Thank you, sir," he said.

And then it was Shepard, a cargo hold that'd somehow gotten narrower over the past five minutes…and Chief Williams, who still had her head down at her workstation like someone had tethered her eyeballs to it.

His cane and his right leg scraped against the floor, and in the too-quiet bubble that was the cargo hold, that noise echoed louder than any engine system, any GUARDIAN power station, any H-VAC vent, you name it. So everybody on his flight path would have to force their eyes to avoid following the weird, foreign noise as it wobbled its way past them. About half did; the other half got about a second of staring in before the voice of their parents told them not to stare. Even when Shepard put more weight on his right arm—even with the cane sounding like those…zombies on Eden Prime were clawing through the floor—as the "good" half gave in and stared at the vagabond, one set of eyes never rose to the challenge.

It wasn't until Shepard was standing a foot behind Gunnery Chief Ashley Williams that she turned and fired off a salute so fine-tuned—so fall-morning crisp—that it'd make Chief Taylor kill himself in embarrassment.

"Sir!" she said, still holding that salute. "Didn't expect you to come aboard. Hope we kept the ship in good order. The crew's been running nonstop."

With Alenko, you went formal because that'd been how the conversation had started—simple as that. With Williams, though? Shepard got the impression that anything less than cold, efficient, and military would break something. Keep your distance, or painful thoughts—painful enough that, some days, you thought you'd need synthetic help to suppress them—would storm the beaches and take France. Familiar territory, the whole thing was very, very familiar territory; and that might've been reason enough to screw playing soldier and treat the situation like actual human beings.

Trying to exorcise a load of guilt so densely packed it could create a singularity, well, that was a better reason to drop the act. So put those people skills to good use, Shepard, and sort this thing out. Do it right: you would've made sacrifices if you'd been standing here in your BDU's, don't get bothered by the fact you were now doing it in your civies.

"At ease, Chief," Shepard said, returning the salute. "From what I'm seeing, this ship's running better now than it was six months ago."

"Doubt that, sir," Williams said. "If fatigue hasn't already set it, the loss of a decorated XO would've put our drilling and training behind schedule."

"Drilling and training? That's one thing on port call, but I bet you haven't had more than two minutes outside an active deployment."

"Have to disagree with you there, sir." Williams was standing rigid, arms behind her back. "Haven't had more than two minutes of port call, you're right. But drilling and training don't take vacation."

"You're driving yourself pretty hard, there."

"Whole crew is, sir. It's what we signed up for."

"I know Anderson. He's no Sea Stalin."

Williams finally made eye contact. "Not sure what you're implying, sir."

Shepard kept a sigh to himself. "I'm saying that, even if I was a hardass, Anderson would've kicked my ass right out the airlock. He knows you don't get results by cracking a whip—you just get bodies that way."

Williams maintained eye contact for a few more seconds (it even looked like she'd relaxed her shoulders, if you could call anything about her posture "relaxed"), but then someone shot a bolt of electricity through her again, and she was back to impersonating a recruitment poster.

"Not my place to comment, sir. I'm just the enlisted advisor."

"You are? Congratulations, Chief—Anderson made a good choice."

"Lack of numbers more than anything else, sir."

Shepard didn't kill his sigh this time.

"I've got some duties that need squaring away," Williams said, not reacting on iota to anything outside her own head. "Good seeing you, sir. I hope Anderson gave you the full tour."

She started turning around, and that was when Shepard's arm caught out and grabbed her shoulder. There was a second where marine training nearly kicked in and, well, getting flipped head-over-heels with only two thirds the muscle mass you used to have wouldn't end well in any universe—but either Williams had better self-control than an asari monk or that shudder had nothing to do with CQB instincts.

"Chief, hold on a second," Shepard said, when he was sure he wasn't about to lose one of his hips. "Just…" he checked to make sure nobody was eavesdropping and, realizing that was a losing battle, blocked them out as best he could, "…understand that nobody—and especially nobody on this ship—blames you for what happened. You understand me? There's a short list of people who maybe fit the bill, but none of them wear an Alliance uniform."

Finally, a sign of life. Colour flowed into her eyes and Shepard could tell (it was pretty damn easy to tell) that it was being heralded by angry, malicious Jericho trumpets—but it was something goddammit, instead of this porcelain hyper-polished bullshit that just meant a mental breakdown was two or three firefights away, depending on when the next marine took a bullet somewhere medi-gel couldn't heal. Anger was fine—he could work with pissed off, since he'd put up a timeshare there the moment he remembered who the hell he was—because at least nobody could pretend that was okay. Nobody could pretend that was functional and let something radioactive fester.

But then the porcelain was back: faster than a frigate getting slung by a Mass Relay, the anger turned grey and we were back to textbook protocol.

"Have to disagree with you again, sir," Williams said. "Scuttlebutt isn't very quiet on this ship."

"Scuttlebutt?" Shepard looked around. No, no he was waving his cane around now, challenging scuttlebutt to show its damn face. "You want me to test that? You want me to turn around and start screaming, hey, anybody here blame Chief Williams? You don't think I'd get enough pity marks for some goddamn honesty from the crew?"

"Regs say I can't issue orders to a civie," Williams said. A lightning-quick flash of colour that was swallowed up by the grey abyss just as quickly. "Sir," she added.

All the colour Williams was refusing to show…it was leaking into Shepard.

"Regs…fine. All right—regs." He took a wobbly step closer. "What's the marine in front of me thinking right now? What's the person who was invited into a conversation think, while she's got the chance to actually do something about it?"

Another flash of anger—it pushed against the grey and managed to stay alive for more than a second. But even then, grey swirls invaded every edge and what happened next was like getting yelled at by a Codex entry.

"Couldn't tell you, sir," Williams said. "Nobody got briefed on this visit."

Williams turned back to her workstation, and right then and there, the universe split in two. In one universe, Shepard kept to the path. Not without some effort, but, he kept to the path: the one where you checked your surroundings, doubled back on what the last person who spoke said, read the room before opening your mouth. What'd he come here for? To exorcise guilt. What'd Williams done? Prepared a whole ceremony to make an ex-marine feel like he was defending humanity again. What'd she done after that? Let everyone that wasn't her take front stage, earn the credit, get recognized for a gesture they probably didn't even understand. What was she doing now? Trapping herself. This was punishment—this was starting a fight with someone because you wanted them to lay into you.

You didn't need special feelings from childhood to see that. You just needed basic, good old-fashioned empathy—empathy and maybe five minutes of talk. Once upon a time, there was a Shepard that could pull both those things off at least as well as the average person in the galaxy.

That was a universe where his trip to the Normandy would actually make the world run a bit smoother. And given what was coming—what Shepard was destined to learn was coming—any little bit helped.

The other universe was the one where Shepard did this:

Raising his cane as Williams was turning, he brought it down as hard as he could on the M-9 predator pistol just at the edge of the work bench. It launched into the air like it and the table were made of elastic; it probably did twelve or thirteen full rotations before it ricocheted off the ground and buried itself behind some crates. The bubble of silence that was the cargo hold amplified everything from the cane shaving ten months off its life to the bits of pistol that exploded from the strike. The cane hitting the gun and table and then snapping back in Shepard's hands sounded like somebody had hit a sheet of metal with a cat o' nine tails.

Everybody three ports over watched as Shepard made it all a hell of a lot worse.

"You wanna know something about guilt, Williams? You wanna learn a secret? It's selfish. It's a fucking schoolyard emotion for kids who pushed little Timmy off the slide and got caught by teacher. You think any of this is about you? Maybe the person who got his fucking brains sucked out has a better claim to being the victim here." Shepard smacked his cane against the floor, the strike sounding like a Claymore shotgun going off. His head pounded in rhythm with the soundwaves. "I HAD TO USE FUCKING VISUAL CUES TO REMEMBER MY NAME! For Christ's sake only one of us is still in the fucking NAVY! So if you wanna be a victim just like me, STICK TO YOUR FUCKING LANE. You got a Grandpappy that everybody hates—you don't need MY LIFE too."

"SHEPARD! Stand the hell down, son, before you make a bigger ass of yourself than you already have."

Anderson—and with that, Shepard was already working as fast as he could to get to the elevator. He caned the controls to the point that paint chipped off, but that didn't close the doors fast enough. A blue and gold Alliance uniform barreled into the elevator and trapped Shepard inside. The walls were too damn close—nowhere to back into as Anderson jabbed a finger right into Shepard's face. He might as well've jabbed an ice pick through Shepard's eyes, the way the front of his head was trying to crawl away and die.

"You don't ever raise your goddamn voice with my crew," he said. "What the fuck has gotten into you?"

"Muscle atrophy," Shepard said, "or maybe I'm just real fucking tired of people thinking my suffering's for fucking sale."

"That's what this is? That's what you think? Jesus, Shepard, are you hearing yourself?"

"Am I? You first—Captain!" Shepard smashed his cane against the wall again. "I don't get to pick what you feel guilty about? Why the fuck not? Last I checked—and I have to check every time I mount a staircase—nobody except me got fused to an alien beacon!"

Anderson took a step back—briefly—before getting right back in Shepard's face again. "You really think that's how this works? You really think the rest of us don't have to live with our part in this? Or that we shouldn't care enough about what we did to feel something? Goddammit, Shepard: listen to yourself."

"You said that already. You fucking said that already." Shepard's head felt like it'd exploded, like someone had actually put two rounds through his forehead and it hurt so bad his body refused to let him die. "So let me repeat myself: when you finally get honest about how I'm just collateral in your war against Saren, I'll take this fucking pity parade a lot more goddamn motherfucking seriousl—"

The elevator opened, and waiting for Shepard and Anderson was a turian. Not just any turian: this turian wore a blue, red, and gold robe and had an asari in blue and white armour flanking him. Just behind that asari was a salarian in similar armour. And behind that salarian was another turian, who's bone-white armour made him look like a ghoul.

The turian in front was Councilor Sparatus; the one in the back was the son of a bitch himself, Saren Arterius.

4.

Saren, naturally, was the first one to speak.

"I underestimated you, Shepard," he said. "You're the first human to realize the truth: everything Captain Anderson does is to settle a score of his own imagining."

Sparatus raised a talon, but that was probably more to silence Anderson than to muzzle Saren.

"What are you doing here, Shepard?" the Councilor said. "You were discharged after Eden Prime."

"This is an Alliance vessel, Councilor," Anderson said, taking a step out of the elevator. "He's welcome anywhere an Alliance flag is flown."

"And if I contact Ambassador Udina? Ask him if he cleared a civilian to enter an advanced stealth frigate?" Sparatus's mandibles clicked. "Would he say the same as you?"

"No," Anderson said, "because he's smart enough to know Ambassador's don't make defense policy—and even if they did, the captain's word is law."

"So long as you're willing to take full responsibility this time," Saren said, "I don't see what concern of it is ours if two failed Spectres have a meeting."

"Anyone ever tell you you're ugly as sin?" Shepard said.

"Several times, yes." Saren's mandibles clicked like they were trying to bicycle kick off his face. "I've yet to be told why I should remotely care."

"I said I'd show up if we skipped the dick-measuring contests," the asari Spectre said. "So far, we've got three going at once. There's a slaver ring I could be pulverizing at the moment, Councilor—I'd advise you deploy your resources efficiently."

"Spectres don't make demands of the Council," Sparatus said.

"We're not," the salarian Spectre said. "We're just doing a cost-benefit analysis for you."

Shepard didn't bother getting any satisfaction from this—the exit beckoned. But, the moment he tried to walk around the Councilor, he felt talons grip his shoulder. Turning his head, he saw Sparatus sigh and shake his head.

"Clearly we've gotten off on the wrong foot," he said. "Again. I'm here because I wanted to inspect the turian components of the Normandy. And, yes, I have permission from your Admiral Hackett."

"I'm sure you gave him every opportunity to say no," Anderson said, crossing his arms.

"Don't antagonize him," the asari said.

"Anderson, following the advice of his betters?" Saren said. "What is your human saying? Hell would have truly frozen over?"

"Enough," Sparatus said. He looked at Shepard again. "Since you're here, though, I can take the opportunity to set the record straight. Despite what you may have been told—and despite Saren's…needling—the Council didn't terminate your Spectre application because of the Beacon."

Shepard eyed Sparatus. This, two, could go one of two ways. Shepard was long past caring about any platitudes from hypocrites, like people who preached "goodwill, cooperation, and transparency" at the same press conferences—no, literally, the exact same ones—where they announced their unaccountable paramilitary arm had blown up another "pirate freighter".

The other way might get violent, based on how the day was going.

"We simply didn't think we could sufficiently integrate you after a major injury—and recovery period," Sparatus said.

Shepard nearly broke the handle of his cane off. Yeah, that'd be the violent one. If Saren opened his mouth again then, mastermind of the geth attacks or not, there'd be two less turians leaving this ship—one way or another.

Shepard looked away, let the world bob and weave in line with his pounding headache; but Sparatus's voice prevented him from leaving outright.

"I'm telling you this, not to reopen a wound, but hopefully to close one. You were a fine soldier, Commander Shepard. If circumstances were different, I know Nihilus's recommendation would have seen you join the Spectre ranks."

Shepard still looked away from the Councilor.

"The Beacon…it's caused you a great deal of pain, I know that. I'm hopeful that what I told you emphasizes the importance of letting it go. For your own sake—so you can finally heal."

Shepard couldn't keep looking away—his head swivelled and he was ready to test just how free the speech was on the Citadel. Except—

(green)

—except the Councilor was glowing green. Saren was, too, same as before. Nobody else was: not Anderson, not the other two Spectres, not the sailors in the CIC. Shepard blinked and blinked again, but, that piercing, sickly green still coated the two turians. The world outside the shimmering green aura grew black, like nothing except green mattered anymore.

Shepard felt nauseous; whatever was happening in his head, it was sending acid all throughout his body.

Sparatus didn't seem to notice. A hand was extended towards Shepard, a glowing ball that ate the world and drew the refuse into its core.

"On behalf of the Citadel Council, I hope we can put that incident behind us," Sparatus said.

Shepard felt a hand close around his own and—

(screams, flesh being ripped from bone, a cacophonous horn that tore open the sky, the footfalls of fleeing people a pitch-black planet with something evil, something born from a time so far past that to put a number to it would rip galactic myth upon galactic myth asunder, something metal and covered in tentacles and perched atop a pile of corpses unfathomably high)

—he's in the Council Chambers, surrounded by flames and bodies. Behind him is Tevos and Valern, waiting patiently as a fourth person inputs a command into a console that—

(had been right under their noses this whole time had been right there in the Chamber all along the keys to the apocalypse right there, right in the heart of the heart of galactic civilization)

—had been far too difficult to locate, far too taxing to locate. Improvements would have to be made for the next cycle. It was something they could assist with, after liquidating the keepers and anyone else who would render the harvest inefficient.

"How long is this expected to take?" he says—

(sparatus said he said it through councilor sparatus's lips)

—keeping an eye on the glowing purple nebula leaking through the Tower's windows.

"The harvest?" Saren says. "That will take as long as it needs to. The Protheans tried to resist, and succeeded only in wasting lives. The four of us will work to ensure that doesn't happen again." Saren hesitates above the console, shakes his head, then begins typing again. "If you're referring to the commands, then, well…I would say we're right…on…ti—"

"Wait," it was Tevos. She's clutching her head, her eyes aimed at the ground. She—

(can't resist I tried, Tevos, spirits I TRIED but they can't be stopped can't be HELD OFF we're there's and there's alone we CANNOT RESIST)

—lurches forward, her other hand outstretched. "W-what…what we're doing is…is madness. The Reapers, they…they won't spare us—they won't spare any of us. Anyone! We know this is true—we can hear ourselves screaming that it's—"

(too late TOO LATE they have us THEY HAVE US COMPLETELY)

"Sparatus," Saren says "restrain your colleague. We've delayed this cycle long enough. The Reapers will succeed, and they will know we are the ones that brought organic civilization its salvation."

He grabs Tevos's outstretched arm and is shoved aside by a biotic field. He lands on his back as Tevos shoves aside Valern with equal force. She bears down on Saren until—

(go go PLEASE Tevos you were always the strongest of us PLEASE fix this please SAVE US)

—she collapses to her knees, blood gushing from her nose. Saren is there, pointing a gun at her head. But he simply holds it at eye level as more and more blood gushes from her nose and—

(no no NO NO Tevos Spirits NO)

—something inside her skull pops. The blood stops flowing. She rolls lifelessly to the side. Valern, blood now gushing from a wound in his head, regains his feet.

"Unfortunate," he says.

"Such is all our fates," Saren says, "if we delay this any further."

He stands, limps his way past Tevos's body, and stands next to Saren. His mandibles click against the side of his head as Saren's fingers stutter, stop, start up again.

One last second of hesitation…

"Do it, Saren," he says. "We're close—so utterly, utterly close. Do it."

(darkness…cold…can't…can't…)

Saren pushes a final button. The ground shakes; the nebula's light wobbles. A black circle envelops all outside the windows. A horn that pierces skull and bone sounds out from the abyss—

(i…spirits…i…)

A metal tentacle, freed from its throne above a pitch-black planet, above a pile of corpses unfathomably high, reaches through the circle.

"To…quote the humans," Saren says, eyes growing as black as the portal they have just opened, "…the Reapers are here. Hallelujah…hallelujah…"

Shepard.

SHEPARD!

Shepard blinked, felt the asari Spectre prying his hand off the Councilor's and—and that was Anderson shouting the world was being spat out from the green all-consuming—

Saren—

The Reapers are here. Hallelujah…hallelujah.

Shepard felt the gravity of the world pull him downwards, down away from the light, just as the cane in his right hand snapped.

He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

Hey folks!

So if my atomic wrist-watch is correct, it is officially October, which means Wal-Mart can start putting out Christmas decorations. Personally, I think September is spookier than October ever could be, but the Council of Holiday's won't invite me to their meetings anymore. Not since the incident with Flag Day.

But anyways, this idea popped into my head after a discussion with Brian Taylor, who if you're following the mutant nightmare that is Lazarus Shunned isn't my beta reader, but he's definitely the guy who I bounce most of my ideas off before shoving them down people's throats (thanks as always, Brian!). Stephen King parody's are always good for some Halloween fun, right? So I figured, eh, write out a little bit and see where you go.

Yeah, well, that sort of care-free "what's the worst that could happen?" attitude is how Lazarus Shunned started too, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised that we're already 8,000 words in and it's just Chapter 1. But, uh, yeah - that's my convoluted way of saying this is supposed to be a Halloween story, we'll see if it *stays* that way, and uh...yeah. Hope you enjoy it, and if you're reading this, thanks for checking it out (and indulging me as I add to the word count)! I hope you're enjoying it so far!

Uh, it says here in my notes I've gotta plug Lazarus Shunned one more time. The current arc is kicking my ass so I'm letting it percolate a bit before diving into Part III. But it'll be updated soon, I hope! Thanks, again, to everyone who's following that disaster - I really appreciate it.

Hopefully this lil' story here will be a quick, fun exercise. I mean, it's not like King's known for writing stories that grow and expand and etc etc until you could kill a grizzly bear with them!

...wait sorry The Stand is *how* long?