The Dead Zone Chapter 4, a Mass Effect + Dead Zone Crossover fanfic

Chapter 4: Shepard's Ladder

He felt it—the moment he got far enough past the diplomat's offices on the Presidium—he felt it: he really should've waited a day before doing this.

Was that a stupid thing to think with the apocalypse just about to bum-rush them? Probably, but exhaustion was a powerful thing. It snuck up on you, weakened your defenses with guerilla attacks, planted sleeper cell thoughts that ruptured like a volcano the moment they sensed you were vulnerable. His legs could barely move, but the real problem was the realization he'd made just five minutes away from the library. Your brain said it was holding you to trusting Vasir, Shepard, but what it really meant was: I don't trust her, and eventually, you won't either.

(because you and your brain are two separate things, right?)

She wasn't green—sure. Neither was Barla, except he was an agent of the Shadow Broker, and that name told you all you really needed to know about his employer, didn't it? And Vasir was a Spectre for Christ's sake! He'd interacted with exactly one other Spectre in his life, and the bastard had slaughtered a colony and was one "Conduit" away from unleashing literal Hell on the galaxy. Sorry, but at what point did Vasir expect Shepard to forget the company she kept?

(around the time you saw she wasn't green)

Even in his own damn head, that sounded mockingly sarcastic.

But fine, you don't trust her because she's a Spectre. Fine—would've made perfect sense in most other contexts. But right now—

(you want to be useful)

—Shepard was, hold on, what was that? He wanted to be useful? No, the problem here was they had a limited timeframe. Barla figured someone in Udina's office would blab to the market as soon as Vasir's recording was played, and as far as worst-case scenarios went, that was a reasonable assumption to make. But Shepard probably had until the disk was publicly taken to the Council Chambers. Sparatus would squirm and the press and diplomats would hear something at least a few of them had longed to hear, and then—especially then—enough people would start plugging into the information market to cause a ruckus. At that point, they'd be on the wrong side of the wave, and that was why Shepard had to take the risk and trust a goddamn Spectre.

(and not because she gave you something to do?)

Gave him something to do? Like what, go to the library? If he actually wanted to play superhero, he'd have asked for a bigger job.

(and that's why you're dragging your feet, metaphorically. she didn't give you a big task so you know she's hiding things. and you know she's hiding things because an honest person would've realized how everything is riding on you)

Are you the crazy voice? Or is it this one I'm using right now?

(you think crazy people can tell?)

Crazy people don't know they're crazy—everyone knows that.

(and i'm sure we all find that incredibly comforting to think)

Fine—fine. This is what exhaustion got you. At the end of the day, he had a job and a shot-clock. Next time the Three Spaceketeers met he'd have a word about workload. Until then—

(you've got the visions, she's got the working legs)

—Shepard was on the cusp of a headache so big it'd stop the Citadel from spinning.

He took a seat on a bench and realized how heavy he'd been breathing. Just to get his mind off things—just to distract himself from whatever the hell that was—he watched for green people. Just one, wandering around—just one. A turian C-SECer with a scowl on his face the size of that Mass Relay statue…hell it was as large as a real one. Shepard couldn't tell if it was the same cop from earlier, the one dealing with the hanar preacher—

(does it spread? is it like a virus? if it did that cop'd be next to get sick, wouldn't he? hey, how many green people've you been around today?)

—so that was enough people watching. That was…that was enough that…yeah. That was enough.

He ignored all the biometric warning labels on his omni-tool and injected some medi-gel. It cured his headache immediately, which was why you weren't supposed to do that.

It gave Shepard an extra spring in his step, too, which was good. Combined with his rushing heart rate, he made it to the library faster than anyone with one leg should have done.

The big library in Zakera Ward was busy, probably busier than it should've been—whatever the hell that thought meant. Shepard shook his head and walked up to the nearest librarian: an asari woman suspending about twenty datapads in the air with her biotics, all of them in neat rows of about four. Shepard worked his way into her vision so he didn't startle her, but it sure looked like she heard him coming, the way she was smiling before she even turned her head. Must've been the cane: the library had strips of carpet at the intersection of each genre and Shepard was dragging his cane along like the static was his power source.

"How can I help you today, sir?" she said. Two columns of books floated over her shoulders like cartoon angels and devils, if those angels and devils took the shape of gunmetal-grey skyscrapers.

Shepard cleared his throat and tried to remember how thick "Johnny Smith's" accent was.

"Heya, how're you doing? Uh, I was here a lil' while ago lookin' for uh, Protheen (m'I saying that right?) information. I'm a bit new round these parts so I was wonderin' if you'd direct me to the appropriate city block."

"Are you looking for anything specific?" An omni-tool appeared. "We've tried to avoid putting all our Prothean information into its own section. Not entirely my decision, but, the idea is to increase interest in other alien cultures that might have been contemporaneous with them."

"Contemporaneous, eh?" Shepard shifted his weight away from his cane leg, since it was screaming at him. "We figurin' the Protheens weren't alone in the universe?"

"Hardly, sir! In fact, there's some suggestion that the Protheans may have incorporated cultural practices from other species. The question, of course, is the extent to which this reflects the Protheans discovering these practices after the fact versus learning them directly through cultural exchange, but leading scholars seem fairly convinced it's more of the latter than we've previously suspected."

"Huh…any idea what happened to these, err, contemporaneous cultures?"

"None, I'm afraid." The woman moved her omni-tool closer. "But if you're looking for information on Prothean culture, there are some pieces dedicated to that question, among others."

(like if other species got massacred by the reapers too?)

"Weeeeeeell I was lookin' more for some info on their tech," Shepard said, "but you've gone and piqued what little ackey-demic interest I still have."

"Oh! Well information on Prothean technology is here—" she pointed on her map, "—which, understandably, takes up most of that section. Some of the datapads I'm tending to right now are headed to the Ancient Xenoculture section—the area I would've sent you to, based on what you were asking—so, if you'd like, I can curate some book or article suggestions for you while I'm there."

"I'd be pretty dang pleased of that, ma'am," Shepard said.

"Any specific inquires I can search for?"

(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)

"Anythin' you got on religious practices, that'd be...well I'm tryin' to get worldly, so that'd go a long way."

"Of course!"

"Wanna keep my eyes open, though, too so let's go with some entertainin' stuff. Anything 'bout the end o' the world? Call me interested."

"I can certainly look for that, sir." The woman's smile was genuine enough to melt Shepard's heart. She was the type of person who looked at everyone who came through those library doors the same way: like she would've personally invited them in and was tickled pink that she didn't have to. This galaxy was too good for people like that—maybe he was tired, but Shepard could cry right about now, knowing the "end o' the world" was gonna mean the end of this librarian, too.

So "Johnny Smith" put on a smile of his own and said, "You're right there makin' my day, ma'am. Two birds'n one bush, I owe ya a million."

"Not at all, sir," the woman said. "What name should I put with this request?"

"Johnny Smith, ma'am." He held out his hand, shook hers. "Proprietor of a lithium mine, you believe it?"

"We serve all types here, sir—it's our pleasure."

"Last decent place around is here, lemme tell ya that right now."

(maybe she knew benezia too)

Shepard had started to turn around—so had the librarian—but he stopped. He paused. He hesitated. Then, he snapped his finger.

"She-oot, uh, before ya head off—cuz I ain't given you enough t'do already—"

The smiling librarian turned, said, "Not at all sir! I'm happy to help."

"An' here I am happy to be helped, ma'am. Just wonderin', though—bein' part of my, uh, morbid curiosity…y'all got any thing on that uh, Office of Tactics and Re-Con at all?"

"Oh," the woman said, "you mean, the Spectres?" He smile ha died just a bit, that was hard not to notice. "Well, yes, we do…but these are fairly limited records, I'm afraid. I'm not sure how many confidentiality laws exist around them, but it's quite a few. We have very very little beyond some public reports from the press."

"Ah, that'll be juuuust fine," Shepard said. "Had an ol' buddy—used to marine fer a livin', you might've guessed—an' he said them Spectres ain't all that. Said he coulda taken 'em no sweat, they were on Torfan back'n the seventies."

"I…see, sir," the woman said. Her smile didn't come back—hard not to notice that, either.

"Figurin' he's just gettin' a rise outta my mother, her bein' some flavour've pacifist. But ya can't knock a knucklehead down with their own tools, m'I right?"

A small smile clawed its way to life. "We live to serve for those moments," she said. She pulled up her omni-tool again. "Here, this is where we'd keep the public records. If I don't find you in the technology section, I'll hunt for you there."

They parted ways, and Shepard shook his head.

"Do I mine lithium or fight Bugs freakin' Bunny?"

(d'you always get suicidal when a librarian doesn't like you?)

Shepard shook his head again. Uptown was the technology section; he could get lost in tech.

He did—he did get lost in tech.

There weren't any references to a "Conduit" (of course not, that'd be too easy and Saren would've killed them all by now), but there were lots of references to the age of the Citadel. Namely, some carbon dating put it at millions of years old. Now, the Protheans were advanced, but millions of years? Unless there was a technological limit that everyone was a lot closer to reaching than they realized, you'd expect something a bit…more after that many years with a civilization. Hell, you'd expect the Protheans to have left a clue for every year of their existence, detailing how they could keep society together when even the asari—the best of them all—still have civil wars every ten or so thousand years. This was where the theory that the Protheans had just merged with nature started sounded plausible: if they were around for that long, then they might've figured out how to—

(embrace eternity)

—move past this cumbersome existence where you only saw the universe through eyes, ears, toes, and an isolated little meat-processor locked in a single skull. Whose to say they hadn't done that thing the Hindus and the Buddhists said was the only real thing you could ever do: throw off the shackles of the ego and—

(embrace eternity)

—yeah, fine, do that?

The only problem was the expiration date of the Prothean Empire: fifty thousand years ago. Fifty thousand years and then no trace of them, just…ruins. A hard stop and, when you sliced and diced it, that still left millions of years where they could've found the secret to true existence—millions of years where they could have gradually faded away instead of just…stopped. So there were holes in that theory, in other words.

(and look at you, trying to buy into—trying to repair it—even though you already know what happened)

Yeah, well…other people were already looking at alternatives. This was where some recent suggestions that the Protheans didn't built the Citadel—or even the Mass Relays—appeared on the scene. Maybe it was an older civilization. Maybe it was several older civilizations, and maybe by "several" they meant, "older than the Protheans, older than the older civilization too, a cycle, if you would, of civilizations that just…stopped.

Guess whose name started appearing a lot more once Shepard reached that point?

"Dr. Liara T'Soni…Jesus…"

(jesus can't help you now)

Shepard took another hit of medi-gel. The headache was back and it'd brought the twins.

So Liara T'Soni thought there might've been cycles of other civilizations, and one of these other ancient aliens made the Citadel, the Relays, what-have-you. And then her own goddamn mother killed her. So what now?

(you only care about the cycles because you want to know how far back this goes. you want to know if you even have a chance)

Yeah of course he did! Why the fuck wouldn't he want to know? Except, no, that was only part of it. Who said the Conduit was Prothean, if they didn't even build the Citadel? Saren needed to activate a control panel that, obviously, he couldn't activate now, otherwise he would've done it already.

(unless he's trying to fight back against the reapers)

Fuck off—nothing in the vision suggested he was.

(sparatus tried; hell, so did the hanar)

Saren's an evil son of a bitch, c'mon—who says this isn't what he always wanted?

(you, but only because you're worried these reapers can steal a person's mind, and maybe that's happening to you right now)

Fuck. Off. Do I think I work for God? Or am I getting fucking bodysnatched by Reapers?

(who says one isn't a cover for the other?)

"FUCK OFF!"

That wasn't inside Shepard's head. That was very much outside. In a library—that place where God Himself had to be quiet, lest he unleash the wrath of a librarian.

The Citadel had good librarians.

Everyone had been very, very quiet.

Seeing everyone stare at him, Shepard thought about saying: What, you've never seen a guy have a breakdown before? But he didn't.

He put his head down and kept reading.

Eventually, everyone else did, too.

Whatever: leaving all that aside, the point was that maybe this "Conduit" wasn't Prothean. And it probably wasn't a weapon, either: Saren's goal was to use a control panel on a station that the Protheans inhabited, but didn't build. It was something that controlled the Citadel and so it…

…hmm, "controlled the Citadel." Y'know what else supposedly "controlled the Citadel?" The keepers, those little green bug-things that nobody could understand because they always exploded if you got too close. Everyone assumed the Protheans were having a bad day and made a race of mute slaves, but maybe the Protheans didn't make them? Maybe the keepers were as old as the Citadel itself?

Maybe the Conduit had something to do with them?

Okay…okay good enough. Shepard sent all that data to Barla and that'd be fine: Barla could fashion some questions to ask "the market" and take it from there.

The public records were next. The public records that would show him as much as he possibly could see about Vasir. The public records that—

(shouldn't be necessary, not even close)

…fair point, though. He'd seen probably more of Vasir's life than anybody outside friends and family, some pretty personal stuff too. Maybe "friends and family" didn't even get to see what he'd seen. So, really, he could veer off his intended flightpath and intercept the librarian in the culture section. Not like anybody was gonna yell at him for crossing a side-quest off his itinerary.

(course they wouldn't; nobody knows what the fuck you're up to)

He went to the public records anyways.

There wasn't much on Vasir, unsurprisingly. She'd apparently made a name for herself after taking down a whole slaver ring on the salarian colony of Nasurn. That was last year, though, so she'd probably been active for a hell of a long time and managed to keep a low profile. Details were sketchy on what, exactly, she did on Nasurn, but it must've been big enough that the press couldn't ignore her. That probably meant minimal casualties to people the Citadel cared about: read, the slaves and probably nobody else. Good news all around: most of the time, Spectres ended up in the news because of their body counts, because being a diplomat didn't move copy. You'd read stories that sounded like a fucking asteroid landed on a city, and then right there, right at the end, there'd be a little blurb about a Spectre passing through. That was Saren—about ninety-percent of the stories he was quoted in, there was something about a colony's population taking a massive hit. But nothing here, nothing in Vasir's story. Just a happy ending all around, unless you sold people for a living.

So, good, she wasn't Saren.

(the highest hardest bar you could ever clear)

There was also something from a few days ago about data from the Ministry of Finance being stolen. Might explain Barla.

(which might mean she's just using him for access)

Yeah but, c'mon, you really think a banker's gonna have more access than a Spectre?

(no, but an agent of the shadow broker might)

Are you hemorrhaging brain cells? She was pretty damn open about the Shadow Broker connection.

(just looking out for what's best for you)

I just told myself to shut up in a crowded library—I'm seriously doubting that.

Shepard sighed. Headache? Another shot of medi-gel would prevent that, but he'd also be taking another bold step towards addiction. And then what're you gonna do, Shepard? Bum legs and blinding migraines and internal monologues that're—

(can't be vasir, williams said, unless the voices in her head are kicking her ass)

—getting a little too confrontational for his liking, and then? A medi-gel addiction. Yeah, might as well roll him up to that control panel, then. Maybe his limp fucking form would trip Saren on the one-yard line.

(assuming you can change anything anyways; assuming these visions are letting you see what could happen and not what inevitably will)

Shepard stood there, leaning on his cane. This was getting to be too much, this—this was getting to be enough.

He could probably leave, now, couldn't he?

Well, he tried: and then a glowing green hand grabbed his shoulder and yanked—hard—to the point Shepard just about snapped his new cane trying to balance himself and the hand was still yanking so Shepard reared back his hand and—

It was a nightmare face: spitting green and snarling, all skull and empty eye sockets with the bone stretched backwards into a scream. Shepard blinked and the skull was gone. The green was still there, just no skull: now it was the face of "Randall," who glowed but at least had all his skin on this time.

Randall was reaching for Shepard's hand, and nope, not happening—God forbid he ever look through that fucking creep's eyes again.

"Follow through," Randall said. "C'mon—standing right here, aren't I?"

Footsteps, and looking to his left, Shepard saw Charles Saracino moving his way towards them. He had a grin on him like he'd just skinned a cat and was very proud of how much it bled.

"Eeeeeasy easy boys, easy," he said. "C'mon now we can't fight here—this's a library."

Shepard turned to Randall, tried to make him disintegrate with just his glare. "Grab me like that again and I'll make sure you need more than a cane."

Saracino clapped his hands loud enough to cause a skycar accident three wards over. "Ah I love this guy! 'More'n a cane,' God," he smacked Randall in the shoulder, "c'mon Randall, you gotta love that spirit, huh?"

Yeah? Well "Randall" was still holding onto Shepard's jacket. Back off, buddy, or Shepard would stop the mad-bomber routine by turning Randall's head inside out.

(if you can…if it hasn't already been written)

Perfect time to find out, right?

Randall, though, finally let go, looked at his boss with a dead-man's expression. "Be careful around him, sir."

"Ah quit soundin' like a pussy." Saracino hit him again. "Guys like him can control it, right? Guys like him only knock heads when they need to." Saracino leaned closer to Shepard. "Or when it's just damn fun, right? Sometimes ya gotta have some fun."

Shepard turned to leave. Saracino apparently had other plans: he grabbed Shepard's arm and gave it a tug.

"Woah now—c'mon. Wasn't finished talking to ya yet."

That cane was gonna be used for brain surgery pretty soon, but the asari librarian from earlier rounded a corner. She paused, looked at Saracino and his goon, then gave Shepard a look that said, remember how every asari can rip open space and time with their mind? Want me to demonstrate?

Or, well, maybe Shepard was projecting. He'd be a good character witness: Saracino was gonna bomb an orphanage eventually.

(have you convinced yourself you can stop it yet?)

The librarian said, "Excuse me, are these gentlemen bothering you?"

Saracino cut in before Shepard could say anything. "Oh God no—no, young lady. Just wanting to have a word with none other than John Shepard himself."

A suspicious look was shot his way. "Your name's not 'Johnny Smith'?"

Shepard tried to kill Saracino with his eyes; Saracino somehow let his shit-eating grin double in size.

"Ooooh my mistake—my mistake! Mr. Johnny Smith, eh?" He elbowed Shepard in the ribs, hard enough to expel air. "Apologies to you, sir, and apologies for the confusion, ma'am. That's on me."

Shepard sucked in enough air to talk again. "I can…handle this. Thanks. I'll…come find you later."

The librarian hesitated, kept staring at him, probably filed away the "lack of accent" as proof that Saracino was right, the bastard. So the pleasant conversation from earlier wasn't getting repeated. Without saying another word, she turned and left—and that meant Saracino felt free to crush Shepard's shoulder with his hand.

"Whatever you're doing," Saracino said, "is whatever you're doing—don't let me stop ya." He let go, walked a circle so he and Shepard were staring face-to-face. "All that being said, though, I saw you back there—y'understand? Back when you and Randall here, uh, made acquaintances. I saw you and I thought, I told myself: that's John Shepard. Sure as shit that's John Shepard. Hero of Elysium, right? Guy who held over some pretty fierce bastard hoards?" He pointed at his chest. "You got a medal for your trouble, sure, but you disappeared off radar for a while there. Now I see you at one of my rallies and I hear someone else is galivanting around, solving this quote-unquote geth crisis we've got going on?"

Now his hands were on his hips. He said to Shepard, "The hell's all that about, you don't mind me asking?"

Shepard made his third attempt to leave, thinking—

(how nice it'd be if saracino was green so vasir could come in here and turn them both into organ donations)

—that, goddammit, thinking exactly that and being pretty damn close to meaning it, too.

"It's none of my damn business," Shepard said, "so it's definitely none of yours."

"Hey c'mon now—I'm just trying to chat. Look," the hand was back on Shepard's shoulder, but he wasn't getting pulled back. No, Saracino was walking with him now, and saying, "my uh, associate here—he's uh…he's a little exuberant, you get me? I pay him to be so that's on me, but y'remember what I said earlier? 'Bout how some can control it? Well, you'n me? We're those guys. Randall? Not so much."

"At what point did you convince yourself I have time for any of this?"

Saracino stopped. Shepard did too, if only because he wasn't getting yanked back a fourth time.

"Look, Shepard—can I call ya John?"

"No."

"You got it." Saracino clapped Shepard on the shoulder; Shepard shrugged him off hard enough that Saracino almost hit himself in the nuts. "You asked for it and you got it. Shepard, the thing is, I picked you out've a crowd because I don't forget people. You understand me? I remember your lights bein' up on Broadway, and what'm I seeing now? No lights, no names—maybe some people call this Broadway but those people're fucked in the head."

He clapped his hands together again, held them at waist-height. "So what I'm trying to say here is: you being here? That's a goddamn travesty. You should have a ship—be a fucking General."

"We stopped having General's after Shanxi."

"And that's the fuckin' rub of it! Goddamn, we lost a lot after Shanxi, didn't we?"

"They say a politician can talk for hours without saying a damn thing. How long's it been, Mr. Saracino?"

Saracino finally shut up. It wasn't for long.

"Well, shit, serves me right for trying t'stump in front've a hero. You got me, Shepard, you got me. Lemme get to the chase, huh?"

"I'll save you time and say no."

Another slight, oh-too-temporary pause. "Now…humour me on this question, Shepard, but I gotta ask: what's with the hostility? I do anything to personally offend you?"

"I'm a communist," Shepard said.

"You were and Randall over there wouldn't be so gentle."

"He wasn't."

"Well I'm callin' your bluff anyways. Besides, you think I'm here looking for your vote? Well I am but that's actually pretty secondary."

"I haven't voted in ten years."

"Doesn't change a damn thing, does it?" Saracino said, shaking his head 'sadly.' "Well give Terra Firma a chance—or at least a second look—but before you do that, put yer eyes on this card I've got on my omni-tool. You press okay and it's on your omni-tool now too."

A heard of elephants came stomping their way. Or, at least, that's what Randall sounded like when he wanted to move quickly. "Sir, I'd advice you not to do that."

"Ah c'mon Randall!" Saracino said. "Not like he's gonna give me his fucking email is he?"

"There are protocols. This violates all of them—all of them."

"Randall doesn't want me looking at this?" Shepard said.

Saracino's face grew a smirk-tumour. "Gettin' the feeling he'll kill me for this."

Shepard held out his arm. "Sold."

The e-card transferred and, once it found a new home on Shepard's omni-tool, it opened. Shepard jolted backwards and nearly slammed his wrist against the nearest bookshelf, because that was how you got rid of viruses in the 22nd century, apparently.

"No viruses or anything," Saracino said, "you can trust me. It just does that, 'cause it's so happy to see you. What it is, though, is an offer for someone of your skills, you get me?"

Get you? Offer? Shepard finally looked at the card. A black and orange logo that looked like two ampersands hugging a scarab beetle were staring right at him.

So was a name.

"'Cerberus?'" Shepard said.

"Heard of 'em?"

"No."

"There's a reason for that," Randall said.

"And there's a reason I'm lettin' you in on their secret," Saracino said. "Well, one've their secrets. They exist and they do things for folks like you that…well, shit, if the Alliance worked like them I wouldn't be running for office now, would I?" He looked at Randall. "Well?"

"No sir. You wouldn't."

"Or I'd be running for something other than a Spacer Seat. Parliament's a jizz-filled pool no matter where I'm sitting, but at least I'd be on Earth." He winked at Shepard. "Wouldn't get the dash of irony that way, but hell, I'm only human."

Randall grabbed Shepard by the lapels, and Shepard seriously considered trying to see his future again, just in the hopes that this fucking asshole got melted into a puddle of red liquid.

"What he just did is put a target on your back, you got me, Shepard? Word starts getting out about Cerberus and we'll come to you first."

"Ah c'mon, Randall," Saracino said.

"Sir, this needs to be said. You've got two reasons to work for us. First is I don't blame every leak on you and your mouth. Second is you do some fucking good for a change. Anything else, you consult the history books. There are a few here that talk about what a committed group of individuals can accomplish."

Shepard glared. "Should I start with al Qaeda or go more esoteric?"

"If you're saying that because you have heard of us, I'd say you just narrowed down your reasons to one."

"You're not the brightest psychopath in the black site, are you?"

"God-DAMN I love this guy!" Saracino jumped—he literally jumped—and clapped his hands mid-air. Then he smacked his goon in the chest. "Oh grow a dick, Randall—he's got you beat and the man can't even lift his gimp leg. Sorry bout that, by the way," he said, pointing at Shepard's cane. "The—yeah, and what I just said."

Yeah, apology accepted, asswipe.

"Randall aside," Saracino continued, "I'm expecting to hear your name in some different circles. All right, John? Big things for big people, and my friend, you're big people." He snapped his fingers and put on a grin so shit-eating you could see sewage leaking out his eyes.

Then the grin completely disappeared, and he adjusted his tie.

"Now c'mon," he said to Randall, motioning his head to the asari and turian and salarian onlookers, "you spooked the animals."

Finally—finally—they fucking left.

Odious didn't even begin to describe that asshole. Calling the guy a political shark was an insult to sharks and politicians—yeah, somehow, this guy gave politicians a bad name. The fact he didn't buzz off immediately was—

(entirely because you didn't push hard enough)

He'd called himself a communist—what more was he supposed to do?

(more than that, if you really wanted him gone. be honest with yourself, shepard: you liked what he had to say)

He called living breathing people animals. Even at Shepard worst, he'd never say that—never even think that.

(that's not it. what he said was—what he lured you in with was—that you used to be something. he wanted to use and abuse you, sure, but he only wanted to do that because he recognized your value)

And Shepard hated every second of it.

(because saracino's a dolt who nobody likes, nobody listens to, and nobody but randall takes seriously. and let's be honest here, randall didn't look like he was taking his boss too seriously, did he?)

So?

(so he's odious, and the only thing you want more than somebody thinking your useful, is for someone who's respected to think that. saracino isn't and never will be that person. you're a god who's offended by your flock)

Enough with the God-talk already.

(you want the flocks of other gods. you want saracino hanged drawn and quartered for even daring to think he could worship you)

Bullshit, were you not paying attention? When Shepard and Vasir mind melded, did you not see what got shared? Shepard didn't think he was a god: he was worried he might think that. The idea of thinking he was a god was just as odious to Shepard as Saracino's rank, putrid, fucking murderous—

(barla von also said mind melds left nothing for you to judge. the way vasir described it, you should be feeling a euphoria of empathy right now. but you're not, are you? are you just that broken, shepard? all emaciated muscles and decaying grey matter and violent, just rude and violent thoughts)

(are you so broken that even becoming one with the universe can't put you back together again?)

Shepard slammed his cane into the nearest shelf. Datapads rained down as grey and teal sleet. The faces that'd been staring earlier were still staring, looking at Shepard with the same contemptuous glare they'd directed at Saracino not one minute ago.

The librarian was there, now, too. She was scooping down to pick up the datapads and Shepard tried to do that, too. But his knees exploded when he started to bend; with a sound crossed between a grunt and a swear—saying nothing of the full shotgun blast that erupted from his joints—Shepard had to grab the bookshelf to keep upright.

The librarian stood to steady Shepard, the datapads organizing themselves into columns with the aid of purple energy.

"I have it, sir," the librarian said. "Please, just stay still—I have it."

"I'm sorry I—I'm sorry," Shepard said. "I didn't—I'm sorry."

"It's all right. Can you stand? Are you all right?"

"I'm sorry I just, I—yes, yeah, I can stand. I'm sorry."

"It's all right, sir."

"I didn't mean to—please tell everyone else I'm sorry."

The librarian paused, looked around. Her face was solemn, tailor-made for a funeral.

"I need to ask you to leave," she said. "I'm sorry, sir, but between the shouting and the—I need to ask you to leave."

Shepard stared at the floor. He got it—he understood—but…looking her in the eye wasn't something he could do right now.

"I have the data you requested," the librarian said.

Shepard took it. He couldn't remember if he'd said "thank you" by the time he was back in the Wards. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten to the Wards, either. Part of his life was missing, and all he could think was that he wished more of his memories had fallen into the void.

A green C-SEC officer passed through the corner of his vision, staring. The stare lingered: even when the officer was looking away—looking at other people milling about—it felt like there were still eyes on him.

The officer was turian. Looked like the one from the Presidium a bit, even though this wasn't his beat—couldn't be, if he'd been seen on the Presidium first.

Maybe it was just another turian officer that wanted to end the world. Which option would be worse: the one where he was being stalked by the same officer? Or the one where there were millions more, hidden in plain sight.

(how'd saracino know you were in the library?)

Shepard stopped walking, felt his heart rate pick up. Fuck everything that'd happened before—fuck the apparent civil war he was having inside his own goddamn head—how did Saracino know where to find him? Or, let's be honest here: how did Randall know? The dumb-as-bricks glowing-green thug that was an agent of the apocalypse: how'd he know where to find Shepard?

He'd been assuming this ability to see things was a one-way street. Who the hell said it had to work that way?

He started sprinting—as best he could, Shepard started sprinting. Up some stairs, nearly tripping over himself his cane goddamn other people about five times along the way. Someone got in front of him at the top and Shepard pushed him, shouted, "Move goddammit," like that was going to save him, like getting past one person was going to stop his leg muscles from screaming his bones from shattering his vision from blurring to the point it looked like he was running through a soap bubble.

Call her—call. Her. You wanna outrun someone that's after you then you call. Her. NOW.

Shepard kept limping, now one arm short as he pulled up his omni-tool.

Fuck why didn't he get a fucking earpiece from her?

"Vasir," he said, "I've got the data but I need exfil. Meet me—fuck off and MOVE—meet me at a transport terminal, any fucking transport terminal. I might need back—I said fucking MOVE!"

It took a second—long enough that Shepard was about to scream something also into his wrist. Then Vasir's voice cut through the crowd.

"What?" she said. "Exfil? Shepard, you're in the Citadel and—I can hear the crowd in the background—you're in a busy—"

"Tali'Zorah, Urdnot Wrex, Benezia's FUCKING Daughter." Someone tried to give Shepard a piece of their mind for the shoving but fuck OFF! "Do you really think I'm safe here or are you just fucking stupid?"

A second—it took her a second to respond but in that time Shepard dodged fifteen snipers a knife-wielding maniac and the fall of human civilization, that's what it felt like that's what they were dealing with, Vasir.

She said, "Fine—you're…fine. You're right. Transport terminals are too obvious: go somewhere they can't get the jump on you—somewhere it's just as hard to move around for them as it is for you."

Shepard looked up, saw a sign—

(hallelujah)

—and somehow picked up his pace.

"Chora's Den—I'm going there. Shepard out."

"Wait, ke—"

Up another flight of stairs, around a corner, sprinting past an alleyway because that's where it'd happen, that's where they'd grab you and snuff you out because they KNOW, don't they? Down a far too exposed walkway with skycars throwing wind and detritus and noise louder than a gun could ever be and Shepard made it, the thundering teeth-rattling beat of the music inside meant he was safe. He was—

—better than that. Calmer than that. He was a marine who could handle himself under fire and, no matter how bad his leg muscles spasmed—no matter how many times he got migraines powerful enough to wish for death—he knew being in a coma hadn't robbed him of his training. He knew how to be a marine, still; he knew how to fight and defend himself and didn't need to be babysat like a liability.

He—

(knew that just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean reapers aren't out to get you)

—walked to the bar and sat down.

There he sat, eyes looking at everything but seeing absolutely nothing. It was a blur of red and blue and pink; the music pounded nails into his brain and the light made everyone not standing at the bar a silhouette. This place felt like it was going to kill him—this place felt like it was going to kill him. And not even because of the Reapers: it just felt like a place that went out and killed people on occasion.

Just so happened one of its victims was already knee-deep in a pan-galactic conspiracy. Funny little coinkydink, huh?

Shepard started to laugh.

"Heya mister," a voice said. Shepard stopped laughing so suddenly he nearly choked on his Adam's apple. Calmed down just in time, though, to see it was a bartender in a shiny red, uh, jumper? Spandex dress? Half a spandex dress? Whatever she was supposed to be wearing, she was struggling to talk to him over the crowd and the music.

"Get you anything?" she said.

Shepard stared at her, blinked, kept on staring. "Anything non-alcoholic?" he said.

"Uh…no, sorry. Unless you want water."

"What?"

"UNLESS YOU WANT WATER!"

Over this woman's shoulder was a mirror. Shepard could see himself in that mirror: he looked like he'd just been mugged and ended up mugging someone else in revenge. Water was just gonna make him need to pee.

"All right, what've you got that's one-twenty proof or above?"

"What?"

He leaned closer. "Get me shitfaced with someone one-twenty proof, please and thank you!"

"Oh—oh sure!" The bartender took a step back from the counter. "Gimme a sec—I've got something you'll probably like!"

No, she wouldn't, but that was fine. He was here now. Eventually a Spectre would break through that door and either kill him or bring him home, like a lost puppy.

(which one would do which?)

Well Saren sure as fuck wasn't gonna feed and walk him.

No? Nothing to say about that? Fine, then Shepard could enjoy this mystery drink he didn't want.

The bartender came back with a long bottle of brown liquid, black label and all. Shepard didn't drink but he knew what it was even before he could see the lettering.

"We just got this today, some old whiskey from Earth. Says, uh…there we go: says one-twenty-five proof, right there." The bartender pointed at the bottom of the label—the Jack Daniel's label—like she'd just discovered it underground somewhere.

Shepard nodded. Out came a class, some ice, and then the woman poured. Even with the crowd doing whatever the hell it was doing, Shepard could hear the ice crack and buckle from the warm whiskey being poured over it. He pulled out his omni-tool and flipped through to his wallet…which had no money in it. Right, just like it'd been since Anderson bought him lunch. Just like…shit, well, this was probably a sign.

"Uh, got a bit of a money problem," Shepard said.

"What?"

He leaned forward. "Got a bit of a MONEY problem! Sorry for making you crack that open, but I can't pay."

The bartender looked around—once, twice, three times. After the third time, she leaned back in.

"Um…it's on the house? I'll probably get in more trouble for pouring this down the drain so…yeah, on the house."

"Really?"

"Yeah, g-go for it. On the house, mister!"

Shepard looked at the bartender, at his reflection, then back to her, then back to that dishevelled tramp that was allegedly wearing his face. Of course she'd say that—his money was no good here, after all.

He chuckled and grabbed the glass. "I like you, Lloyd. I always liked you."

"What?"

"Nothing—nothing. Thanks for this."

"No problem!"

Then it was just Shepard, his reflection, and the drink. All those addiction worries—pretty much just pissing in the wind at this point, huh?

Shepard took a drink. It felt better than nothing but worse than he'd feared.

"You were always the best of 'em," he said to himself. "Best damn bartender from Timbuktu to Portland, Maine—Portland Oregon for that matter." He let out another chuckle, took another swig, then buried his head in his hands. "I'm fucking losing it out here…"

He could stay like that forever, you know. Refuse to budget and stare it all down like everyone else. After all, it wasn't like he knew he'd win. It wasn't like changing the future was the easiest thing in the world.

A hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. His drink went flying and his ass almost skidded right off the seat. Staring at him was a krogan, who just so happened to be flanked by two more krogan. They weren't glowing green, but they looked like they wanted to end the world all the same. Or, at least, the part of the world currently occupied by Shepard.

"I wanna step outside," the krogan said. "Thinking I might make you join me."

"For what?" First thing that popped into Shepard's mind—good enough for some last words, if you thought about it. For what: sounded like something he'd tell God when he saw Him, if there was actually a God to swear at.

The krogan leaned in. His voice punched its way through the crowd without him having to raise his voice. "I look like the kinda guy needs a reason?"

"Be a lot more fun if you gave me one."

The krogan snorted. "Tell ya what: you mention it to the lady outside, we'll see where things go."

Lady outside?

(could be vasir)

It wasn't. It wasn't gonna be Vasir.

(how do you know?)

Because Shepard wasn't fucking stupid. If Vasir wanted Shepard dead—if there was some other thing hanging over her head besides Reapers that made Shepard a target—she'd have pulled the trigger eons ago.

(why'd it take you so long to trust her?)

Because Shepard was broken—wasn't that fucking obvious?

Shepard got up from his seat, ignored the worried look from the bartender, and let the three krogan form a triangle around him. On the other side of the doors was an asari commando in evergreen combat armour. He was right: it wasn't Vasir, the most obvious fucking statement in the world. But for a second there, he thought it might've been the librarian.

The commando was glowing green.

"This him?" the lead krogan said.

"Yeah, that's our guy." The commando took a step forward, flashed the gun on her hip. "How's the lithium mine, 'Johnny Smith.'"

Shepard gave her a blank stare. "Terrible. Can't even pay for my drinks anymore."

"My friends and I are dressed for an expedition. Let's take you along, see if we can find a way to turn your fortunes around."

"I'm thinking I'll just retire, if it's all the same to you."

"I can help with that. I know a great resort a few hundred floors below us." The asari's face morphed into something you'd see on a Halloween mask. "Want me to show you the express route?"

There was a crack of thunder somewhere behind them. A crack of thunder in a hermetically sealed hallway—in space. Everyone else heard it too, because they all looked towards the other end of the walkway. That was when the saw the glowing blue ball approaching them at Mach 8. It hit the asari commando first; and the asari, well, the stain she left on the archway above Chora's Den sure was a lovely shade of purple.

That was how Shepard was processing what he saw, right up until the blue ball turned into Vasir. Then her biotically charged leg was flying over his head and shearing off half of the nearest krogan's helmet—Shepard's atrophied brain had just enough self-preservation left in it to hit the deck without ripping apart his ACL.

From his vantage point on the ground—where everyone was just a pair of boots—all he could make out was that the one in blue was kicking the crap out of a three-toed pair in red. But another three-toed pair was right behind her, so Shepard looked up and screamed out, "Twelve o'clock!" just in time to see Vasir's elbow shear off the other half of the krogan's helmet—and about three inches of plate from the top of his head, too. The krogan screamed and backed into the wall, which gave Vasir all the time she needed to grab a shotgun and solve his plate-problem forever. Vasir turned and looked at Shepard, still on his belly, and—

—one of the remaining two krogan grabbed her arm, the other went for his gun. Shepard had never seen a fist actually go through someone before, but that's what biotically charged punches could do, apparently. While Vasir was busy doing that her other hand was dropping her shotgun and sending a warp out into the surviving krogan's chest. She was dragging her shotgun back into her hands biotically when Shepard heard a scream—more like a war-cry, really—and turned to see the commando peeling herself off the wall.

The commando had her own shotgun out; she also had a pistol in her other hand. To top it all off, she was glowing purple. Vasir could probably handle it—Vasir very clearly could probably handle it.

But as the commando sprinted past him, Shepard stuck his cane out and mashed it between her knees. He was pulling himself up off the floor as she flailed and crashed back-first into the guard-rail and, Jesus, she was about to tip right over it.

(express way to the resort)

Shepard leapt at her and felt his leg-muscles swear eternal vengeance at him, but he made it: he grabbed the commando by front of her armour and held her at a seventy-degree angle over the skycars, the drop, the express way to the resort, over—

(screams, flesh being ripped from bone, a cacophonous horn that tore open the sky)

She's staring at Benezia and wondering why it was taking so long. No, no you didn't ask that of her. You understood that she needed time, on occasion, and that Saren would—

(destroy everything run get help run RUN)

—forgive the delay. So long as they remained loyal, delays would be tolerated. After all—

(it was the ship the ship did this SOVEREIGN did this)

—they were useful, and that use would be rewarded.

"There, it is done," Benezia said at last. "When we arrive on the Citadel, we needn't worry about any opposition. The station-wide network will be ours."

"Good," Saren said. "Then we begin. Anderson's diversion was a momentary set-back, but now he's out of our way, we remain on schedule."

(i am so sorry)

"As you wish it, Saren," Benezia said.

"As Sovereign wishes it," Saren said, deathly serious. "We must never forget that. We serve something greater than ourselves, as it must be."

(i am so sorry)

—the express way to the resort.

Shepard stared at the commando; she was dazed and bleeding from both nostrils. Saren said Anderson was out of the way, he said—with her in the room—

(drop her)

No—interrogate her.

His hand grabbed her throat, squeezed until his hand muscles nearly deflated. "What the fuck did he do to Anderson? Did that already happen? ANSWER ME YOU FUCKING—"

She'd punched him—the idiot punched him and he lost his grip and she went sliding over the edge, falling and not making a goddamn sound even as he reached over and caught her ankle, dangling her and half his fucking torso over the edge and screaming, "I'M NOT FUCKING FINISHED WITH YOU!" He sounded crazy, he absolutely sounded crazy, but—

(we're all crazy in here)

—what the fuck did Saren mean about Anderson?

His grip was slipping, and the fact of the matter was he could just let her drop, he really really absolutely could, and he could see an image of Saren appearing just past her face—eating her face as green light snaked up his arm again. But then a sound made entirely of viscous meat slapped itself onto the ground next to him and, looking at it, there was what used to be a krogan staring up at him. Then his grip wasn't faltering anymore, because the commando was floating in the air. Floating…floating…floating…and then, when she was about eye height, she rocketed towards a wall and left a fresh purple stain.

The commando crumpled to the ground, Vasir walked towards her, and then there was a blue boot crushing the commando's windpipe. Vasir was snarling—Vasir looked like she was bleeding, except asari blood wasn't orange.

"Benezia? Or Saren," Vasir said. "Which one sent you?"

Shepard was there—Shepard was beside her. And with one push he knocked the way clear and grabbed the commando by the throat again.

"WHAT DID YOU DO TO ANDERSON? START FUCKING TALKING OR I'LL—"

"Shepard!" Vasir was trying to pull him back. "Just look at her and—"

"I saw it, Vasir," Shepard said, yanking his shoulder free. "I saw her, I saw Benezia, I saw fucking Saren and they said—"

"Just look!"

Shepard did. He watched the life drain from the commando's eyes. And…she wasn't green anymore.

She wasn't green and, when he grabbed her again…he didn't see anything.

He slowly stood up. A hand was resting gently on his back but…being touched right now wasn't something he wanted.

"I saw them talking about Anderson," he said, to Vasir but not looking at her. "Saren said… 'now that he's out of the way'…"

"You saw that just now?"

"No, when I kept her from falling over."

"Did you see the same thing when you grabbed her again?"

Shepard looked at the corpse. It still looked normal, still looked…normal.

"I didn't see anything. She's…she's not green anymore, either."

The door to Chora's Den opened and closed quickly. Vasir noticed before Shepard did, because she was already dragging him away from the place.

"C'mon—my car's nearby."

"Where are we going?" Shepard said, still looking at the receding corpse.

"The usual, but we're putting some extra distance between us before we get there."

They loaded themselves into Vasir's skycar, and the moment the doors closed—the moment he was safe and locked away with Vasir—Shepard passed out.