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Chapter Text

Shepard stands before the Normandy crew, hands clasped behind her back, about to give one of the hardest sort-of-speeches she’s ever had to. As a leader, apparently people expect her to hand out speeches and inspirational words at the drop of a hat. It’s one of her least favorite parts of her job. (Definitely not something they taught her in N7 training.)

“In two days, we will be docking at the Citadel. A week after that, we’re stopping at Illium, and probably Omega after that. For anyone who can not, for whatever reason, stay aboard the Normandy for the next phase of our mission, we can drop you off at any of these locations. No hard feelings and no resentment. I only ask that you have a conversation with me, personally, about your decision. All departing crew will also be given a full intel data packet, containing everything we’ve collected on the Reapers, indoctrination, the Collectors, and our war prep, and I encourage you to share this with anyone you think may listen. You do not have to be on board the Normandy to help out the coming war effort.” 

Well, at least no one immediately raises their hand and declares that they want to leave. Shepard knows, in her heart, that some are going to walk. This is going to be a big thing to tackle head-on, especially by themselves. She won’t blame anyone. Hell, she’s sure she’s going to want to walk at several points in the coming months. 

“In case it wasn’t clear by our meeting yesterday,” she continues, “I and the Normandy crew will now be operating totally independently from any galactic governments. There is a high possibility we will be considered outlaws by galactic law in coming days or weeks. We will welcome any and all allies we can gain during this time, but I really doubt the Council and its races are going to look kindly on what we’re about to do. I would offer to give you a recommendation, but my name is going to be dragged through the mud soon, so it’d probably do more harm than good to be associated with me. So really, I’m serious when I say no hard feelings about you drawing a line here when it comes to becoming wanted criminals. Anyone can walk out. Except, I suppose, EDI.” 

“I am not leaving the Normandy or allowing it to leave this mission,” EDI replies. 

That small joke reassures Shepard more than she lets on. “For those that stay, I’m afraid to be announcing further bad news. From this point onward, there will be no payment or wages for this mission. You will have a place to live aboard the Normandy, your food, armor, and weapons will be supplied, and there will be certain budgets allotted to research and development projects if and when we can allow it. But all credits are now getting dumped straight into our war fund, managed by EDI and overseen by me. It will be locally accessible aboard the Normandy for anyone interested in our budget. And hell, if you have any ideas about how to do things better, earn more money, or a research project idea—yes, Mordin, I know you do, we can discuss it later,” Shepard wearily says as his hand shoots up, “come to me later and we can talk. I’m serious when I said I’m shoving you all into advisory positions going forward. This is going to be one hell of a team effort to stop the Reapers.” 

—

They’re not immediately arrested upon docking at the Citadel, probably only because Shepard has an appointment with the Council in three hours and no one knows what she’s about to do with said appointment yet. So they’re given the regular clearance to dock and there’s only the regular paparazzi waiting. 

“I’m detecting few news stories about batarian space currently running on Citadel networks,” EDI tells Shepard over their comm link as Shepard disembarks. “It does not appear to be public knowledge yet what happened to the Viper Nebula.” 

“Small mercies,” she mutters. 

They hit their first snag within ten minutes, very unfortunately. 

Shepard had planned on turning her crew loose to do a bunch of shopping and stockpiling while she kept the Council busy. Everyone was to be back aboard the Normandy by the time she spoke to them. 

But Spectre Requisitions won’t let anyone in who isn’t a Spectre, even with her clearance. 

“Damn it. I’ll be there in five,” Shepard grouses and turns back for the elevator. Her job in this is to be very, very normal and very, very composed, not giving anyone any hint that the Normandy crew is acting any differently from normal. Certainly not buying out a bunch of very high-end, expensive weaponry and mods. 

She finds Garrus, Mordin, and Miranda, varying stages of annoyed, standing in front of an equally irritated guard outside of the Requisitions office. Worse, she finds Bailey standing beside them, not quite as annoyed, but certainly with his usual no-nonsense exasperation. 

“What the hell are you doing, having your people trying to break into the Spectre office?” Bailey asks as soon as Shepard marches up. 

“He has my clearance,” Shepard replies, rolling her eyes. Garrus holds up a card loaded with all of her authorizations. The guard on duty glares at it as if it personally offends him. “Also, breaking in? Come on, Bailey, you know we’re above that.” 

(Kasumi had offered. Shepard would prefer to do this as legitimately as possible—while she still could.) 

“Spectres can’t authorize other people to use Spectre clearance,” Bailey replies, wearily, like this has happened before. 

Shepard swipes the card from Garrus’ talons and hands it to the guard herself. He very begrudgingly opens the door for them. “Do I have to escort them inside, too?” she asks, pointedly. 

“Actually, yes,” the guard replies. 

Shepard marches in, grumbling, after her trio of personal shoppers. 

“Why didn’t you just come down here yourself, anyway? Haven’t seen you around the Citadel for a hot minute, but you always come down here to look at whatever new rifles they’ve developed,” Bailey says, strolling in after them. 

Shepard gives him a confused once-over. He certainly isn’t a Spectre; he’s C-Sec. A fair guy, dependable, and from what she understands, halfway to a mentor figure for Kolyat. It would be highly unfortunate if C-Sec sent someone already to tail her or detain her. Especially him. 

So Shepard asks, very neutrally, “Did you miss me that much, Bailey? I wasn’t aware they were letting captains into Spectre Requisitions, not when you already barred my crew from coming in here on my behalf.” 

“Commander now, actually,” Bailey says, and sounds none too happy about it. 

“Oh, congratulations,” Shepard replies and means it. Bailey may not be happy about the promotion—that reminds her a lot of Anderson—but C-Sec needs more officers like him in their ranks. 

“Actually, I thought you would have brought that drell with you. Kolyat’s, uh, infamous father? Wasn’t hard to put the puzzle pieces together, not that you were tryin’ to be all that sneaky. Wanted to have a word or two about him about his son.” 

“Oh,” Shepard repeats, now surprised. “Oh, uh, well, Thane is actually meeting with Kolyat now, since we were, uh, in the area for today. Is everything alright with him?” 

“Oh, yeah, sure. The kid’s great. Great enough that I actually want him in C-Sec, not this community service crap, that’s all.” 

That is probably going to give Thane some mixed emotions. Garrus snorts in distaste, or perhaps sardonic amusement, but he’s facing away at the console for plausible deniability. “That’s… Great,” Shepard creakily replies. “But I guess that’s a conversation for them to have. They’re, uh, meeting at some cafe in the Kithoi Ward.” She is very leery about giving out the specific location of any of her crew, given what she’s about to do soon. 

Thankfully, Bailey doesn’t ask. “Well, good for them to get some time to see each other. Kolyat won’t mention it, of course, but I know what it’s like for a kid to miss his dad. Good on Krios for owning up to the rift between them.” 

Shepard makes a noncommittal sound, desperately wanting to leave the conversation now. Kolyat, a C-Sec officer? Well, good that he’s turning his life around from his poorly-planned near-assassin experience, but when they’re on the cusp of galactic war and facing the possibility of becoming legitimate criminals when he and his father are just now mending the rift between them? Not the best timing ever to become a cop. 

“So, why do you have to have a whole crew in here with you?” Bailey asks, conversational, but when he leans around Shepard to glance at the other three, his eyes go wide. “Uh, what are you doing? Spectre business, sure, whatever, but that is a lot of stuff you’re blowing credits on.” 

“Done downloading all pertinent data!” Mordin chirps cheerfully, then begins helping Miranda pack up the mods they’d ordered. Garrus’ job is the weaponry. He already has an intimidating pile growing beside him and a very nervous guard standing by the purchasing console, eyeing it. 

“I’m giving Garrus what he’s always wanted—a Widow rifle,” Shepard warmly says. 

“And it’s the closest I’ve ever come to using the L-word with you, Shepard. Third best day of my life, probably,” he replies, eyes still on the console, but he leans down to pat the rifle case with great affection. 

“Wait, you two? What about Krios?” Bailey asks with outright shock. 

Shepard cringes, affectionate mood gone. “No, it’s fine, it’s all three of us. Sorry you didn’t get the memo, but thanks for not assuming me and Garrus have been together for several years already. But yeah, three-way with three different alien species. That’s a fun personal life update to share with others. Glad you’re in the loop now.” 

Bailey gapes at her. 

“Especially fun to share with humans,” Mordin remarks. He fills his arms with as much weaponry as he can carry and files out of the office. 

“Looks like everything we budgeted for is accounted for here, Shepard,” Miranda says, checking off a list on her omnitool, then also grabs as much as she can carry and leaves. (She can carry an impressive amount.) 

“Just an upgrade run, but you know how it is, running a full team,” Shepard says with a forced smile. “Everyone gets one, and it adds up pretty quick. It’s like Christmas on the Normandy today. Might as well use up that Spectre funding while I can, right?” 

Bailey nods, still dumbfounded, and Shepard helps Garrus haul the rest of the weaponry out of Requisitions.

—

“Shepard, what do you think you’re doing here?” Anderson asks. 

This is her one selfish moment today: seeing him. And he’s possibly the only one on the Citadel right now who knows what sort of shit is about to go down. She doesn’t blame him for not looking particularly happy to see her. 

Shepard forces a grin. She knows she fails spectacularly. “Well, sir, I was wondering if maybe a certain Alliance ex-Normandy squadmate was around, wanted to drop in and say hi now that Horizon is behind us and I might have been proven right about the Collectors—” 

“Shepard, you are about to become the Council’s biggest headache, and you want to make bad jokes?” Anderson cuts in harshly. 

Shepard flinches as if struck. “…Sorry, sir. I’m meeting with the Council about what happened in the Bahak system in about an hour and a half. I did want to see you first, in case we’re… I’m barred from Citadel space for the foreseeable future. It isn’t fraternizing with the Alliance if it’s just this one meeting, Anderson.” She can’t entirely keep the pleading note out of her voice toward the end. 

Anderson shakes his head. He seems years older from when she’d last seen him, and he hasn’t quite looked at her yet, mostly staring at his desk or glaring into middle distance. She knows this isn’t an easy situation to be in—he’s the only one aware of what’s coming next and that’s a hell of a conflict of interest—but, well, she’s allowed her moment of weakness. Surely, she is allowed just one. The galaxy owes her this much.

“Thank you for keeping my plans today a secret,” Shepard says in a smaller voice than she likes. 

Anderson sighs. “This is a desperate, foolish gamble—and I wouldn’t blow your plans open and make it fail out the gate. This may be our only damn chance to get ahead of the Reapers, if they really are coming on the timeline you think they are, and I just hate that this is what it’s coming to.” 

He finally looks up at her. Shepard holds his gaze as best she can, though it’s been a long time since she felt so young or so frail. 

“You know they’re going to compare you to Saren,” Anderson tells her.

“I know,” Shepard replies. 

—

“Everyone back aboard the Normandy?” Shepard asks through her comms as she waits in the Council Tower. Whatever this area counts as—the lobby or something. The trees that have always looked like cherry blossoms to her (though they’re some salarian breed) sway in artificial breezes and shed pink petals like rain. 

It’s too pretty to be maybe-arrested in. 

Saren definitely didn’t care. Frankly, if this wasn’t so important, Shepard would have mimicked him and called in remotely for this hearing. Apparently Spectres are afforded that respect. Not that she’s ever felt the Council’s respect when it came to her findings on the Reapers.

“Negative, Shepard,” EDI reports. 

Shepard sighs and rolls her eyes. “Alright, who are the offending parties this time? The usual suspects?” 

“If you are referring to Thane and Garrus, they are currently aboard the Normandy, as per your orders.” 

“Shocking,” Shepard deadpans. “Then who decided they wanted to play backup?” 

“Garrus and Zaeed managed to restrain Grunt and forbid him from joining your meeting.” And Shepard thanks every deity imaginable for that. “However, Samara and Tali have already explained themselves as wanting to be with you during this. Additionally, I am not registering Kasumi’s presence aboard the Normandy.” 

Shepard checks the time on her omnitool and waits for her unasked-for backup to arrive. It’s only going to make it messier if they try to detain her, because she’s already resigned to having to fight her way out. But it’s also very reassuring to have some people at her back. 

She doesn’t have to wait long before Samara and Tali stride up. (So she’s assuming Kasumi is also somewhere in the vicinity.) They’re both in what they consider formalwear, which doesn’t lend anything to their image of casual, super normal, nothing is wrong meeting time, but at least Tali’s good at picking out loopholes and Samara is a justicar. They’re good people to have in a sticky situation like this meeting will be. 

Shepard gives them both a once-over. Samara had already asked to leave the Normandy. She’ll be disembarking on Illium. 

She pushes that from her mind and focuses on the warm gratitude flooding her chest that Samara would throw her weight around on Shepard’s behalf. The issue with the rachni queen may have damaged their bond, but it hadn’t broken it. 

“Are you ready to buck the law?” Shepard asks in a conspiratorial whisper. 

“Justicar Code is often at odds with standard galactic laws,” Samara serenely replies. “This is nothing new to me, Shepard. Except for a direct meeting with the Council concerning it.” 

“And quarians are already experts at dodging annoying Council laws!” Tali enthusiastically agrees. “Usually already aboard our ships, but that’s beside the point.” 

“Commander Shepard, the Council is now ready to see you,” an asari assistant calls from the top of the next set of stairs. 

“Alright, let’s go blame the Council for everything and declare a war,” Shepard exclaims. 

—

At least no one is stupid enough to order that Shepard be arrested on the spot. 

Then again, she had been (less than politely) ordered to remain on the Citadel, pending further investigation, and Shepard had bucked that by immediately and only somewhat metaphorically sprinting to the Normandy, so maybe there had been a bit of stupid in there, somewhere. She’s just very glad she didn’t have to literally fight her way back to her ship for her escape. 

It had been more panicked and less daring; she wasn’t sure when someone would notice the beeline she’d been making and call C-Sec on her. It had only taken a single bribe to traffic control to get them cleared for take-off, conveniently before the Council’s order to ground Shepard had spread that far. Funny how certain people were more inclined to let Commander Shepard go than risk pissing her off. 

“Gun it!” Shepard yells as soon as they’re in the airlock. 

“We technically are not in that much of a hurry, Shepard. We are already cleared to depart and are entering the queue now,” EDI politely informs her. 

It is definitely a less than daring escape if they have to wait in a line for it. 

“So, how’d it go? What’d it feel like, giving the Council a potential war to defuse and a giant middle finger?” Joker asks, equal parts smug and delighted. 

Kasumi turns off her tactical cloak and gleefully declares, “I recorded it all!” 

“That’s what you were doing? I thought you were going to be our stealth escape,” Shepard replies with a disapproving frown. 

“If you ever need Shepard-sympathetic and Council-negative propaganda, Shep, you can’t ask for anything better than that yelling match,” Kasumi replies. “Sell it to a big news network, and then ask for royalties, and bam. Fuel budget for a month or two. And it’s going to age like milk once the Reapers actually arrive.” 

“It wasn’t really yelling,” Shepard mutters. 

“There were only a few raised voices, and most of them were Councilor Udina,” Samara agrees. 

“Shepard, I have just been informed that your Spectre status has been uniformly suspended across all Citadel space, and that they are ordering us to exit the queue to be detained by C-Sec,” EDI says. 

“See, this is why we don’t queue for escape attempts! EDI, for someone made by a terrorist organization, you are not a very good criminal. Joker, get us out of here, on the double, before we have to shoot poor saps doing their jobs,” Shepard tiredly orders. 

Joker grins like he’s been waiting for this type of order all his professional life. “With pleasure! Gunning it now, boss!” 

“I will update my criminal activity protocols,” EDI adds.

—

“Thank you for meeting with me, Shepard,” Samara says, as if this is a normal meeting and not one Shepard would gladly fight a thresher maw to avoid. Samara had been the first one to request to leave the Normandy with her usual polite promptness. 

“Well, that’s the only rule about this. A meeting before leaving. Ensuring goodwill and that you’ll be equipped with all the intel we have on the Reapers and…” Shepard trails off in a sigh. Samara watches, without judgment, as Shepard scrubs a hand over her face and glares out the viewing window. “Be honest with me, Samara—how much of this is because of the rachni thing?” 

“I am very good at compartmentalization, Shepard,” Samara says with something that may be dry humor. Its close cousin, at least. “It would be a lie to say there was no impact, but it was not as great an impact as you fear now. I understand that the rachni are your first pledged allies in this war, and I likewise understand that there may not be many more who will openly do the same. Now is not the time for you to be choosy.” 

That’s a weight off Shepard’s heart, if she’s being honest with herself. She talked Grunt down from his rachni-induced rage, but Samara had remained cool. The fact that she so willingly put her life on the line to prove Shepard’s indoctrination status was reassuring, however. In a dark way. 

“As a justicar, I command great respect within asari culture. While there is no specific ruling against a threat such as the Reapers, the Code would firmly dictate we must fight them to our utmost ability. I plan to do so. I will seek out other justicars and tell them of what is coming. I will also share this information with those in the asari governments who would be agreeable to our war preparation,” Samara adds. “It would not be official government aid, Shepard, but it would be something. Something I hope helps.” 

“Anything will help, and that—that sounds great,” Shepard replies, further relief flooding her. She had mostly written off having any sway with the Council races until the Reapers actually arrived. If there were some sympathetic asari officials on her side, that would make things so much easier. “But I’ll miss you.” 

Samara blinks down at her, mildly taken aback—then her usual poise takes back over. “The Normandy was a welcome home for me in the time that I served aboard it. I will miss it, and you, as well, Shepard. You were a worthy leader to follow. And your mission remains in my heart and mind. But I know that we will argue further about what methods you must take to ensure victory, and I will not put either of us in a position where that must happen again.” 

Shepard doesn’t blame Samara for not wanting to butt heads anymore. It’s probably for the best that she doesn’t keep pissing off a justicar, too. That seems like a poor plan for a long life. She’ll respect her decision, be grateful for her dedication to helping, and try to keep her chin up. 

Samara doesn’t offer a hug, and Shepard doesn’t go in for one, but if there were a way to make a handshake affectionate, they would’ve managed. 

Shepard’s eyes remain dry, though her heart a little more battered, as she leaves the observation deck. “EDI, can you make note that we’ll be able to use the observation deck for storage or anything else after Illium?” 

“Noted, Shepard,” she replies from overhead. They have a lot of retrofitting to do while planning for independent action; they won’t be able to rely so much on outside trade, so Shepard plans on dropping a lot of credits on stockpiling and getting the Normandy ready for a war. More storage space will be useful. Silver lining. 

“Shep!” Kasumi says, rippling into visibility, and Shepard must jump a foot in the air. “So glad to have caught you in a bad mood!” 

“What?” Shepard blinks and hopes she doesn’t actually look like she’s in a bad mood. She schools her face into something calm and professional. “You have bad news for me, I take it?” 

“Yes—I’m also disembarking at Illium,” Kasumi chirps with her usual cheekiness—like she didn’t just metaphorically slap Shepard. There go the remains of her composure. “I wanted to let you know while you were already sad or upset so I wouldn’t be the sole reason for it, and that way, you only have to be cheered up once. Otherwise, you’ll just be on an emotional rollercoaster until we dock at Illium. That many ups and downs can’t be good for anyone’s health.” 

Shepard massages the furrow in her brow. She’s going to get wrinkles very prematurely. “Okay, I’ll pretend like that’s comforting. And why did you decide to ambush me in the hallway to drop this news on me? I get to ask about your rationale for leaving, too.” 

“Shep, I am the best thief in the galaxy—not the most famous. But being on your crew has lent me some notoriety. It’s getting to be a little too much spotlight, and I work best in the shadows, and you’re going to need me to work at my best. I’m just leaving the Normandy physically, but I’ll always be open to a ping from you. Also, I’ve looked over your budget, and it’s pretty spartan.” 

“I know,” Shepard flatly replies. 

“I have some fancy, artsy stock I suppose I could part with,” Kasumi points out. “Consider me an outside sponsor of your war efforts from this point forward. I’m no good in an actual war, but credits, contacts, and illicit deals? I can do that for you.” 

Shepard definitely won’t turn down more money. EDI has a range of predictions for how much fuel they’ll burn depending on whether or not the Council sends anyone actually after them, and those numbers aren’t pretty. Not to mention everything else that’s so expensive about prepping for a war in just a frigate. Without any more Spectre (or the occasional Alliance) funding. 

“Also, you know that gold necklace and bracelets I lent you for Anderson’s promotion party? Keep them! I can put you in touch with a good fence for them. Consider them my going away gift,” Kasumi adds. 

“Do I get to know at least what they are?” Priceless historical artifact—she fucking knew it. 

“They belonged to an asari matriarch four or five thousand years ago, a big deal, some sort of religious prophet and spiritual leader,” Kasumi says, way too casually. She flaps her hand, dismissively, at Shepard’s growing alarm. “Last time they were at auction, the set went for about four hundred million credits.” 

“They what?!” Shepard nearly shrieks. 

Kasumi beams at her from beneath her hood. “Nice going away present, huh? Now your bank account won’t look so sad after Illium. This isn’t about short-term purchases, Shep, but figuring out how to pay for things until the Reapers are here and you’re suddenly seen as a savior again. You’re going to be funding more than just the Normandy. I took a peek at those research projects you have lined up, and I know a couple of them could use a big infusion of credits.” 

“Kasumi, I could kiss you,” Shepard croaks, mind reeling. Emotions swirl within her, most of them unrelated to the fact that Kasumi will also be leaving soon. That’ll hit her later. The fact that they have actual war funding that Kasumi pulled out like a rabbit out of a top hat is overwhelming. 

“I’ll take a hug! No use getting certain alien gentlemen jealous,” Kasumi brightly replies and opens up her arms. Shepard picks her up and nearly crushes her ribs in her answering hug. 

—

“Speak now or forever hold your peace—anyone have any problem with me handing the genophage cure research over to Wrex in exchange for krogan allies?” Shepard asks, all too blasé, gesturing to the innocuous data pad on the mess table. 

She had been serious about enlisting Normandy crew as advisors. She is not getting blindsided by another moral clash, not when they have bigger things to focus on. And this is a doozy of a moral quandary she’s about to throw into galactic politics. Pretty much without remorse, for her part. 

Other parties will probably feel differently. 

As evidenced by all of the stares she’s getting now. 

“Not a joke,” Shepard adds. Urz butts his head against her thigh beneath the table, and Shepard brightens, leaning down to rub his jaw the way he likes. “Yeah, we’re going to go to your home planet and see if we can become best friends with the krogan! Yes we are! Are you excited, boy?” 

“When you said tossing ethics out the airlock to do what needed to be done—” Jacob begins. 

But Shepard holds up a hand to cut him off. “Nope, not you, Jacob. Current Normandy crew only gets to vote on galactic-spanning moral decisions.” She had yet to speak with him at length, but like Samara, he had requested the Leaving The Normandy meeting. He’ll be disembarking on Omega, so they still have a little bit of time together, at least. “Half-vote, actually. You can get a half-vote. I know I have an in with Wrex, but I need full krogan support here. Ride or die krogan support. They’re leery of politics and alliances after the Council burned them, so we need full commitment from both parties for this to work.” 

“So you brought the rachni back, and now you’re undoing the genophage for the krogan?” Garrus asks. Shepard nods with a sidelong look in his direction. “You just want to undo several thousand years of galactic history, don’t you?” 

“When you put it like that, how could I refuse?” 

“Shepard, about genophage research,” Mordin pipes up, and Shepard’s flippancy freezes, her heart stopping. She needs Mordin for this part to work, and he had never made any overtures about leaving. “Will want to speak to you privately about it later. Ready to work on it at any time, do not personally oppose genophage cure in these circumstances. Shift in perspective in recent years. Moral realizations, but personal, irrelevant here outside of commitment to Normandy and this decision.” 

Shepard’s breath leaves her in a relieved whoosh. Okay, she really needs to rethink personnel needs if someone can surprise her like that. She’s been operating under the assumption that certain parties won’t leave—either because of their personal connection, or how valuable they are to certain facets of her budding war tactics. She needs Mordin and his brilliance to iron out all this technical jargon for the krogan. Sure, Wrex would take the research himself, but it wouldn’t be as valuable if he didn’t have the scientists to back it up. 

“Shepard-Commander, we would also like to schedule a meeting with you to discuss logistics in alliances,” Legion pipes up. 

And Shepard’s heart about stops all over again. She needs the geth more than she needs the krogan. 

“This is not regarding requesting a leave of absence from Normandy,” Legion adds, “but logistical concerns.” 

“Okay, new Normandy rule! When you request a meeting with me, say what it’s about!” Shepard irately declares. 

—

“Do you know how Cerberus started out?” Jacob asks as an opener. 

“Not really. I assume there were good intentions there somewhere, at some point,” Shepard replies, politely, but with a rather flat tone. She’s seen what Cerberus became, so she has little use for how it started out. The road to hell is paved with good intentions and all that. 

“Paramilitary protection and emergency rescue for human colonies in the Skyllian Verge,” Jacob replies. Shepard raises an eyebrow. Noble indeed. “Cerberus—guarding the gateway to hell. We were the last or only guard a lot of those colonies had for long while. Not that it’s classified, but it’s not very well-known anymore. Miranda told me once. Sucks, because that is why a lot of good people joined up—protection, doing the right thing, helping people who need it. A lot of those people are still in the organization, because they believed in that, or they believed in you.” 

“Me?” Shepard parrots; she had made her distaste for Cerberus and its leader quite clear during her run with them, even before she quit. 

“As Miranda put it—you’re a bloody icon. Best of the best of humanity. Cerberus recruitment rose a ton when you came back from the dead, Shepard,” Jacob replies, amused. “People who believe in helping. And a lot of those people are trapped and exploited by Cerberus and the Illusive Man now. A lot of Cerberus’ darker shit has come to light, thanks to you, but not everyone can give the Illusive Man the finger and steal off in his best ship. Those people need help. Getting out, finishing missions and projects, staying safe. I need to help them, Shepard.” 

“Well, damn it, Taylor, you know I can’t argue with logic like that. Although this would be a lot easier if people could give the Illusive Man the finger and start stealing ships. I’d welcome them with open arms, too,” Shepard jokes to hide how proud of him she is. She’d do the same damn thing if she could. 

Jacob huffs a laugh. “Good news is—well, not good, but it’s something—that it’s a limited amount of groups and people I know that I can help. I have a concrete list. After that, I’m yours again, promise. Whatever I can do to help you, Shepard.” 

“Your workaholic tendencies are showing again,” Shepard hums.

That earns a real laugh. “Learned from the best, you know! Between you and Miranda, can’t help but want to keep going. Plenty to do if we’re starting prep for a war, too, so don’t pretend like you won’t do the same.” He grins at her, and she shares it, but it softens a moment later. “For the record, too—I think if anyone could corral the krogan and stop them from taking over the galaxy in revenge, it’d be you. You and Wrex are tight, and he seems to have a surprising hold on his clan, with respect from others. I think you’ll pull it off.” 

“Thanks, Jacob. You’re a level-headed guy, not like half my crazy crew, so it means a lot to hear that you think that,” Shepard replies. “I’m gonna miss that level head soon enough, I’m sure.” 

“No doubt about that. Heard Samara’s leaving, too. You’re gonna be left with some… energetic team members if all us sane ones are leaving to help elsewhere.” 

“Whatever it takes,” she reminds him. He nods in total agreement. 

—

Who knew a war effort would contain so many goddamn meetings? At least Mordin wasn’t ditching her. (She keeps telling herself no hard feelings, and there really aren’t; she’s knows they’re on different paths, best utilizing their skills.) But Shepard still itches, nervous, at the thought of certain crew leaving. She needs certain leverages. 

Like the brilliant scientist before her now. 

“Shepard, glad to have your ear for a moment. Need to discuss genophage research. Agree that Urdnot Wrex good potential leader for unified krogan front, sure to be outliers and rebels, but already powerful ruler in his own right. Definite path of least resistance with him,” Mordin says in his usual rapid, excited tone. 

“Well, good,” Shepard barely gets out before he continues. 

“Concern lies not with krogan response—sure to be enthusiastic, widespread loyalty almost guaranteed, very useful for war as historically demonstrated—but with existing research. Can work on genophage cure alone. Could synthesize working cure for krogan… Within a year,” Mordin says with a thoughtful nod, mostly to himself. “Likeliest timeframe. Even have idea as to how to spread cure quickly to krogan population.”

“Shit, that sounds great, Mordin” Shepard says, because she knows little about the medical field, but she knows it usually takes ages for actual discoveries and cures to be created and mass-produced. But he’s giving it to her within a year? She might’ve fallen in love with the wrong aliens. 

“But would be remiss if I did not mention potential alternatives to timetable. Saw your research and development plans. Saw potential projects.” Mordin pauses, glancing over at her, eyelids fluttering in thought. “Saw Kepral’s Syndrome cure on list of research avenues, Shepard.” 

“I know it’s not a priority,” Shepard says, instantly on the defense. Love feelings gone. “I know how to prioritize other things, Mordin. But we grabbed everything we could from the Spectre office, and they had hanar intel on cures. And I’m already hoping to ally with the hanar, so there could be sharing of research, and I know you have some knowledge in the field of diseases—” 

“Emotional connection to chosen mate does not matter, Shepard! No need for reproach. Point is—if asking for genophage cure from me, that would be primary project for foreseeable future. No time for medicinal work, no matter how interesting disease may be,” Mordin points out. 

“…Right,” Shepard says. She’d been afraid of that. But with four months already accounted for—and up to nine before the Reapers hit—she has no illusions about the timeframe of any of this. This is not going to be a quick war. They will have to plan out for years of research and development, prioritize what will help them win, and keep contingencies for future emergencies open. 

And the drell would not be important to a galactic-wide war, if she’s being ruthlessly honest about it. There are other, more pressing priorities. 

“But herein lies offer,” Mordin continues, not at all deterred by her frown. “Know from STG contacts that salarians also working—covertly—on genophage study. If given team, real lab, scientific resources not found on Normandy—could have working cure in as little as three months.” 

She stares at the doctor. 

“…What?” 

Shepard definitely had heard that wrong. 

Three months? For a cure for the genophage? She knows Mordin likes to work scientific miracles, but that’s obscene. And, frankly, nigh impossible to believe. 

“Proposal is this: ally with salarians, Shepard. Council race, yes, unlikely to be officially friendly, government would be very unfriendly actually, but unofficially an option for you to secure research-based alliance with certain cells of STG officers. Know of several who are interested, know you, believe in cause and evidence of Reapers. Would utilize Maelon’s research in combination with STG research and resources, create cure more quickly, ensure krogan goodwill and loyalty, and ascertain exactly where STG stands with certain krogan genetic data.” 

“Wait, wait, Mordin—I’m still reeling about the fact that you said you could have a genophage cure before the Reapers even get here—but you’re telling me the salarians are also working on a cure? Right now? Is this meant to be some sort of apology for the genophage?” 

“Not apology,” Mordin sniffs, in distaste. “But offer of neutrality. Krogan antagonism has gone on far too long. Not all agree with this, of course, but within STG are certain cells operating somewhat independently. Have heard from classified sources that they have gotten as far as experiments on living female krogan. Supposedly, promising results. Instead of potential adjustment to genophage to ensure continued infertility, like I did, co-opt research and team for cure creation, to ensure alliance for upcoming war.” 

The offer is tempting. It is so fucking tempting. She had discounted Council races, but Samara had already mentioned an in with certain sympathetic asari, and now Mordin is offering her an in with the salarians. (However, if Garrus could magically pull something out for the turian Hierarchy, she’ll eat her boot. That’s one too far.) But before she promises anything, before she even thinks about this beautiful piece of hope, she has to ask one thing. 

“What would the salarians want?” Shepard asks with dread. 

Mordin grimaces at her with a flutter of his eyelids. “That is primary issue. Unknown to me what they would ask for from you or Normandy crew. Only know that they would accept meeting with you to discuss it.” 

Great. Another meeting to add to her calendar. 

Chapter Text

Illium: where credits rule first and foremost. Thanks to a certain asari, enough people are tipped off that Commander Shepard is here to drop a lot of credits that Nos Astra security overlooks the fact that she is wanted in Citadel space. They’re allowed to dock as they normally are. Their usual attendant is there to greet them and let Shepard know that Liara has been waiting for her. 

It feels normal, but it’s also very not normal. The Normandy is losing some of its crew here. They’re technically wanted—well, only Shepard officially so far, but they rest of them are no doubt on many watch lists. They’re only here for forty-eight hours, for a rush job retrofitting, and even that much time makes Shepard twitchy. 

“Say, do you think you could help me fake my death?” Kasumi asks brightly, popping up beside Samara, who does not startle at her sudden presence. “That would go a long way to getting me back into anonymity. I am a semi-known thief, if that helps you with your Code stuff. I do all sorts of illegal stuff you could hypothetically punish me for.” 

Before Shepard could get emotional over leaving squad—or forbid them from causing a scene in Kasumi’s bid to fake her death in a probably overblown manner—Liara comes jogging up. She throws her arms around Shepard without pausing for a greeting. Shepard hardly staggers beneath her slight weight, but she can’t help some surprise. Liara had become more closed-off after choosing her new career path. This is a nice, nostalgic return. 

“Oh, Shepard, I’m so glad to see you’re alright. I watched it live, of course, and at one point I was sure the turian Councilor was going to call for your head. I’m glad you escaped,” Liara says with a tight squeeze. 

“I don’t think it was hectic enough to call it an escape. We were even waiting in a line at one point,” Shepard jokes. She belatedly returns Liara’s hug. “Thanks, already, for agreeing to—” 

“Shepard, don’t you dare thank me for helping you! It is the actual, literal least I can do, given my resources. Given all that you’ve done for me. The Reaper threat is the most important thing in the galaxy, and I’ve known you and your cause for years. We are going to win this, together.” 

“Well, if the Shadow Broker says so…” 

“So, I’ve already figured out what all I can take on board and have transferred the necessary clearances onto new devices. Frankly, it won’t take half as long as some of the fits you’ve ordered for the Normandy. But there is one thing—” 

“Woah, wait, Liara,” Shepard breaks in, confused, “you’re coming with us? Like, physically? You made no mention of this—where are we going to put your stuff?! You need a lot of tech, don’t you?” 

Liara tilts her head to the side. Her pale eyes find someone over Shepard’s shoulder, and she says, “You didn’t tell her yet.” 

Shepard turns to find Miranda beside them, arms crossed, one perfect brow raised expectantly. “Shepard,” she says, “I’d like to schedule a meeting with you about my position aboard the Normandy.” 

“Miranda fucking Lawson, what the hell do you think you’re doing, springing this on me right now?” Shepard manages, feeling an awful lot like she’d just suffered some sort of head wound. The corridor isn’t spinning, but vertigo clings at her, and she can’t seem to focus properly on Miranda. Who just said she’s leaving. While they are already on Illium. She should have put a fucking time limit on the meeting thing. 

“Dr. T’Soni, could I borrow Shepard for a moment?” Miranda asks. 

“Of course. Though don’t think I appreciate the surprise you just sprung on her,” Liara says with a firm, reproachful frown. But it vanishes a moment later when Tali finds her and attacks her with a hug. 

Miranda and Shepard head further into the Nos Astra port, Shepard stewing, Miranda looking like she’s completely at ease. They hardly make it to the market proper before Shepard bites out, “You blindsided me.” 

“I blindsided everyone but Dr. T’Soni,” Miranda easily replies. “I’m sorry for doing it this way, Shepard, but I need to minimize the trail I’m leaving, and I couldn’t risk you talking me out of it. I need to go secure Ori and her family, and I need to track down a few of my contacts to figure out who’s loyal to me and who isn’t. I won’t be able to concentrate on anything properly until I know she’s safe.” 

Shepard sighs through her teeth. “I get that, Miranda. I do.” 

“So I’m also graciously letting Dr. T’Soni take over my quarters. She needs the extra space for her equipment and you do need her physically on board. If she really can do her job aboard the Normandy, then you need to let her—having her close at hand would be invaluable, Shepard,” Miranda points out. 

“I get the logic, and yeah—it’s great. I’d normally be overjoyed at having Liara back on the Normandy,” Shepard says, hand to her temple, “but that was rude, even for you.” 

“I’m sorry, Shepard,” Miranda says. She finally softens, and tugs them toward the railing, looking over a stunning, glittering view. She takes Shepard’s hands in both of hers. “I know it’s unfair. I’m sorry. But this is temporary—I’ll be back as soon as I’m sure Ori’s safe. And I really did need to make sure you couldn’t talk me out of it. You are probably one of three people in the galaxy who could talk me into or out of anything. I couldn’t risk that, no matter how good of the cause it is. You need me at my best, and I couldn’t function at my best knowing Ori could be at risk.” 

“When would you be back?” Shepard asks. 

“I don’t know. It depends on a lot of factors. I’ll be somewhat available over email, too, if you need anything from me. While I’m vetting my old contacts, I’ll forward you any who can help, and warn you about those who won’t.” 

Shepard sighs again. So that’s three she’s letting off on Illium. 

“Thanks for letting me go, Shepard,” Miranda softly replies. “It means a lot to me that you’ll trust me to do this. You’re my second favorite sister, you know.” 

“You’re my second favorite, too,” she replies. 

Miranda scoffs. “I know you were an only child.” 

Shepard grins. “I know. But fair’s fair, Miranda.” 

—

Shepard’s next (actually scheduled, not a surprise) meeting is with a pair of contractors who are supposed to be upgrading the cargo bay on the Normandy, but Liara has apparently taken over the project. She’s already there when Shepard arrives, and she gives her a bright smile before handing off the datapad to the volus contractor. 

“Thank you, these specifications look correct. I’ll confirm the order now. As fast as you can, please, heedless of the rush job fee. Shepard, it’s good to see you again—am I allowed to take you away from your crew now? I have some good news for you,” Liara says. 

“You mean besides how you’re commandeering my projects and joining me on this ill-fated war venture?” Shepard asks in return. 

Liara links their arms and begins leading them away from Shepard’s scheduled meeting. “Yes, besides all of that. I’ve gone over your plans with Miranda and EDI, and everything is ready to go or underway. The Normandy will be ready tomorrow for the bulk order deliveries. Garrus and Tali told me everything that happened in the Viper Nebula—aside from your official reports—and I know this can’t be an easy thing to face after such a… hardship.” 

“Liara, I really don’t want to talk about it.” Even talking about it with her partners had been like pulling teeth, and she likes them better than Liara. (Narrowly.) Liara may be gentle and sweet and empathetic, but her comforts are the same—saccharine and overbearing if Shepard allows her to be. 

“Yes, I’m sure, I didn’t mean to press,” Liara hastily says, a touch nervous, like she really hadn’t meant to. It makes Shepard feel slightly better about the topic. “But, well, with everything that has gone on, and since your schedule has opened up just now, I think it best for you to have a break. I’ve already forwarded day passes to the rest of the crew who are interested.” 

So Liara escorts Shepard to a spa of all places. Shepard drags her feet as soon as she sees the sign, but Liara is deceptively strong, and no amount of frowning or grousing will get her to drop the subject. 

“There are also two people I’d like you to meet here,” Liara says as soon as they’re past the reception area. “Well, one of them is meeting for the first time, one of them is someone you’ve technically met before.” 

“We are in a spa for secret meetings?” Shepard hisses. 

Liara hauls her into a locker room and with an innocent smile, holds out a change of clothes, the spa’s uniform. “Yes. Now strip, Shepard.” 

Kasumi had been right about Shepard being on an emotional rollercoaster. She’s never been to a fancy place like this ever in her life, and while Liara’s certainly gotten used to the finer things on Illium, she hadn’t pegged her as the type, either. Liara doesn’t relax well. Too much work to be done. That much, they’ve always had in common. 

Liara next drags her out into a large bath area with limited visibility due to the sheer amount of steam and hot water. It doesn’t look like it’s particularly busy, and most of the clientele are asari, lounging by the pools or soaking in the undoubtedly fancy waters. (Each bath has a plaque next to it, detailing what’s in the water. Shepard doesn’t want to know how much some of these ingredients cost.) 

“Wait, you said everyone got an invite here?” Shepard asks, squinting through the steam. “What about—” 

“There are dry saunas and humidity-controlled areas for those who don’t like or can’t have that much moisture in the air,” Liara easily interrupts. “There are also wet saunas, and then very wet saunas, for clients like hanar. If you feel like drowning, we can try one of those later.” 

“Liara, I appreciate your intent,” Shepard says, not sure if it’s a white lie or not, “but this is a waste of time and credits. Who do you want me to meet, why do we have to come to this fancy place, and why is my uniform pink? It’s as bright as the Phoenix armor, except without the ceramic plating.” She misses that armor. It had saved her skin more than a few times.

“Humans have pink outfits here. It’s not sectioned by gender, but some areas are sectioned by race,” Liara replies. (Asari uniforms are, of course, blue. If this is meant to be representative of average skin tone, Shepard is going to complain to management. A lot.) “Come, this way, if you’d please.” 

As polite as ever. Shepard rolls her eyes and follows Liara deeper into the deceptively large building. Many asari workers nod or bow to Liara as they pass, cementing Shepard’s opinion that Liara has gotten used to the finer things in life after moving to Illium. Or maybe frequent fancy spa visits are really how asari look so young throughout the centuries. 

Liara brings her to what appears to be an office and knocks, three times, on a large door. She opens it without waiting for an answer. 

“Liara,” says the asari inside the office, dressed not in spa uniform but a tuxedo-like suit instead. Her skin is a little lighter than Liara’s, but what’s most striking are her eyes—dark, almost violet, standing out all the more due to the white markings around her eyes that look like makeup. She smiles when her dark eyes land on Shepard. 

“Commander Shepard, this is matriarch Helesse D’Rafi, owner and manager of this establishment,” Liara says. 

A matriarch? Shepard wonders. Well, that explains a bit of the respect, and would be a useful ally to have. But it’s still just one woman. “A pleasure, ma’am. Liara was very excited to bring me here.” 

“Oh, I’ll bet she was,” Helesse says in a rich, deep voice. Almost masculine, and certainly a rarity for asari. It makes her sound even more in-charge than the sharp suit and massive desk do. “The pleasure is all mine, Commander. I’m not certain how much Liara has told you, but she and I share similar career paths in our free time.” 

Liara titters. “She is being modest. Matriarch Helesse is one of the top information brokers on all of Illium, and she does it in her spare time. Mine is my primary career at this point. Honestly, it’s quite inspiring, if intimidating.” 

Ah, an information broker. And a good one—Shepard understands now. Liara is ensuring that they still have eyes and ears on Illium, even without her present here. Another comforting, sweet gesture meant to reassure. 

“Little Liara here has told me a great deal about you, far more than the news vids have revealed. And she’s let me know just how serious your new endeavor is,” Helesse says. “I know a military woman such as yourself may have concerns about a civilian businesswoman—and one in charge of a bathhouse, of all things.” 

Well, Shepard certainly wasn’t going to say any of those concerns. Especially not to a matriarch. Self-declared civilian or not, she could probably rip Shepard to shreds with her biotics on a whim. 

“But my spa caters to clientele among all races, political leanings, income levels, and more. I hear all that goes on in Illium’s many businesses. And I would love to work with you, Commander, to stay abreast of your exploits myself in return, rather than via the news vids,” she continues with a smile as sharp as her suit. 

Shepard exchanges an admittedly unsubtle glance with Liara. All she wants in return is their information? Sure, intel on the Reapers and the coming war is going to be very valuable in a matter of months, but Shepard hadn’t planned on keeping any of this classified. Helesse is basically asking for nothing in return. Not even credits. Yet. 

“This sounds likes it’ll turn into a very advantageous relationship for both of us, then, ma’am,” Shepard replies with a smile. “I’m glad to have made your acquaintance. Sincerely.” 

“The pleasure is all mine, Commander!” Helesse replies, beaming. 

“I’ll forward contact info for each of you later. If you’ll excuse us, matriarch, I did promise Shepard that we could partake of your spa’s services to unwind before we leap back into the fire,” Liara gently breaks in. 

The matriarch nods and lets them go with many more smiles that Shepard almost believe. Once they’re away from her office, and now cognizant of what kind of spying devices are likely in place, Shepard hisses, “What’s the actual catch with her?” 

“She’s truly a big fan of you, you know,” Liara replies, just as quiet. “She wanted to meet you in person as part of her requirements for working with us going forward.” 

“That was probably one of the tamest fan experiences I’ve ever had.” No asking for autographs, or pictures, or trying to touch her. Shepard wishes everyone could be so composed. “What else is the catch, Liara? Seems almost too good to be true.” 

Liara sighs. They break back out into one of the main halls, branching off into different, color-coded bathhouses. (Not by species, but humidity level, apparently. She could get lost in here.) “Actually, the catch happened several years ago. She and my mother… Matriarch Benezia did not get along. They weren’t exactly enemies, in the sense that they weren’t shooting at each other, but there was much more animosity between them than mere political or academic rivals. She kept a close eye on me since I moved to Illium and got started in this business, and so I used that against her and managed to ingratiate myself to her. She thinks quite highly of herself, but her skills and intuition truly are no joke. And, as with many matriarchs, she has significant power and respect. She will be a valuable ally on the ground here.” 

“And she’s trustworthy?” Shepard must ask. 

“Absolutely. Her job as an information broker may not be well-known, but she has always maintained integrity with her intel gathering and reports. I’ve looked through her history myself—almost four centuries of a spotless record. If we can’t trust that, then who can we?” 

“Well, alright, can’t argue with that.” And with more agents on the ground, they won’t have to worry about indoctrination until planets start getting hit. It’s an uncomfortable thought, but necessary realization. “You mentioned someone else I have to meet, too? And then I assume we just… Sit in the water for awhile?” Yes, she loves hot water and zoning out in it, but she doesn’t understand how someone can spend hours doing something like that. 

Liara smiles. “Yes, Shepard, we will just go and relax. We can meet with the other person later, as it’s not strictly business, and I don’t know where he is currently. I assume catching up with Miranda.” 

“Wait, what?” 

“Anyway, it is time for us to relax and for you to turn off your brain for five minutes, Shepard,” Liara cheerily continues, tugging her toward a randomly selected bath. 

—

Shepard understands the lure of hot water, hot steam, and a place to turn off her brain after a mere hour there. She also understands how Helesse can be so good at her second job; there is so much casual chatting between patrons, and some of the conversations she overhears are already interest-piquing. (If she were into real estate, she’d have some great tips.) 

“I’ve looked over your plans for the Normandy and ideas to gain allies,” Liara says, but Shepard waves a very pink, heated arm at her. Floppily. 

“Liaaaaara, we’re not supposed to be working right now,” Shepard slurs. She slips deeper into the water, up to her chin, and cherishes the heat encompassing her. “Can I quit being Commander Shepard? I want to live here forever.” 

“It’s amazing what a few moments to unwind can do,” Liara replies with a chuckle. “Please keep that in mind for what we’re about to face.” 

“I’m mostly sticking to a meditation routine now, I think that’s helping,” Shepard mumbles. Thane joins her for them, too. She supposes that will continue, since Samara has left. Another silver lining. 

“I have you booked for a massage later, but we still have some time beforehand. Would you like to eat anything yet?” 

“I never want to leave this water again,” she replies. Fuck how wrinkly she’s getting. It beats gaining stress wrinkles. And she’s pretty sure she can handle heat better than the average human, too, based on how long she’s already been soaking. This is her life now. Someone else can fight the Reapers. 

“Would you like to meet up with any of the others? I believe Tali has likewise fallen in love with this place.” 

Shepard doesn’t think quarians can soak, so her curiosity wars with her comfort. But ‘others’ encompasses more than just Tali, including her poor boyfriends who she has definitely been neglecting the past week, so Shepard slinks out of the bath and returns to being a person. 

Tali’s mystery adoration of the place is apparent as soon as they find her: she has taken over a very high-end massaging chair, dressed rather absurdly in a silver spa uniform overtop her envirosuit, and wiggles pleasantly as the chair rolls beneath her. “Shepaaaaard,” Tali says, sounding just as gooey as Shepard had felt earlier, “I want one for the Normandy. Can’t someone see we’re trying to save the galaxy and give us a bunch of credits for frivolous things like this?” 

“Unfortunately, we have an actual list of things to add to the budget whenever we get a surplus of credits, so we don’t really ever have a surplus. Yet. Maybe we’ll discover an entire planet made of gold and eezo later and we can afford one then,” Shepard indulgently replies. 

“I’m staying here until I’m ordered back aboard, then,” Tali dreamily says. “You can even order food and drinks to be delivered to your chair here, did you know? And they come in sterile, sealed containers! I haven’t had to move, and now I won’t. I doubt a quarian has ever felt so pampered in Council space before. Or ever…” 

“Do I want to know how expensive this place is, Liara?” Shepard must ask; there are a lot of amenities that seem like they’d drive up the price. Plus: Illium. Nothing is cheap here. 

“Matriarch Helesse really wanted to meet you, Shepard,” Liara replies. 

She won’t argue with that any further. 

After twenty minutes in another massaging chair to see what all the Tali hype is about—and it is worth the hype, but Liara tells them both they can’t have one—Liara mildly suggests that they look for the others. Shepard follows her; Tali stays firmly and delightfully put. 

Liara leads her to one of the saunas, the dry one, so she thinks she correctly assumes who Liara is cheekily leading her to. 

And she’s mostly right. 

But she’s also wrong in the fact that it seems like half her crew is scattered in the hot room. 

She also does an immediate double-take: there isn’t just one, but two drell here. The man she had initially thought to be Thane, shamefully biased as she is to associating any drell presence with her partner, lounging on one of the low wooden benches with his eyes closed, has the wrong color of scales. His face is lighter in color, almost golden, and the deeper portions of his skin tone are darker in turn, almost bluish-emerald on his crest. 

(Also, Thane is easily found to be leaning against Garrus. Out like a light.) 

Shepard has known that heat tends to be soporific to drell, and she thinks she even knew that about salarians, too, but it’s still a highly entertaining surprise to find both Thane and Mordin asleep in the sauna. Thane leans against Garrus, body limp, and Mordin is unabashedly starfished on the floor, snoring. 

Also highly entertaining: Grunt, head lolling, in the corner. Makes sense for more reptilian crew to share the same vulnerability to heat. Only Kelly appears to be fully awake here, albeit red-faced and shiny with sweat. 

“Think it’s your turn to be a pillow. I’ve been in here almost an hour,” Garrus stage-whispers. He looks more at ease than Shepard has ever seen him, too, and his hide looks unusually bright. Turians like heat, too, or at least are used to it biologically. (Turian spa uniforms are forest green, which is a color she doesn’t think she’s ever seen him before. It makes his eyes and clan markings stand out, though.) 

“Do turians like baths?” Shepard asks. She wedges herself between Thane and Kelly. Her skin already feels sticky with fresh sweat when she sits on the hot wood. 

“Turians don’t really like it when our hide gets all soft and waterlogged, but the heat is nice,” Garrus replies. 

Thane stirs, barely, when Shepard tries to tug him over to her. He mumbles something that isn’t translated, places a wet kiss against her shoulder, then promptly passes back out. How did the drell even survive living on Rakhana? Or were they naturally lethargic, and only became more active when trying to combat colder climes? She doesn’t understand the science behind it—she only knows it’s cute. 

Liara smiles at the show, then picks her way across Mordin to poke at the second drell. “Feron? Wake up.” 

“Wait, Feron?” Shepard asks. “Your friend Feron?” 

“Wait, hold on, you’re saying the only other non-Krios drell we’ve ever met is someone we know?” Garrus adds. 

“You’re too loud,” Grunt complains from the corner. 

With Liara helping him up, the other drell sits up, and Shepard only then, and only somewhat recognizes Feron. They’d met briefly, after all, and under far bloodier circumstances. (Probably rude to mention she hadn’t recognized him without the blood and burns covering him.) But he’s healthy and uninjured now, if very sleepy, and he blinks up at Liara with big, dark eyes full of annoyance. “Do you know how rare it is for drell to actually dream? I was enjoying that,” he complains. His voice has higher register than Thane’s, but the deep vibration is the same. 

Garrus shifts awkwardly on Thane’s other side. 

Shepard leans around her comatose boyfriend and grins, evilly, and Garrus. “So it’s more than just Thane, huh? He’s going to be so betrayed, Garrus. How could you!” 

“No, actually, it wasn’t. It’s still nonsense to turian ears, anyway,” Garrus shoots back. “Really weird nonsense. Nothing at all like our favorite assassin.” 

Feron turns to regard them, unamused and still a touch sleepy, and says, “Right, you’re the one with the voice kink for drell. Liara told me about you. Nice to actually meet you.” 

“Liara said what about me?!” Garrus demands while Shepard stifles her laughter with her hands. Unfortunately, her shaking shoulders rouse Thane; he manages to grasp consciousness for more than five seconds this time. (Mordin keeps snoring on the floor.) 

“He’s not wrong,” Grunt grumbles from the corner. Even Kelly laughs at that one, politely trying to hide it. 

“Get used to it, and don’t loosen your plates listening to me, because we’re about to be seeing a whole lot more of each other,” Feron mutters. Shepard laughs even harder, especially while Thane stares at the other drell like he’s trying to understand a foreign language. Garrus looks ready to bite someone, and not in the fun way. Plus, Feron’s crudeness is at such odds with Thane’s usual civility that the surprise makes it all that much funnier. 

“Why are we going to be seeing more of you?” Thane muzzily asks. Garrus stiffens beside him. Incriminatingly. Shepard and Kelly lean against each other to try to contain their giggles at Garrus’ expense. 

Liara gestures to Feron like one would to a new skycar. “Well, Feron is coming with me. Temporarily, but still. Welcome a new crewmate to the Normandy, everyone!” 

Shepard really cannot be held accountable for how hard she laughs at Garrus’ utterly unamused stare. 

—

After a massage—which Shepard had been initially worried about due to the sturdiness of her body and the force which with would be needed to combat her knotted back and shoulders, but her fears had been assuaged as soon as she’d found out that her masseuse was an elcor—Shepard has perversely discovered why people go to war. They protect joys like this. She feels relaxed and comfortable in her body in a way she hasn’t felt since before she’d died, and probably longer before that to boot, and this is such a nice thing to look forward to repeating after they save the galaxy. (Again.) 

It’s kind of stupid, compared to everything they really are fighting for—freedom and life itself, for starters—but the little joys are grounding. A more solid reminder. There are many other patrons in the spa, featuring most of the galactic races, and they’re all enjoying their lives and a nice day out, too. 

This all could be destroyed if she doesn’t stop it. 

“How was your massage?” Liara asks as soon as Shepard staggers back out into the main area. 

“I think I love a middle-aged elcor now,” Shepard replies. 

“With humor and gratitude: it was a pleasure to be of assistance in fighting your aches and pains,” the masseuse says as he lumbers past her. 

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself—” Liara starts, but her omnitool goes off with a shrill beep. 

She hardly presses the button before a very irate contractor pops up on the screen in a panicked vid call. “T’Soni! What the hell is this job—you could’ve warned us what kind of monsters were on board!” 

“If they’re talking about Joker, tell him I’m very disappointed he didn’t leave for the mandated shore leave,” Shepard says, looking over Liara’s shoulder. 

“There a rabid varren in here!” the second contractor shouts from off screen. 

Liara bites her lip. “Oh, goddess, I forgot to warn them about Urz—” 

“What the hell is this thing?!” the first contractor screeches, and the camera swivels around to where the poor turian is trying to keep the rachni soldier away with a step ladder and a welding torch. It hisses and spits acid perfectly onto the flame’s tip. It flares bright purple. The contractor shrieks at a pitch that turians should not make and drops the torch. 

“Oh, right, that’s Stefanitzoa!” Shepard exclaims. “It’s fine, just leave it alone and it’ll behave, though you probably shouldn’t have come into its territory down in the cargo bay without introducing yourselves.” 

Liara stares at Shepard in something akin to horror. 

“Oh, shit, I forgot to tell you about the rachni,” Shepard realizes aloud, with matching horror. 

—

After the Normandy is retrofitted and fully stocked—Shepard having to argue with Gardner over how much he had been allowed to order; she had been firmly of the opinion that he had not requested enough—the crew is allowed back on board. Joker, naturally, is first one back. 

“Oh, my baby, did they ruin you? Hurt you? Recalibrate you?” he asks with his arms around his custom leather seat. (The cockpit had not been touched.) 

“I am fine, Jeff. I pretended to be a shipboard VI, but the contractors did not ask many questions,” EDI replies. 

“Not you I was talking to, but good job,” Joker mutters, rubbing his beard against his seat. 

“EDI, I think we need to leave Joker alone with his fancy chair for a moment,” Shepard says with fake scandal, “so would you like to assist Liara in checking all of her… whatever she brought on board?” She had seen a lot of equipment and a lot of screens and left Liara and Feron to their own devices. 

“Certainly, Shepard. Though I have already ensured I can interface with all of the technology Dr. T’Soni has brought on board.” 

“EDI, please try to give her some space to work? We don’t need an AI getting bored and poking around in Shadow Broker files, and Liara isn’t as used to you as the rest of us. Be polite and distant for a bit,” Shepard almost pleads. “Let Liara share with you what she wants. On her terms and time. Consider it a personal request as a fellow member of the Normandy crew.” 

EDI sighs. She sighs. Shepard and Joker stare at her interface. “I will honor that request, Shepard.” 

“Uh, EDI, have you always been able to sigh?” Joker asks, chair momentarily forgotten. 

“I am endeavoring to sound more approachable and natural to organic crewmates, so I have updated several of my vocal pattern programs, to include mimicked sounds such as sighing and nonverbal agreements. I can also produce a sneeze sound effect now,” EDI proudly informs them. 

“…Why?” both Joker and Shepard must ask. 

“It is curious and endearing how certain organic crewmates will automatically respond to the sound of a sneeze. Most human cultures and languages address it, albeit differently and with different intent, but so do several salarian cultures as well. I would like to investigate myself what causes such reflexive verbal responses to a sound of potential sickness or nasal irritation.” 

Shepard gives up. She has to learn here and now how to pick her battles. So, throwing her hands in the air, she replies, “You know what? If it keeps you out of Liara’s computers without permission, I don’t care, you can get as many ‘bless you’s and ‘a tes souhaits’ as you want. And whatever other responses. Have fun with it, EDI.” 

“I will, Shepard,” EDI replies with something akin to excitement. 

The crew disperses, many of them to suspiciously investigate their claimed areas for evidence of tampering or any changes as not outlined by Shepard’s plans, but Shepard will have to double-check everything herself later. The contractors had already been paid for their silence—thankfully, Miranda’s airtight contract writing abilities had already included permanent silence about whatever they found on board which technically and happily included the rachni—and Liara will get her sniff test later. So will Feron, she supposes. They can’t cover everyone with their soldier, but the more, the better, and especially those who will be spending any time aboard the Normandy. They need this to be a safe haven and remain so. 

But she has one very important thing to do before doing her rounds and starting on the next phase of war prep (more meetings, hurrah). 

Shepard finds Garrus in the battery, because of course, even though he and she both know the contractors had not been in here, only in the kitchen area. (Gardner, at least, looks as happy with the new oven and freezer as Joker had been reuniting with his chair.) Shepard slides into the battery, waits for the door to close again behind her, and smirks at Garrus crouching beside the cannon’s console. 

“If you tell me they actually messed with anything in here, we’ll have a breach of contract so severe, we’ll have to spend the next six months in Illium courts to squeeze them of all they’re worth,” Shepard says. 

“They didn’t,” Garrus replies, “but it never hurts to double-check. What can I say, I’m protective. Are you in here to joke about that, or to drag me out?” 

“Neither. For once. I have a very important question to ask you—two, actually. C’mere.” 

He stands to his full height, eying her with new wariness, taken aback by her serious tone. Shepard smiles up at him, as innocent as she can. He doesn’t drop his suspicion.

“First, how much do you know about human proposal customs?” Shepard asks. 

His mandible twitches outward. “Uh. Not a lot. I don’t like this first question.” 

Shepard takes his hand. He looks even more wary now, and it’s too cute. “Well, thankfully for you, this means I don’t have to embarrass you further by turning this into a proposal joke. I was going to get down on my knee and everything. But, my second question, and probably one of the most important questions I’ll ever ask you—Garrus Vakarian, would you be my XO?” 

Garrus stares at her with wide blue eyes. Not even a twitch of his mandible this time. He doesn’t respond. 

“Since Miranda is gone now, the spot freed up,” Shepard continues, not yet nervously, though his silence is getting to be unnerving. “Cerberus were the ones who appointed her to begin with, and honestly it wasn’t worth it to fight her for the position with everything else going on, and she ran a pretty tight ship. I respect the calls she had to make. I’m not asking you to be like her, but you always would’ve been my first choice for this, and now that I have a choice, I want it to be you.” 

Garrus still stares. This is usually the point where he tells her to stop rambling about emotional things and interrupts her with a cocky one-liner or something soft like a kiss. So it is at this point that Shepard wonders if maybe this question has connotations for such a military-driven culture like the turians. 

“I,” Garrus finally croaks, reverberations loud in his voice, “have, um, a couple of. Uh. Comments.” 

Oh, this definitely has connotations. Shepard does not fight her growing grin, because it’s been awhile since she’s managed to fluster him like this. 

“First—here.” Garrus takes her hand and presses it against the side of his neck. She can’t hear lower turian registers, not like drell or krogan can, so she’s taken to feeling them instead. But this is the first time Garrus has initiated such a contact. 

And his throat is going like a purring cat. 

“I know you can’t hear this properly,” Garrus mutters, eyes now askance and mandibles a little more slack, “but this is a very pleased sound. I wish you could hear it. I want to accept, I really really want to, Shepard, but uh, I need to clarify something with you. In turian chain of command, the XO is a really important position—basically acting as back-up captain.” 

“Yeah, that’s in the Alliance too, big guy. Pretty sure it’s galactic standard,” Shepard points out. Back-up captain plus a lot of logistical duties that he certainly won’t be so pleased about in the future. 

“No, it’s like—I know humans have a thing like this, but I don’t remember what it’s called. COs and XOs are vital in turian command, and because of the importance of preserving an acting captain, they never go on ground missions together, or put themselves in the same risk or dangerous situation if they can help it. I, well, won’t take the position if it means you’re excluding me from missions with you. I don’t care if this is some new way of yours to keep me safe, or whatever noble thing you think you’re doing—” 

“Woah, hold on,” Shepard interrupts. She takes his head in both her hands, cupping the broad sides of his mandibles, careful where they meet his jaw. Garrus leans down into her touch, still purring. “To answer your sort of question, yes, we do have something like that—and you’re telling me that turian XOs are their designated survivors?” That seems way too up the chain of command—and very limiting in how they can plan things, surely. 

Then again, turians have the best military in the galaxy, so they probably ironed out all the wrinkles in that system centuries ago, when humans were still digging trenches for warfare. Or maybe pounding rocks together for sparks to start fires. 

“The chain of command has to be preserved,” Garrus mutters. “Just wanted to check about that. Because I’m not leaving you on missions unless I have to, and even then, I’m probably going to argue with you about it.” 

“You’re still mad about the hanar base, huh,” Shepard returns. 

“Not mad,” he sulks. “But I should have—” 

“Turians can’t swim,” Shepard interrupts. “It was underwater. I can’t promise you that something like that won’t happen again, but this is not my intention. You saw me cart Miranda off on missions all the time, didn’t you? That’s now how human militaries operate, and neither do I. But this does come with an official second-in-command title, you know, and that means if something happens to me, you will need to step up. That’s all. Well, no, it means I get to foist a lot of other logistical things onto you, too, but I probably already would’ve, just less officially.” 

“Great,” Garrus flatly replies. 

“I’m not grounding you,” Shepard firmly tells him. She rocks up onto her toes so she can nudge their foreheads together. “I’m promoting you, I hope. And I think this has flirting connotations in turian culture?” 

“Not flirting!” Garrus hastily corrects, voice flanging like it does when he’s annoyed. 

She smiles and presses a quick human kiss against his flat nose. “Suuuure. Could’ve fooled me. I promise not to ground you, and I don’t care about designated survivors right now, because honestly, after the near miss with the indoctrination incident, I don’t want to think about who’ll take over if I go down. I know it’ll have to happen, we’ll have to draw up official rules and stuff, and it’ll fall to you in this case. But I don’t want to think about that part. Not yet. I just want to think of new military pick-up lines I can use on you.” 

“Are you playing favorites?” Garrus asks, tone equal parts coy and deadpan. “Thane didn’t get offered this, did he?” 

“Of course not. This isn’t about favorites or romance—though the future pick-up lines are a perk—this is about the fact that I don’t know how to do this in any other way than a military operation, and I need someone I can trust wholeheartedly who also has a military background to match. Also, I love Thane—” Garrus flinches, and Shepard laughs, then presses another quick kiss to his nose in apology for said laugh, “—but he’s not a leader like you are, Garrus.” 

“That, uh… It means a lot to hear you say that, Shepard,” Garrus says, quietly; the lack of volume but increase in vibrations says enough about his sincerity. 

“Will you faint or explode if I also use the L-word with you now?” 

“Yes. Don’t push me, I’m already emotionally fragile with many turian things you will never comprehend with your alien brain, so you can assume I’m flustered enough to faint or explode if you push the issue,” Garrus replies, perfectly deadpan. 

Shepard releases him and steps away, putting a hand to her cheek with a fake pout. “I’ll just have to go be emotional with Thane. I’m sure we can celebrate your promotion by ourselves with our icky feelings—” 

“Shepard, knock it off, turians just do romance a little different. You two—well, Thane mostly—are moving at a breakneck pace for me in all the wrong, weird ways,” Garrus interrupts, exasperated, rolling his eyes. “…But is there going to be a celebration for this? The Normandy may just be a frigate, but she’s probably one of the most famous ships out there, and I think being promoted to her XO deserves a celebration. Of the personal and maybe romantic variety.” 

“Just a frigate?” she asks, actually sort of affronted. After all they’ve been through together, this is how he repays her and her beloved ship? 

“Turians, ah, care more about size. When it comes to prestige and things,” Garrus awkwardly replies, stumbling a bit over his words, aware he’s made some sort of misstep. (And it is a misstep. Just a frigate. For shame.) 

Shepard snorts. “Of course they do. We humans have a saying—it’s not the size, it’s how you use it, Garrus.” 

“Considering who just gave me the promotion, I couldn’t be happier if you gifted me a damn dreadnought, Shepard,” he replies. But, with a thoughtful flick of his mandibles, he asks, “That said, are we going to be, uh, getting any other ships?”

Shepard glares at him. “Do not make me demote you already, Vakarian.”

“Not for CO or XO or any of that garbage—it’s a lot to fight a war with just one ship! I haven’t seen anything about that with you and EDI’s plans yet.” 

“I have plans for that,” she replies, as cryptically as she can, just to be an ass. He slightly deserves it for that just a frigate remark. 

—

Shepard meets Tali at the bar (which had been Kasumi’s room, and now feels like a haunted house, even if it’s supposed to be a communal lounge area now). Tali isn’t drinking, and Shepard doesn’t plan on it, either, but this is a more neutral space, and has the feeling of a friendly chat. She hopes. 

“With all the complaining you’ve been doing about meetings, having meetings, and scheduling more meetings, I never would’ve guessed that you would ask me for one, Shepard,” Tali says, lightly, but not quite joking. 

“I’m not kicking you off the ship, Tali. This isn’t a Normandy Leaving meeting,” Shepard replies. 

Tali visibly sags in relief. “Oh Keelah, thank the stars! With all the changes going on, I was so worried that somehow you didn’t need me here anymore—” 

“Alright, cutting you off there, because I will never kick you off my ship, Ms. Tali vas Normandy. We’ve been through too much for that. Also, you know Gabby and Ken love you, they’d probably mutiny if I tried to get you to leave. I also love you! You’re not allowed to leave,” Shepard firmly tells her. 

“I thought all Normandy crew were given the option,” Tali coyly points out. 

“Well, yes, but we all know I’d only been joking for some of you,” Shepard replies. She elbows her, causing Tali to giggle. 

“Alright, alright, I succumb to being your favorite, Shepard. So, what did you want to talk about tonight, then? I assume the Migrant Fleet?” 

“You assume correctly. I want to ally with the quarians, and there’s two levels to this. Tech support, and more ships, and any and all weaponry you’ve developed to fight AI. The quarians are going to be absolutely necessary in this. But also, on a more minor note, I wanted to ask about your liveships and their greenhouses—or any kind of gardening you do onboard. Is that the kind of tech I can ask politely about?” Shepard asks. 

Tali cocks her head to the side. “You want to… know how to grow plants on a starship?” 

Shepard nods. This isn’t a joke; this is foresight. “Yeah. We have a little area set aside for hydroponics, and if we can work out a trade deal, I’d love some plants and seeds for dextro species, too. We don’t know if we’re going to get completely blacklisted, and we don’t know who we’ll be able to trade with in the future, so I want the Normandy to be as independent as possible. If we can grow even a little bit of food ourselves, then even better.” Gardner hadn’t been happy to be recruited to be—a, well, gardener—but Shepard had promised him whatever he needed to keep food production going. A few guides on growing plants is the least of her budgetary concerns right now. He hasn’t gotten back to her on the offer of an assistant, yet, but she’s willing to do that, too. 

“Oh, that’s… Well, I don’t see why the Flotilla wouldn’t share any of that. You’re a known quantity to them, Shepard, and several of the Admirals trust you. And me, of course,” Tali replies, bemused. “That’s easy—that’s just trade. What about the potential alliance part has you so worried?” 

Shepard doesn’t bother asking how Tali knows she’s nervous. She taps her hands on the bar top, staring at the few bottles of liquor that Kasumi hadn’t absconded with. “I want the quarians to be our allies. There’s allies, and then there’s the ride or die allies that I’m going to need to fight a war against the Reapers and stand strong against Citadel pressure until they arrive. I need the quarians a hundred percent in, Tali. So I’m prepared to make an offer they can’t—or shouldn’t—refuse, but I want to run it by you first, because this is… a lot. And it has the potential to backfire badly.” 

“What is it?” Tali asks, hushed, leaning forward. 

Shepard can’t meet her glowing eyes. “I can give you Rannoch back. And your other colonized planets.” 

Tali goes very still and very silent. Shepard waits her out, because this is not a time to be flippant; their homeworld is everything to quarians. If she can pull of this incredible tightrope walk, Shepard might, might have a shot at this. 

But a lot of it hinges upon the quarians. 

At last, and with audible dread, Tali asks, “How?” 

Dread, Shepard had been expecting. They both know what the catch here is, even if Tali doesn’t want to think about it yet. But that’s what they’re here for—they have to think of these things, now, so they don’t have it thrown in their faces later. “I can get the geth to end the war, right now, Tali. No more hostilities. No more fighting. They will allow the quarians to land and reclaim Rannoch.” 

“How?” Tali repeats, now with urgency. 

“The geth were never the ones who started or continued this war, and you know that, even if you don’t like to admit it. If I can guarantee that quarians will lower their weapons, the geth will do so, too. They never held a grudge. Hell, they’ve been maintaining Rannoch! Did you know the geth have been scrubbing the radiation and pollution out of the atmosphere for the past two centuries? I say two, because they’re already done!” 

“Shepard,” Tali breaks in, voice hard as steel, “how do you propose we just end a war that’s been going on so long? Alright, so maybe the machines won’t hold grudges, but my people will! There’s been so much fighting, slaughter, over the centuries—” 

“Can you give me one historical event where the geth were the initial aggressors, and not retaliating against quarian hostility in any way?” Shepard points out. 

“The Slaughter of Pratensi,” Tali automatically replies. 

“The quarians invaded geth space to try to take back a moon, which wouldn’t have even helped strategically—” 

“It’s not their space, it’s ours!” Tali bursts out. But her ire doesn’t last. She holds a hand up to quiet Shepard, closing her eyes, sighing within her helmet. “Shepard, I am fine with Legion. I am mostly over my desire to shoot every geth on sight. But I am an outlier among my people, and half of them want to destroy the geth more than they want to retake the homeworld, as horrible as that is.” 

“Which is why I need your help in convincing them,” Shepard gently points out. “I can promise them Rannoch and an end to the war with the geth. I can’t erase centuries of bad blood between you two, and the geth have one up on us organics, because they don’t care about things like grudges or feelings.” 

“Did you already talk about this with Legion?” Tali wearily asks. 

“Of course I did. As I said—no pesky organic emotions to deal with. He agreed it was logical and that was that.” 

Tali glares at her, but Shepard shrugs. It had been the logical choice to go to him first. The quarian and geth were the tightrope to walk, and she needed to get exactly in the middle, so may as well ask the easier party first. She needed every advantage possible to make this impossibility work. 

“The geth are necessary allies for this to work. I’m sorry to tell you this, but you have to know, Tali—if it comes down to between your races for allies, I’m going to have to choose the geth,” Shepard adds. 

Tali sighs, angrily, her breath fogging up her helmet briefly. “I understand that,” she says, and sounds mad that she does, which Shepard personally takes as a good sign, “but there’s centuries of strife that are a result of our war with the geth and losing Rannoch. I don’t know how we can erase or ignore that, Shepard.” 

“What if I could sweeten the deal?” Shepard says. 

Tali, again, stares at her; this time her glowing eyes are narrowed. “How? Why didn’t you start with this? Also, what can be better than dangling Rannoch over our heads?” 

“Because this one takes a leap of faith. It is possible for the geth to help the quarians adjust back to life outside their suits—with a lot of micro-adjustments to your suits, filters, and levels of exposure, and a whole lot more of delicate science. They already offered the programs. They want to end the war, Tali.” 

“No one would accept that,” Tali says at once. Then, after a pause, she corrects, “Very few would accept that. Even if we ceased hostilities, and you may have a shot at that, no one would trust a geth or geth programs to mess with their suit’s functions!” 

“It would be the difference between generations of adaptation, and a decade or two,” Shepard points out. “Also! I have another backup plan to sweeten the deal even more—” 

Tali seizes her by the shoulders and shakes her. “Why don’t you tell me all of these things to begin with?! Stop stringing me along, Shepard, you are going to give me an aneurysm with worry!” 

Shepard chuckles and allows Tali to flop her about. It’s good stress relief for her. “Well, this one still has geth aid, but a little less directly. And it would involve a lot of piracy that would likely piss off the salarians, if not the entire Council.” 

“Yeah, because they’ve been such good friends to the quarians in the past,” Tali mutters, rolling her eyes. “What is it?” 

“The geth have terraforming and atmosphere-scrubbing technology, right? They were invented as agriculture bots, basically.” 

“Simplifying things a lot, but yes,” Tali reluctantly agrees. 

“So they have the know-how of how to help fix Rannoch’s atmosphere to help quarians adapt better. Again, cutting a lot of years from adaption time. And Mordin let me know about this really neat little piece of tech on Tuchanka that, you guessed it, acts as atmosphere control. We can’t take that one, but with krogan permission, a few salarian scientists, and geth builders, we could construct a Shroud on Rannoch.” 

“…Shepard, that’s perfect. That sounds like it would actually work, and would be an option for all the quarians who won’t trust the geth to do anything else. Ending the war will soothe a lot of pain, but the distrust will be there, and this could even be spun as a gesture of goodwill, if we point out that the geth are only part of this plan,” Tali says. Her brilliant mind is already turning over the pieces, probably doing exact math as to how quickly the quarians could adapt back to living without suits. She’ll love looking at the Shroud schematics later. 

But her brilliant mind then comes to the question Shepard knows she needs to answer, but doesn’t want to. 

“What are you promising the geth that they would be so loyal as to do all of this?” Tali asks, haltingly, dread creeping back into her voice. “Stopping the war would be one thing, and Legion is indebted to you, but this… This, and your outlines for them, are a lot to be asking of a casual ally. You’ve mentioned the ‘ride or die’ phrase a few times, and you’ve already mentioned giving the genophage cure to the krogan and Rannoch to us to earn our loyalty—so Shepard, what are you giving the geth to inspire the same?” 

Shepard takes a breath and releases it in a measured exhale. “Tali, I promised you and everybody aboard the Normandy that there would be no more secrets between us. I intend to keep that, and I hope to respect the same promise with our allies against the Reapers. But this one, I want your honest opinion, because I personally don’t think we should tell the quarians.” 

“What is it, Shepard,” Tali says, near a whisper, near fear. 

“I promised the geth that they could have the first three Reaper corpses to cannibalize for code and parts.” 

Chapter Text

When Garrus decides to finally call it a night on the cannon calibrations, eyes and neck aching from the maybe-overwork, he is more than a little surprised to find Shepard and Tali in the medbay with Chakwas shaking her head at them both. He doesn’t see immediate blood, but the way Shepard and Tali are sulking at the floor is more than enough cause for alarm. 

Legion hovering outside the medbay doors is also somewhat alarming. 

“Is this more quarian/geth stuff?” Garrus asks before he enters. 

Legion ducks his head, light flaring, and replies, “Shepard-Commander and Creator Tali’Zorah had an altercation due to the organically inflamed topic of quarian/geth relations. Minor injuries were sustained.” 

Garrus glances back at the door, but, a touch awkwardly, he points out, “That’s not really your fault, specifically, you know…? You don’t have to feel guilty because a bunch of organics’ feelings are running high from stress lately.” 

“Geth do not feel guilt,” Legion replies, sounding very much like this particular geth is feeling guilt right now. 

“Right,” Garrus drawls, “that’s why you haven’t gone in there, right? Well, I hold no such not-guilt, and I need to figure out what they were actually arguing about.” 

“Your concern for Shepard-Commander and Creator Tali’Zorah is unwarranted. They only sustained minor injuries, already treated by Dr. Chakwas.” 

“If there’s really no need for concern, why are you still here?” Garrus returns. Legion’s light narrows. Garrus puts an awkward hand on Legion’s pauldron, aiming for a supportive pat, but it’s probably a lost cause for the gesture (and effort) to be properly recognized. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned by working with you and EDI, it’s that AI really aren’t as emotionless as you claim, even if it’s a little more muted and confusing compared to us. Don’t blame yourself for feeling some kind of concern even if there’s no immediate threat to health. That’s just what it’s like to care about someone.” 

“This unit will… take your words into consideration,” Legion replies. 

Well, that’s his quota for stunted emotional talks met for the month. Garrus enters the medbay and Tali and Shepard’s heads pop up in unison. 

“She started it!” they both chorus. There’s a bruise darkening on Shepard’s cheek and Tali’s forearm has been wrapped with the kind of airtight bandages they’ve been using whenever she has a suit puncture. 

Chakwas sighs. Deeply. “I don’t care who started it, it was immature, uncalled for, and unbecoming of you both. Frankly, if it weren’t an otherwise successful talk, I’d recommend you both be separated for a time.” 

“You’d ground us?” Shepard asks, affronted. Garrus thinks she’s referring to it in a non-mission way; another human saying, undoubtedly. 

“If it prevented further altercations, yes. I’m glad you sorted out your differences, but next time, don’t turn it into a fistfight before you do so.” 

“Alright, to be clear, what happened? Am I playing concerned boyfriend or disappointed XO right now?” Garrus asks the doctor. 

“We’re probably going to get an alliance with the quarians,” Shepard brightly supplies, but Chakwas cuts through her smile with a severe look. 

“I honestly don’t know who started it, but harsh words were exchanged, and it led to blows. Briefly—from what I understand, about one each—but when a quarian gets a suit puncture, it is no small matter. We may have just stocked up on appropriate antibiotics, but that is not an invitation for the opportunity to need them.” 

“It’ll be fine,” Tali mutters, flexing her hand. “Extremities and areas furthest out are the easiest to deal with. I might not even get a fever from this. And flatter areas are the simplest to patch by far!” 

“You are already running a mild fever, Tali,” Chakwas points out with all of the tiredness of a parent. 

“But you two are good with each other now? Even after the fight?” Garrus asks, brow plate raised. 

“Shepard is going to make the quarians an offer we really can’t refuse, even if it’ll piss people off, too,” Tali replies. “I’m still not sure how to handle some of the more delicate matters, but the Migrant Fleet is going to join the war effort for this.” 

“I’ll brief everyone later and outline the details, but long story short—we’re going to end the conflict between the geth and the quarians, because no one needs to be fighting two wars right now, and it’s frankly gone on long enough. So we’ll be helping to give Rannoch and their other claimed planets back to the quarians,” Shepard adds. 

“And that’s just something you can do casually, is it,” Garrus flatly returns. Actually, well, if anyone could do that casually, it would be Commander Shepard. 

“Like I said, we won’t be happy about all the details, but it’s too good of an offer. Shepard managed to do the impossible. Again,” Tali replies with a roll of her glowing eyes. “Rachni, krogan, geth, and quarians. It hasn’t even been two weeks since you pissed off the Council, Shepard.” 

Shepard has to add, only a little smug (but deservedly so), “We’re meeting Wrex on Omega once we’re there, and I’ll speak to Aria myself, but I think the krogan at least are a safe bet. If nothing else, we can count on Wrex and Clan Urdnot. They have the most specific role in our strategy, so we might be able to take the hit if he can’t fully unite the krogan—” 

“Shepard, we all know the krogan would unite for one thing and one thing only, and that’s a genophage cure. Especially if you’re promising it to them in under a year,” Garrus interrupts. “Even quicker if the salarian thing pans out.” 

“Until we know what they want, and after I get Wrex’s opinion on that, I can’t count on the salarians for sure,” Shepard points out, arms crossed. “The fact that they won’t say what they want is worrying. But we’ll be meeting with Mordin’s STG scientist buddies after Omega, and apparently, they’ve invited us to Sur’Kesh. Unofficially and secretly, of course, but they claim that we’ll be safe in Citadel space.” 

“And if it’s a trap to detain or arrest you?” Garrus must ask. 

Shepard forces a grin, sharp as a knife. “That’s why I’m bringing Wrex and you all along.” 

And that grin vanishes in an instant when Jack barrels into the medbay. (Never let it be said that onboard gossip doesn’t travel at FTL, too.) “I heard you got into a fight—who the hell decided to be so fucking uppity now—” Jack’s big eyes land on Tali, who squeals and almost topples off her stool in her effort to preemptively avoid another altercation. “Seriously?!” 

“Hold on now, it wasn’t a fight like that,” Garrus says. He thrusts out a firm arm across Jack’s shoulders to check her advance. 

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Jack snaps with a surprising amount of venom. It’s been awhile since he’s heard it, and he hastens to step away from her with his limbs still intact. 

Shepard rises from her stool, too, while Chakwas helps Tali try to regain some dignity. “Jack! Stand down, and drop the tone, this was just some political bullshit. And it’s also why I asked Tali to speak with me away from engineering.” 

“So you can play martyr and let others dogpile on you again for your choices?” Jack sneers. 

Tali shakes her head fast enough to make her hood flutter. “Jack, it really wasn’t like that! Shepard was being a—what’s the human term—a bitch about it—” 

Even Shepard raises an eyebrow at that; Jack bares her teeth. Tali looks bewildered, so Garrus is going to take a wild guess and assume that that didn’t translate right. “Alright,” Shepard quickly replies, “hopefully not the exact term you were looking for, Tali, but we both said things we regret and tensions were high. I knew they’d be high. Which is why I didn’t want anyone else turning it into a yelling match.” 

“You’re the one dragging the galaxy into prep against the goddamn Reapers, so you don’t have to answer to bullshit morality defense shit anymore, especially from your own fucking team!” 

“Jack, out, now!” Shepard barks and marches toward her. Jack reels, off guard, and Shepard catches her arm and drags her out of the medbay. 

“…We met in Kasumi’s old room, I guess because Shepard didn’t want anyone else to hear us arguing,” Tali says to break the silence they leave. 

Chakwas glances out the medbay windows, then tugs Tali gently back onto her stool to double-check the wrapping on her arm. “Shepard has always been sensitive to inter-crew dynamics, and that’s certainly a part of what makes her such a good leader. But I believe that after the indoctrination scare and how certain crew members responded to the, ah, reveal of the rachni on Noveria years ago, she’s become hypersensitive to it. We don’t need to be fighting amongst ourselves right now. The Reapers are enough to worry about.” 

“Why, exactly, did you two actually fight?” Garrus has to ask, eyes narrowed on Tali. He’s noticed Shepard’s drive to play nice, as the humans say, and so have others. But it has had little effect on managing overall Normandy stress levels. It’s apparently a stressful thing, to throw together a galactic war effort with just one ship and some desperate, outcast alien races as allies. Who would’ve known. 

“So Shepard managed to broker a deal with the geth,” Tali miserably begins, “to end the war, effective immediately. Because machines. They can just turn off aggression and don’t worry about grudges and resentment. But we could get Rannoch and our other planets back, and she even outlined a few plans to help the quarians adjust more quickly to actual atmosphere again. It was a really great deal, because as she puts it, she needs us to be totally loyal. So I asked what she promised the geth to ensure the same loyalty, and, um, I might’ve gotten a little mad when she told me that it was to give the geth the first three Reaper corpses we kill.” 

Garrus blanches. Chakwas, notably, does not look surprised. Isn’t the XO supposed to know about things like this? Somewhat first? 

“She asked Legion first to confirm it was viable, then asked me to get a sense of what the quarian response would be—she’s going to talk to everyone else about it tomorrow!” Tali swiftly adds, seeing Garrus’ expression. He quickly forces it into something a little more neutral. Spirits, he hopes he hadn’t looked hurt by it. Shepard is doing things as they need to be done, exactly as she’d warned everyone about, so he can’t blame her for doing just that. 

But, well, he is the XO, and this kind of thing would never fly on a turian ship. 

“And maybe there were some, um, unkind comparisons about her using the geth for her own gain, like a certain ex-Spectre we helped take down a few years ago,” Tali continues in a smaller voice, already ashamed. “But she also called me, um, some unkind, prejudiced things, so we agreed that we’re even on that much. Also about the hitting. We accidentally broke one of the liquor bottles, that’s how I got cut. It got out of hand, but when we came up to the medbay, Shepard even laughed about it. She says that she hopes Admiral Han’Gerrel tries to punch her, too, because she wouldn’t feel bad about punching him back.” 

“Not all species are as amenable to punching as a form of friendship as humanity is,” Chakwas mutters, “but Shepard appears to have a plan, and the best we can do is trust her with it. We need all the help we can get, even if the galaxy at large hasn’t realized that yet.” 

“She’s seen us this far,” Garrus replies. 

“Rachni, krogan, geth, and quarians,” Tali repeats in a voice full of disbelief. She shakes her head, to herself. “I wonder just how farther she’ll see us.” 

“However far it will take to win an impossible war,” Garrus says, firm as can be. 

—

“Why the hell are you acting like I’m the one in trouble here?” Jack snaps as soon as the elevator doors close on them. She’d dragged her feet even that far. 

“No one’s in trouble, Jack,” Shepard tiredly replies, rubbing the bridge of her nose, “but your behavior was out of line. It has been out of line.”

“Fucking excuse me? I’m not the one bitching about every little thing you do!”

The door to the top level opens, revealing the small corridor before her quarters, but Jack only stomps two paces out before whirling on Shepard. Shepard points at the door to her room. “In. We’re not doing this anywhere but a safe, private place.” 

Jack scowls, deep and dark and wary, a look Shepard expected but had not seen directed at her in some time. But she does as told, and Shepard ensures she locks the door to her quarters behind her. Not that anyone would bother her—only Garrus and Thane were allowed in without permission or request—but she needs Jack to feel secure enough to turn this into something more than a yelling match. It’s been a long time coming, and Shepard hates that she’s put it off even this long. 

She should have discussed this with Jack after the Bahak system incident, but she couldn’t bring herself to. She was tired, goddamn it, and so tired of having to be responsible every minute of every day. What she’d done to the batarians in the name of saving the galaxy had worn her down to nothing and Shepard had selfishly given herself the distance she wanted from her responsibilities. 

Until the Council talk, and getting blacklisted, and all the responsibilities piled back on top of her anyway. 

Shepard doesn’t know when she’ll again get an actual goddamn moment to rest, to genuinely take a break for more than an hour or two, but when that moment comes, she’s going to cherish the hell out of it. 

“Jack, I appreciate your loyalty,” Shepard begins, with as much sincerity as she can force into her tone, because she doesn’t want Jack scoffing and rolling her eyes right out the gate. (Jack does so anyway.) “I really, really do. You’ve grown into a good friend, one of the people I know I can rely on most, especially when it comes to the tough shit. But you’ve taken that too far, and I know why, and I’m not blaming you for it—” 

“If this is another one of your bullshit come-ons, stop it, I’m not madly in love with you like the rest of the stupid crew,” Jack interrupts, voice scathing, posture closed-off and angry. 

Shepard sits on her couch and lets Jack stand, arms-crossed, radiating irritation, by the aquarium. The blue light bathes her in a hue similar to her biotics. The space between them stings, but she knows better than to close the distance. Not yet. 

Shepard sighs. If Jack wants to do this the blunt way, so be it. “Jack, I know, probably better than anyone else on this ship, what trauma can do to a person, and what sort of interpersonal responses it creates. I know someone has probably told you by now that I lost my shit when I saw you being carted off by those slavers on Imorth. And we’ve all been privy to my various other mama bear situations, because I’m loyal and protective of my people, and I’m not ashamed of that fact. The Normandy has become a family to me. But you and I both know what a trigger is, and we both recognize that I lost my cool there.” 

“This is a shitty attempt at therapy talk, and I don’t need it,” Jack retorts. 

Shepard shakes her head. “I’d say you do, but I’m not your babysitter, and like hell I’d order you to do something like that. You’re healing, in your own way, on your own terms, and on your own time. I’m proud of you for that.” 

Jack’s annoyance fades into discomfort, and she uncrosses her arms, glaring instead at the fish beside her. “Yeah, well. Maybe I’ve come to like being on the Normandy, too. This friendship bullshit isn’t too terrible. Mostly. …And I like that you don’t order me to do shit like go to behavioral therapy or anger management or whatever the fuck the other terms for the fancy fake bullshit is. Thanks, I guess, for not sticking your nose into my shit.” 

“Except now I have to, because you’ve taken this too far,” Shepard flatly points out. 

Jack snaps back into a glower. “Bullshit I have. So what if I agree with the shitty calls you have to make now—” 

“Jack, you’re overcompensating, and be level with me a moment—is there anyone else on board that you’d actually call a friend? Whether or not you are friends, but that you would call a friend. Out loud. In front of other people.” 

“…The fuck does that matter?” Jack demands. 

“I can’t be the only one you care about anymore. I know there’ve been jokes made about you learning how to make friends again, but you have friends on board. More than just me. You’re part of a team, an entire team you can count on, and I know deep down, you know that, even if you’re still bucking against the notion of trusting others again—” 

“I feel fucking useless!” Jack furiously interrupts. 

Shepard stares over to her, off guard, because, well, she thought she’d been getting somewhere. Evidently not. 

Jack stalks the length of the aquarium, gnashing her teeth, looking anywhere but at Shepard. “Yeah, so what if you’re my favorite, I don’t give a damn about that. And sure, I don’t hate anyone else on board, now that the icy bitch is gone, and you even made sure we weren’t on slaughtering terms anymore. But you’re going in circles trying to psychoanalyze shit, and you’re off the mark, and you’re only making yourself sound stupid, Shepard.” 

“Uh, okay,” Shepard replies, completely nonplussed. 

“Kasumi left and she gave you money. Jacob’s leaving and he’s being all noble and shit about saving some people. Miranda is a guilty fuck but she’s coming back. Ugh. Samara’s handing you an in with the asari. I can’t give you anything like that. Like hell I’m leaving!” Jack hastily adds, teeth bared at her, finally looking at her again. “But you’re the most goddamn useful person in the galaxy, you get shit done, and you’ve surrounded yourself with those kinds of shitheads, too. And me? I can rip apart anything without touching it—but not a Reaper. I’m not good at a war, Shepard, I’m good at ripping apart random ass monsters and mercs and beating the shit out of things on the ground. I can’t do that against giant fucking monster spaceship things. I don’t have connections, I don’t have money, I don’t have the brain to handle fancy war tactics, but what I do have? What you’ve taught me—loyalty. That’s all I can fucking give you during this, Shepard. So I intend to make that count.” 

Yeah, alright, Jack has her there—Shepard had been approaching this from the wrong angle. (Not an incorrect angle, but not a relevant angle.) 

Jack may be crass, a little unused to socializing, and more prone to using her biotics than her manners, but she is also sharp as hell. She’s already been doing the same cost-benefit analysis that Shepard has. And she’s trying to make herself worth it. 

But Shepard doesn’t need a white knight, and especially not on her own damned ship. Jack’s right, too; she doesn’t have some other miraculous job she can give her. She doesn’t want to have to hand out war-vital roles to everyone like candy. She just wants her team to come together, to be their best, and to somehow have that be enough. 

“I’m sorry,” Shepard sighs, through her nose, hand to her forehead. “I came at this wrong and sounded like a jackass.” 

“Yep,” Jack grunts with equal parts smugness and leftover irritation. 

“But you are not useless, Jack. Even if it doesn’t seem like we need ground fighters right now—” 

“You fucking don’t!” she interrupts. 

Shepard almost-glares at her. “Jack, I am a soldier, too! You think I don’t feel any of the same way? You think I haven’t felt useless? My best skills are shooting things at a distance and not dying when they shoot back. I am flying blind and doing the best I can with what I’ve got right now.” 

“Yeah, and you still manage to pull together enough to save the galaxy!” 

“You were there, too, Jack!” Shepard reels herself back in with a grumble; she hadn’t meant for this to turn into a yelling match, even if it it was the most emotionally honest she’s been with Jack in some time. 

(Kelly is a big fan of emotional purging leading to catharsis, and maybe it works a little, but not with Jack. Not with the ease with which she allows herself to get angry at anything and everything.) 

Shepard continues, pointedly calmly, “I couldn’t have gotten where I am today without my team beside me every step of the way. I appreciate your loyalty and friendship, Jack. But given what happened, and the stress we’re going to be under in coming months, I can’t have you taking it upon yourself to be a guard dog or verbal bodyguard over every little thing—or aboard the ship, against the others. But you know, I’ll let you do it to anyone off the Normandy. That’s definitely a way you can be of use, because I have the feeling I’m going to get very tired of all of the yelling I’m going to have to do at other people leading up to the Reaper invasion.” 

“Wow, way to make a girl feel special and throw her a bone,” Jack deadpans. Shepard returns it with a flat stare. “Fine! I’ll lay off. A little. But if anyone hits you again—” 

“Tali and I are never breaking up, Jack! I literally told her I was going to give Reaper code to the geth and she still wants to be on the team. Things got heated, that’s all!” 

Jack’s eyes widen, anger leaching out, lips parting. “…You’re doing what.” 

Shepard facepalms. This is why she needs meetings, even if she already hates them. “Well, here you go, Jack! The perfect opportunity for you to prove just how loyal you want to be to me and my methods.” 

“I fucking hate you, Shepard,” Jack snaps. 

“No you don’t,” she replies, allowing some earned smugness to slink into her tired tone. 

“…No, I don’t,” Jack sullenly agrees. 

—

“Shepard! My favorite human and third favorite female!” Wrex exclaims and picks her up in a hug so tight Thane is certain he can hear her titanium bones creak. He smiles to himself and continues scanning the dimly-lit Omega port for potential threats. The Council is no risk here, but there are always threats on Omega, and always those foolish enough to throw themselves against their betters. He’s not the only one on the watch for trouble, either. 

“Why am I third favorite?” Shepard asks as soon as she has working lungs again. 

“She’s about to become top fuckin’ favorite,” Zaeed mutters under his breath. 

“Everyone’s first favorite female ought to be their mother—come on now, Shepard. That’s universal. And principle,” Wrex says with a crooked grin. He claps her on the back hard enough to stagger her—a love tap by krogan standards. He does the same to Garrus and he actually does stumble. “And Garrus, nice to see you’re still in one piece, that Shepard hasn’t ruined you yet. Or that you’ve gotten yourself blown up again. Didn’t that happen around here?” 

“Who’s second favorite then?” Shepard presses, insistence pushing her voice higher. 

“Let’s talk instead about why the hell you dragged me all the way to Omega to catch up with old friends?” Wrex replies with poisonous cheer. “This isn’t a day trip for me, Shepard. If I didn’t owe you one for Drugari’s protection thing, I would’ve laughed in your face.” 

Garrus pushes Jack down from immediately asking about the krogan mother, and instead replies, “Don’t know if you haven’t noticed, but we’re not very welcome in Citadel space right now, Wrex. I thought old bastards like you spent all day only listening to the news?” 

“Wish I could be as useless as that, but some of us still have jobs to do, Garrus. Though the way you fucked the Council over was pretty damn great, Shepard. You got another breeding request for that one. But with these pleasantries out of the way—talk, Shepard. There are two things you’re keeping from me, one of which is why the hell I’m here right now.” 

“What’s the second?” Thane must ask. 

Wrex glances at him with those sharp, blood-red eyes, and Thane politely averts his gaze because he does not want to get into this. (This being Wrex’s protective instincts toward Shepard and Garrus.) Again. Especially when Omega is basically run by martial law. But, well, he had been curious. It had been a feat for Shepard to cajole him away from Tuchanka, one several of them had thought impossible, but Wrex had bent surprisingly easy once she had forwarded her findings on the Reapers’ imminent arrival. 

“That would be me,” comes a soft voice from behind the Normandy crew, and Thane is mildly surprised to find Liara standing there with her hands clasped demurely behind her back. Yet the sparkle in her pale eyes is anything but innocent. 

The joke is revealed with Wrex throws his arms wide and exclaims, “Liara! My second favorite female! It’s been ages, how have you been?” 

“She is?!” Shepard cries with a truly humorous level of offense. Thane hides his smile behind his fist, feigning a cough, but many others aren’t so considerate. Garrus snickers with open mandibles, Tali giggles, and Feron, standing so far from their little knot he’s practically halfway in the airlock, laughs with his head thrown back. 

“Told you she’d be mad,” Wrex says as soon as Liara approaches him, taking his massive hand in hers. 

Shepard marches over and punches Wrex as hard as she can in the arm. He hardly jostles. Liara presses her lips together to try to restrain her smile. Shepard declares, “We’ll see who holds the crown at the end of tonight, asshole. Now everyone, back on the ship or into Omega proper, I don’t care, but stop hanging around here like a bunch of targets before someone starts taking pot shots. And don’t forget, I’m kicking everyone off the Normandy by 1900 tonight! This may be our last chance at proper shore leave for awhile, so take advantage!” 

Thane, of course, follows Shepard back onboard. Tali does, too, taking up Wrex’s other side with a mischievous look visible through her helmet. “So, Wrex, I have to ask—” 

“Don’t worry, kid, you’re tied with Liara,” Wrex amicably interrupts with a pat on her head that staggers her. 

Tali pumps her fist. Shepard gives them both an irritated look over her shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, and I’m chopped pyjak. This will be hilarious when you change your tune, Wrex.” 

“If it’s any consolation, siha, you’re my favorite female,” Thane points out. 

Shepard grins, to herself, annoyance dropping away. Tali giggles again; Wrex makes a disgusted sound. 

Feron catches his eye from across the CIC, whispers something to Liara, then heads back toward the airlock. 

Thane puts that from his mind. 

“Y’know, I have to agree with Wrex here, mothers come first, and Liara and Tali come second,” Garrus says, thoughtful, and laughingly ducks out of the way when Shepard takes a swing at him. 

“Garrus, you are being rude. It is obligatory for those in committed romantic and some sexual relationships to consider their partners their favorite person,” EDI scolds from overhead. “Also, Shepard, for the record, you are my favorite female as well.” 

“I was joking, EDI!” Garrus cries, but his pitiful defense is lost in Shepard and Tali’s laughter. Thane doesn’t feel too bad for a chuckle or two, either. 

“Legion has pinged me to inform me that you are also that unit’s favorite female,” EDI adds. 

“This is getting ridiculous,” Wrex grunts. “You’ll get spoiled, Shepard.”

Shepard’s grin turns savage; a good look on her. “Oh no, no take backs, you’re the one who started this! I am going to become the galaxy’s favorite female, and yours soon enough, and EDI, you and Legion are my favorite AIs, and Thane, you’re currently my favorite male, and the rest of you are traitors for the time being. Now come on, everyone into the meeting room, because I’m not doing this in the CIC.” 

Thane believes he earns the smug look he spares Garrus as he files past him into the meeting room. Garrus snaps his teeth at him, but Thane offers him a smirk that promises that later. 

Liara, sidling in beside Thane, smiles mysteriously. “You have a very interesting relationship,” she remarks without shame. 

“And are you jealous that certain parties are with a drell and certain parties aren’t?” Garrus shoots back. 

“No, not really. Feron and I are good friends, that’s all,” Liara replies. 

“Gossip time later!” Shepard cuts in. Though Wrex is beside her, she makes a show of tossing the datapad onto the large table. There are now more copies of the data as a precautionary measure, including in Liara’s records, but this one gets to go home with Wrex. 

“Let’s see what you dragged me off Tuchanka for,” Wrex grumbles. “This better be good, Shepard.” 

Instead of grandstanding further, Shepard taps the datapad with one finger. “This is research into a cure for the genophage. We can have it ready for distribution in under a year, Wrex.” 

The old krogan goes very silent and very still, but his eyes sharpen. This is not a stunned or shocked response; this is a warrior waiting for a trap to be sprung. Thane knows Wrex and Shepard’s relationship from an outside view only, but he thinks it unkind for this much distrust to be allowed. Shepard has done much for him and for the krogan already. 

But, he allows, one does not live to be a thousand and some years by trusting blindly. 

Shepard taps the datapad again. “We could have this to your people in less than four months, Wrex,” she adds. 

“What’s the catch,” Wrex growls with a voice as deep and dangerous as a black hole. 

“There’s no catch to the research or the scientists to work on it—that I’m giving you no matter what, Wrex, in exchange for a full krogan alliance. I’m not just talking about Clan Urdnot—I want the krogan. In force. And I figure if anything or anyone can unite the krogan again, it’d be you as the leader, and with the genophage cure as the promise.” 

“You’d have that. So what’s the catch, Shepard,” Wrex repeats. 

“Some supposedly independent cells of the STG want to work on the cure with Mordin,” Shepard says, gesturing vaguely, though Mordin is not with them right now. (Something about checking up on his old clinic. He’d taken a lot of firepower with him to do so.) “Mordin says he can have it done, himself, probably within a year. That’s the minimum amount I’m promising you, Wrex. Within a year, no matter what, a cure for your people.” 

“But the other salarians?” 

“That’s part of it—we don’t know. They asked for an in-person meeting on Sur’Kesh. I want you to come along. But Mordin needs the support and resources that they can offer, and I can’t turn down actual salarian support, either, if there’s no trick or secret cost with them.” 

“They’re salarians,” Wrex growls, “there’s always a trick.” 

Shepard nods, expression hard. “That’s why you’re coming along. And that’s why I’m giving you weight in this decision, too. I need them, and I need Mordin not tied up in one single project for a year. But this concerns the krogan more than it concerns the salarians. You’re the priority here, Wrex. You’ll have the cure no matter what if you commit wholly to this alliance. But the timeline is up in the air.” 

Wrex stares down at the datapad. Shepard takes her hand off it and slides it toward him, but he doesn’t reach for it. Thane can’t imagine what he would be feeling or saying if he were handed a cure for Kepral’s Syndrome; it does not affect all drell like the genophage affects all krogan, and the disease has only been within their population for a couple hundred years, not the thousand years the krogan have suffered. But it is the closest thing he can think of to what Wrex must be feeling right now. 

Wrex snatches up the datapad. “We’re taking it, of course,” he all but snaps, “but Shepard, come on, this is a hell of a promise. Why do you need the krogan so badly? We’re not great at ships like the turians are, and the Reapers aren’t something we can set fire to in their nests like the rachni.” 

Shepard smiles, strained, and Thane comes to the very uncomfortable realization that she might not have told Wrex about the rachni alliance yet. 

“About that,” she grits out. “I might’ve forgotten to tell you something along that vein. About my alliances and stuff. And how I plan on waging war against the Reapers, and a neat little way to detect indoctrination, which I’ll also ask you to do, but I’m sensing that this is bad, if funny, timing. But to answer your question, Wrex—” Shepard laughs, creakily, and looks to the others for help, but there is not much sympathy for her concerning the subject of forgetting to tell anyone about the rachni again, “—I’ll need ground forces, actually! Eventually. But also, I need the krogan unified, because you’re in Council space, and we can’t exactly support or rescue your planet if they decide to launch an embargo or do something else.” 

Wrex snorts. “What are they gonna do? Invade Tuchanka? I’ll drag the clans all together, don’t you worry Shepard. And the Council and its races won’t have the quads to do anything, even if we’re on their doorstep.” 

Even Garrus laughs at that. 

“But why did you get all twitchy when I brought up the rachni, Shepard?” Wrex continues with false geniality. 

Shepard’s smile slips off into a grimace. 

“This doesn’t have anything to do with that single rachni queen you let loose on Noveria and promised that she would never, ever show her face in the galaxy ever again?” Wrex presses. 

Her grimace worsens. 

“This is why you’re my third favorite female, Shepard,” Wrex tells her with what Thane hopes is only mocking disdain. “Of course you’d go and track down our ancient enemies, and what, asked the queen for an alliance, too? The rachni were fierce warriors and could wage war in space or on land, but Shepard, they were rabid. They’re not something you can reason with or expect any kind of loyalty out of!” 

“Wrex, I got enough of this from Grunt,” Shepard sighs, massaging her temple, “and for the record, the queen is a really nice lady. And we did some work with her when the whole Bahak system thing… happened. But that’s really classified, and I don’t know how to tell anyone else that yes, the rachni are allied with me, but also, they’re bringing a lot to the table! One part of which I’m about to demand of you.” 

“Which is,” Wrex flatly asks. 

“Can someone go grab Victrix please?” 

“Not it,” Garrus says at once. Thane avoids eye contact with Shepard for the same reason. 

“Liara?” Shepard asks in her most pleading tone, sticking out her bottom lip in the way that humans do when they are trying to be appealing. It, unfortunately, usually works on asari. Liara ducks her head and slinks out of the meeting room. 

“You better not be fucking telling me you have one of those bugs on the Normandy right now,” Wrex declares.

“Oh, better than that, they can resist and detect indoctrination,” Garrus flippantly replies. Wrex turns his glower on him next. Thane edges politely away from him as to not be associated. “So not only do we have one on board as maybe a type of ambassador, but we need it on board.” 

“I don’t care if they can eat the Reapers,” Wrex growls. 

“Oh, you better,” Shepard breaks in with her own human-like growl. “If we come across something, anything, that can fight the Reapers and is willing to join my cause, they’re in, Wrex. Only a few questions asked. And if I can find something that eats Reapers? Hell, I’ll go marry them.” 

Thane can’t help a small frown, maybe a pout. Garrus starts up a sulky hum beside him, so he doesn’t feel too bad about a mopey response to what had better have been hyperbole.

Shepard notices neither of them. Her eyes remain locked with Wrex in an increasingly sharp staring contest. “I get that you have a long history with the rachni, and they’re why your people got fucked by the Council and their egos, but I’m giving you the genophage cure to undo a little bit of that pain and hatred. It’s not known yet that they’re back or helping us, but it will be once the war starts, and I will not have it be Rachni Wars 2.0.” 

“I didn’t say I’d go to war with them, or against them. I only said I’d go to war as your ally, Shepard,” Wrex points out. “I know how to separate out my personal feelings from my actions. I didn’t get to live this long, or come to lead Urdnot, by acting like an angry juvenile. But now I’m going to war as your ally a little less happily.” 

Liara comes back in, escorting the rachni soldier with the air of someone very uneasy being asked to do such a thing, and the soldier freezes when it sees Wrex. 

“Liara, you’re below Shepard now in the favorite ranking,” Wrex flatly tells her. 

“You’re very rude for being our new ally,” Liara replies, not at all deterred by his tone or words. “Come in, if you’d please, um, Victrix. Wrex is an old friend of ours and an ally in the war against the Reapers.” 

The rachni soldier very clearly shakes its head. Thane had known that Shepard had been teaching it common gestures to communicate with, but the timing with which it is demonstrating that skill is both frustrating and comical. 

“I’m going to squish that thing,” Wrex announces. At least he doesn’t move to make good on his word. Yet.

Shepard puts herself between them. “You are not. Rachni can detect indoctrination only if they have a base to compare it against. Any allies of ours, any leaders we deal with—and more importantly, any friends of mine are getting the sniff test. I can’t be paranoid about indoctrination later, Wrex. This won’t work for populations at large, but it can work for the big players, and if you want this to work, I’m demanding this of you.” 

“Bold of a battlemaster to demand something of their elder.” 

“Don’t make me headbutt you,” Shepard warns. 

Wrex throws his head back with a booming, harsh laugh. Shepard’s glare lasts for on moment longer, then seeps into confusion, and finally, wry amusement. The tension breaks in the meeting room at last. The rachni soldier skitters over to Shepard, pressing itself against her thigh, and peers up at Wrex with suspicion that crosses species emotive barriers. 

“Yeah, I know, he’s a krogan and your mom probably told you plenty about them. And I know I promised you that there’s only one on board, but this is Wrex, and he’s an old friend. He’s also not sticking around forever, so once you figure out his scent, you can avoid him for the rest of the trip, okay?” Shepard tells the rachni with endearing gentleness. She does not speak to it as a parent, but more of an affectionate superior. Certainly not something she learned from the military. 

Wrex shakes his head. In the galaxy’s most unwilling example of camaraderie, Wrex holds out his ungloved hand for the soldier to very reluctantly sniff. (Even Grunt had gotten a warmer response than that.) 

Then, quick as lightning, the rachni hisses, scuttles up a wall, and disappears into a vent. Two screws plink onto the table a beat after it vanishes. 

“Looks like you don’t get the vents to yourself, after all, even after Kasumi left,” Garrus remarks. 

“It can have them,” Thane mutters. 

—

“Shepard,” Aria greets, frowning around the rim of her glass, “to what do I owe the displeasure this time?” 

“Oh, come on, Aria, don’t pretend like you don’t love to see me in your grand establishment,” Shepard replies with a broad grin. 

Aria’s eyes shift pointedly left, then right. Shepard had come alone up to her loft (after dutifully requesting a meeting with her, though they both know that she doesn’t really need to stoop to that anymore) and she doesn’t falter at Aria’s look-over. “You didn’t want to bring up two krogan with you, this time, to make whatever inane point you’re trying to make? I know you have the old one on your ship right now. Hard to miss news of Urdnot Wrex back on Omega.” 

“What’s wrong with visiting an old friend? We’re giving him a ride back to Tuchanka later, and surely the Council can’t complain about us kindly escorting a governmental leader.” 

“You and I both know they can, will, and will do worse than complain if you prance your way back through their territory like you haven’t pissed off everyone already with your warmongering. But I don’t care about the Citadel and its Council and its shit. Why are you here with me?” 

Shepard takes a seat on Aria’s couch without waiting for invitation. Aria raises one tattooed brow. Shepard pastes on her brightest, friendliest, and most innocent smile and offers, “I’d like to invite you up to my cabin tonight, Aria.” 

Aria stares at her over her glass. 

“While we talk over a few things, I happen to have a bottle of 2102 Akantha I’d love to share with you,” Shepard adds. 

“I know,” Aria deadpans back, “since it was one of your crew who stole it from me.” 

Damn it, Kasumi, Shepard thinks. 

“What do you really want from me, Shepard? I don’t have the time or the interest to waste an evening touring your fancy special Normandy. I don’t really care about starships. And I know you’re out recruiting for allies in your whatever war, since you can’t seem to keep yourself away from those, and I’ll tell you now and very plainly—I’m. Not. Interested.” 

“Omega may be yours, but it’s not as if it’s a cohesive planet with a military force or many trade regulations. I’m not after an official alliance. You really think I’d insult you by asking for something like that?” Shepard asks in return. 

“You’re insulting me by wasting my time.” 

“Just come up to my cabin, tonight, with me. I’ll explain it all there. But I’m not explaining anything anywhere else, Aria. My movements and my motives may be well-known, and are about to become even more well-known, but I still have quite a few secrets I need to keep for the time being,” Shepard replies. 

Aria downs the rest of her drink. Shepard isn’t sure whether to take that as a good or bad sign. “What, those two alien shitheads you hang on your arms can’t keep up with you now, so you have to come onto me? Don’t read too much into my tolerance of you, Shepard. You’re not that special.” 

Shepard’s smile twitches at the casual insult to Garrus and Thane. “If that’s the cover you want to go with, sure, I’ll stroke your ego enough to invite you up to my cabin for a raunchy night together, Aria. I don’t care what you tell your lieutenants. Not many can say they’ve slept with the Commander Shepard, so I’m sure that’ll be a fun notch to add to your bedpost. Not that I think your resume needs to add conquering me in bed to it.” 

Aria smiles, sharp and pitying, but a little amused. That’s a good sign. “Cute that you think this is a cover story.” 

“Cute that you think you can stand up to my partners.” 

“I can throw them off Omega without batting an eye.” 

“And I can hang Omega out to dry if we leave now,” Shepard challenges. “Come on, Aria, I know you’re interested in what I have to say, because you’re still talking with me, and you’re the nosiest person I know. I don’t care what kind of excuse you make, I want you in my quarters, tonight. In private.” 

Aria heaves a put-upon sigh. In a voice as flat as can be, she tells her, “It has been so long since I’ve been wooed so thoroughly, Shepard. I see why you inspire such sappy-ass loyalty in your crew. I’ll stop by for a visit, probably, and if you bore me or if this is some stupid scheme to try to get me to do you some sort of favor? I’ll rip your precious ship apart.” 

Shepard’s smile finally relaxes into sincerity. “Then I’ll make it worth your while.”

—

“Aria T’Loak is requesting access to your quarters, Shepard,” EDI says—warns, really. It’s funny that she’s never taken that tone with anyone else. 

“Let her in, it’ll be fine.” 

EDI hums, noncommittal, another one of her new sounds. The door to her cabin opens to reveal Aria, yes, but not exactly what Shepard had been expecting: Aria is in a scrap of fabric that has no business calling itself a dress and sky-high stiletto heels that literally end in knife-points. Shepard knows they had coyly called this date night as plausible deniability for Aria to be here, but damn. 

Aria smiles, saunters in, and offers the bottle of insultingly cheap white wine she’d brought with her. “You can pick your jaw up off the floor now, Shepard. It’s unbecoming.” 

“But gratifying, otherwise you wouldn’t have gone through the effort,” Shepard manages. She somehow tears herself away from the blue skin revealed by the severe cut-outs at her waist. Wait, why am I staring at her waist? Garrus is rubbing off on me. Then again, the waist was safer to stare at than the everything else Aria was casually—but smugly—baring. She is currently showing off more cleavage and underboob than most of her crew would possess put together. 

“I understand this is business, but I think it’s fun to mix business and pleasure, don’t you?” Aria asks with a terrifying lilt to her voice. She sashays in and plants herself on the couch, crossing one long leg over the other, ensuring Shepard is aware of how little she’s wearing beneath the dress, too. 

The odd tension (thirst) is thankfully broken when Urz tries to jump up onto Aria’s lap with a slobber. 

“What the fuck!” Aria hefts the varren off her with her biotics and turns her glare on Shepard—and her abrupt laughter. “Shepard, I swear on my mother, if this is some sort of shitty ploy to get me to pet-sit your stupid varren again, I will shove your severed head through the keel of your turian.” 

“Aww, he’s s-so happy to see you!” Shepard gasps out, holding her sides, also finding it hilarious how Urz is not at all deterred by Aria’s hold on him. They must have really bonded while she’d watched him. How sweet. 

“I will pop both of your soft bodies like insects,” Aria hisses and throws Urz at Shepard. 

She catches him with an oof, staggering beneath the sudden weight and very sharp claws trying to right themselves in her grip. Only a little bloodied, Shepard lets her varren back to the floor and shakes out her stinging hands. 

Aria’s glare could freeze a sun. 

“So, actually, speaking of insects,” Shepard says with forced cheer, “EDI, would you let Ja’aro in?” 

“You are fortunate that I am able to keep up with crew gossip, Shepard, as there is no official announcement of change to its name,” EDI informs her, a touch reproachfully, but opens her door to reveal the rachni soldier waiting outside. 

Aria stares at it. 

It skitters in, stands precisely beside Shepard like this is a military formation, and stares back with its very tiny eyes. 

“There are two things I want to speak to you about tonight, Aria,” Shepard sunnily tells her. (She deserves to be cheerful; she’s finally broken her streak at forgetting the proper time to tell someone about the rachni on her crew.) “The first is that we have a proven method to detect indoctrination in select individuals, and I would like to invite you into that specific inner circle. As a gesture of trust, goodwill, and invitation for future—” 

“Shepard, it is only due to our past good relationship that I will offer you the choice now,” Aria interrupts. “Would you like me to kill your two pets first in front of you, or kill you first to spare you the sight, then use your severed limbs to beat them to death?” 

Shepard laughs, because she’s not entirely certain Aria is joking. How thoughtful of her to offer the choice. Shepard must have really earned her respect. “Huff and puff all you like, but—” 

A biotic chokehold seizes her throat and shoves her against the aquarium. The glass cracks behind her. Urz snarls, hackles raised, and the rachni soldier lets out a shrill scream. Shepard’s fingers scrabble ineffectually against the blue light around her neck, bare heels skidding against the wall. 

Aria advances on her like death itself. “Shepard,” she says, voice sweet and playful, “it’s so cute how you’ve been gathering power, going on missions, not staying dead, and pissing off the Council. Really, that last part is hilarious. I’d planned on toasting to that part specifically tonight with you. But you’re crossing a line, on my port, and I don’t think you’ve realized that.” 

Shepard cracks open a watery eye, ignoring the spots dancing in her vision, and wonders how the hell Aria expects to get off the Normandy if she actually kills her now. “Wh-What,” she chokes out, more of a grunt than an actual word. 

“The krogan are one thing. They’re the problem of Council space, frankly, because the outcasts living here know who’s in charge. And everyone who knows half a thing about you or krogan knows that you have Urdnot Wrex in your back pocket. So really, have fun with them, I don’t care, not about that puzzle piece specifically,” Aria says. Her coy tone is gone, replaced with simmering biotic rage. “If it were only that. You were a lot less harmless when you were throwing yourself to your death in the galactic core. But it’s not just the krogan, is it. You parade around your little geth pet, and you’re so friendly with one another, so you must have struck a deal with them, next, right? And now you have a rachni, live and right here, to show off. You’re amassing quite a lot of power in my space, Shepard, and I find it hard to believe that you genuinely believe I’d be okay with that.” 

Shepard gives up on clutching at the biotic hold at her throat and instead shoves both hands against Aria’s front, igniting her palms with an incinerate. Asari skin is far more durable than human skin, but no one likes being set on fire, and she drops Shepard with a hiss while she tries to pat out the burning fabric of her slinky dress. 

Shepard drops to her feet and sucks in a breath. Urz presses up against her thigh, looking up at her with all the big-eyed mopiness of a worried dog; the rachni soldier hasn’t stopped hissing and dripping acid yet. She’s actually pretty grateful that it’s polite enough not to be splashing acid all over her quarters without permission. 

“Okay,” Shepard rasps, holding her bruised neck, “so you’re into breathplay. Didn’t know that about you, Aria.” 

Aria crosses her arms over her even-more-bared chest, ash from the burnt fabric smearing black across her blue skin. 

“You would’ve snapped my neck without the big speech if you were actually mad at me, but that was goddamn rude, and I’m going to have to talk a lot of very protective people down from declaring war on you for this,” Shepard continues. Her breathing has evened out now, dizziness gone, but her throat remains feeling thick and her voice is fucked. “You only grandstand to people worth your time, Aria. And you owe me for new fish tank glass. This shit’s expensive.” 

“You know what else is expensive? That 2102 Akantha your crewmate made off with,” Aria retorts. “Your threats remain hollow, Shepard. I’m not scared of you, or your collection of misfits, any more than you’re apparently unafraid of me.” 

“I’m dating two people who are very good shots and you sit in a high, open place.” 

“You must not care for them very much, if you’re willing to get them killed before this war of yours even starts,” Aria replies. 

Shepard gestures her over toward the couch. Shockingly, Aria takes the hint, and sits back down, once again crossing one long leg over the other, looking entirely at ease with the situation. 

Shepard rubs at her aching neck again. “Overkill,” she grumbles. 

“So is recruiting the rachni and the geth. Why the fuck am I up here in your private quarters? So you can show off?” Aria demands. 

“If you were listening to a goddamn word I said, I’m inviting you to have insurance and trust—the rachni can sense indoctrination. Somehow. I’m asking anyone important I deal with to do that, so I can continue to trust them, even after the Reapers get here,” Shepard snaps back. 

Aria tilts her head, surveying her coolly. “You really believe the Reapers are coming on that timeline of yours you sent me, don’t you?” 

“Why the hell would I lie about that? It hasn’t made me popular enough to incite a panic to get people on my side.” 

“You’re many things, Shepard,” she replies, “but not a liar. But also prone to overkill, too. You were responsible for the Viper Nebula going dark, weren’t you?” 

Shepard’s expression hardens. She crouches down, one hand petting Urz’s head, the other trying to calm the hissing rachni soldier. “The official statement is that—” 

“Fuck the official statement, I want confirmation at what you did. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out you pushed the panic button on the Reapers, Shepard. And it looks like you’re trying to push a hell of a lot more. And now you think to drag me into it?” 

“Omega isn’t a planet or military force. I’m not asking for an alliance with you—you can’t offer me half of what I’m looking for,” Shepard returns with a sneer. Aria arches a brow. “You have no idea the deals I’m making right now, and I can tell you’re salivating over them already. Trust me, even if I am throwing together whatever kind of fleet I can get my hands on, I am not looking to take over Omega, Aria. I know this’ll hurt your feelings—but you are inconsequential right now compared to the other shit I’m getting into.” 

“And yet you invited me up here,” Aria points out, tone deceptively light. 

“One—to give both of us the reassurance that you will not succumb to indoctrination without anyone realizing,” Shepard deadpans. “Two—trade agreement. That’s all I wanted from you, Aria.” 

“Oh, past tense? Have I overstayed my welcome?” 

“No, because I need to make sure someone will still trade with me when what I’m doing comes to light and even more people get pissed at me. You’re the de facto ruler of Omega, and sure, you don’t control official things,” Shepard says and Aria scoffs, “but I know you can keep vendors from gouging us once they hear of any embargos on the Normandy. I want fair and low trading rates. Guaranteed.” 

“And you’ll… what. Offer me this rachni thing as payment?” 

“Indoctrination, losing yourself, losing control? I think that would scare someone like you an awful lot, Aria.” 

She rolls her eyes. “If I believed in such a thing. But let’s say I did. No matter how egotistical I am, I still wouldn’t accept those terms. That’s detection—not even a deterrent or protection. That does shit in the real world. So what are you actually offering me for such a large favor?” 

Shepard manages a grin. “I am about to become an obscenely wealthy woman in terms of raw materials, Aria, and I’d prefer to turn the bulk of those into credits. A dried-up mining station like Omega? You need imports, more and better than the black market shit that’s already flooding the place. I’m giving you first choice, low rates, and I can offer you the same indoctrination detection service to Patriarch and your two lieutenants, after the Reapers arrive and if you’ve behaved yourself until then.” 

Aria flaps her hand, dismissing any claims that she gives a damn about others. “The trade offer was solid enough. Why offer to provide anything to anyone other than me? I don’t care about that old krogan or anyone else.” 

“Even if I believed that—” Shepard begins but Aria snorts, “—I know you value security. You think the Reapers and their forces will waltz in and start brainwashing just the prominent leaders? They’ll work their way up, same as any other invading faction or spy network. I can at least keep it from getting that close to you.” 

Aria regards her, expression shuttered, but with studious, sharp eyes. “…You’re the noble type, Shepard. Why don’t you offer this rachni thing to everyone, or friendly populations at large? You can do better than a handful of your closest cohorts. And you can’t tell me there aren’t more of those little shits running around, since rachni breed at an exponential rate.” 

Shepard had pondered that herself, but hadn’t dared push the issue with the rachni queen, because she was thankful enough as it is. “Because it’s a comparison issue. Even if there are more rachni out there—which, for the record, I officially do not comment on that—they’ve been hated and persecuted and almost killed off. Technically were once. You think any government body would willingly welcome in rachni to look over their populations? And the queen—who I do not officially know—would never allow her children to get slaughtered again. This is about more than logistics, it’s about trust, and the galaxy and its leaders have a long way to go before that’s feasible again.” 

“You’re giving an awful lot of power to a rachni ruler whose people almost wiped out the galaxy a few millennia ago,” Aria points out. 

“Because this is an alliance. I’m not bullying my way into making others work with me.” Yet. “And she’s already done a lot for me on a personal level, so I figure I can respect her wishes in return, especially as it concerns her family. I know everyone else just sees bugs, but keep in mind that she is the last queen left, and these are her children.” 

“Who you will be sending off to fight in a war.” 

“I plan on using very few rachni ships, comparatively, for the hypothetical fleet I may or may not be planning on creating to fight the Reapers,” Shepard replies with the usual plausible deniability Liara and Miranda have drilled into her. “Only allies and friends get to know further details, Aria. I’ve already given you a great deal of trust by even showing you this little guy. You’re welcome.” 

Aria gives her a truly epic eye roll. “Oh, thank you, Shepard, for your ongoing generosity and nobility when it comes to the absolute shitshow that this galaxy is. So you’re offering me peace of mind, fine, I can do the friendship routine with you for that much. But you’re operating one small ship, on the run from Council space, and you’re demanding pretty generous trade opportunities with me.” 

“Like I said, I’ll be running into a lot of raw materials, including eezo and—” 

“Cut the shit, Shepard. How the fuck do you plan on getting all of this shit you’re trying to bribe me with?” Aria harshly cuts in. 

Shepard grins, just as harsh, and supposes it doesn’t hurt to reveal this much to Aria. Sue her; she might like grandstanding a bit, too. They’re rubbing off on each other. “Did you know, that with the help of some very sophisticated calculations run by machines I’m not officially calling AI, we figured out that less than one percent of the galaxy has been colonized by official, organic races? Less than one percent of the stars in the Milky Way have been mapped out, and who knows how many planets each cluster or system could have. And did you know that there is currently a race of sapient machines who have spent the past three hundred years very happily doing mind-numbing things like calculating new star maps, traveling through space outside of the relay network to explore since they don’t get bored or lost like we do, and they’ve been quite happy to share these updated star maps with me?” 

Aria’s frown grows, brows lowering further the longer Shepard talks. 

And, as the final piece in Shepard’s explanation, she smiles and, oh-so-innocently inquires, “Aria, did you know that the geth were originally designed as terraforming bots?” 

Chapter Text

“So you turned Omega into your fence,” Garrus says as good morning. Shepard had uploaded the terms of the Normandy’s agreed-upon trade agreement with Aria (and thus Omega) to the locally accessible pile of documents that appears to be growing every day. It’s a lot of progress in such a short amount of time. Shepard ought to be proud of herself, even if she can only see the insurmountable mountain that still looms ahead. Garrus doesn’t blame her that much; he’s prone to doing the same. 

Shepard is hunched over at her desk, squinting at her holo-screen, and the purplish smudges beneath her eyes tells him that she has not slept. 

But what grabs his attention is the length of fabric looped around her neck. 

“Are you… wearing a scarf?” Garrus asks, pulling up short. He thinks her quarters are quite comfortably warm. And humans tend to like cooler indoor temperatures, too, compared to turians. (He’s pretty sure she keeps it warmer than average for him and Thane.) 

Shepard doesn’t respond; she deletes a few lines of whatever she’s working on and pecks out a few new ones. 

“What’re you working on?” Garrus tries again. He leans over her shoulder to look at the email she has up. 

“Sending an email to Nosarya, that fun reporter from Fornax, letting her know that Aria T’Loak likes breathplay. Anonymously, of course.” 

“Aria T’Loak and Shepard had a physical altercation during their meeting last night cycle, and Shepard is utilizing this to turn into a minor scandal in retaliation,” EDI explains. 

“EDI, come on, that was private!” Shepard grumbles. 

Garrus frowns. “What was private? I know you and she had this weird flirty thing going on, but—” 

Shepard whirls around in her chair so fast she almost hits him. “Wait, no, we didn’t actually do anything, EDI’s right that I’m being petty right now! That’s all.” 

Garrus has come to learn that humans have great respect for monogamy—or, in cases like this, of a closed relationship and loyalty within it. They get panicky if anyone accuses them otherwise, even if it’s just sex. 

That said, being surrounded by a largely human crew for so many years has put him in the mind to be a little more possessive than the average turian in an average relationship. Garrus crosses his arms, narrows his eyes, and watches as her heart rate monitor in his visor rachets up in response to that very human, very entertaining notion of relationship panicking. Funny that it’s not him for once. 

When she leans forward, tugging on his arm to get him to uncross them, the scarf falls loose, and Garrus sees darkly-colored skin on her throat. He’s unlooping it from her neck before she can react. 

Shepard scowls up at him while Garrus stares, hard, down at the bruising around her throat. It doesn’t match asari handprints, because not even Aria is that crass; of course she’d use her biotics. He’s seen how biotic holds bruise, too, and this matches this as if it were pulled out of a forensic textbook. 

“I’ll kill her,” Garrus announces. “She sits in an open layout in a high place. It won’t be that hard to get the shot.” 

“Right, that’s what I said!” Shepard says, smiling for half a moment. But it slips away just as fast. “Anyway, don’t waste your breath or energy, Garrus. It’s fine. I’m fine.” 

“You have a history of self-sacrificial behavior, Shepard, so long as you get what you want as an end result,” EDI says from the door interface, “and you vowed to remain open and honest when dealing with Normandy crewmates concerning war preparations. This openness goes doubly for romantic partners, according to my research on organic interpersonal relationships.” 

“And it goes extra doubly for your XO,” Garrus adds. He kneels before her, as awkwardly as a turian can, his attention never leaving the dark splotches on the thin skin of her neck. 

Shepard avoids eye contact. “Garrus, it’s fine, really. Aria was just making a point because she likes to act tough and scary. If she wanted to kill me, she wouldn’t have done it like this. And the agreement is fine, we’ll have Omega as a committed trade partner for at least a year, we’ll revisit it after the Reapers show up and I’m sure Aria won’t be the only one changing her tune by then. But she was pretty agreeable after she made a show of being bitchy.” 

“So what, you let her do this to you to work off some tension?” Garrus all but growls. 

Shepard winces. “No, ‘let’ is a strong word. I calculated that she was not out to murder me? My body can withstand more than this, you know that—humans just bruise easily and colorfully.” 

Garrus reaches out to her. He takes her chin in hand and forces her to look at him. Tiredness lines her gaze and the bruising on her throat is, logically, a very minor concern if she can still breathe and speak normally. It’s his protectiveness and his pride as a partner that’s the issue now, but he can’t help but be annoyed by that scarf. She’d wanted to hide it, even if she had an otherwise successful meeting. 

“No more private or solo dealings with anyone outside this ship,” Garrus orders. 

She wrinkles her nose, frowning, her bottom lip pushed out. (Very nibble-worthy.) But she doesn’t jerk free of his gentle hold on her face. “I’m sure that will go over well with future allies who won’t want to be publicly associated with us. My presence is a bargaining chip, Garrus, and I’m not afraid to use it.” 

“So take others with you, too. If they want to deal with Commander Shepard, then they can deal with her people. Shows of force wouldn’t be a bad thing as this wears on. And if they try to insist, try to say they’re more important than respecting the rules for meeting with you? Fuck them,” Garrus snaps. 

Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. 

“They’ll come crawling back once the galaxy knows you’re right,” he adds, earning a tentative smile. “So, and this is an order—no more solo meetings with anyone else. We’re going to be getting into territory where we don’t know who we can trust, and I’m going to lean hard on the side of not trusting others.” 

“You think you can order me around, just ‘cause I gave you a promotion?” Shepard asks, smile widening. 

Garrus dips his voice purposefully low and serious, and earns a shudder from her for his trouble. “Yes. I do get to order you around now. And don’t think just because we’re dating that you can ignore this one.” 

“I agree with Garrus. For your safety and security, you ought not to be meeting with outside forces or leaders without back-up, Shepard,” EDI says from the door. 

Garrus draws back a bit, expression flattening, while Shepard hides her grin behind her hand. “Thanks, EDI,” he drawls. “You know, we were sort of having a bit of a moment there.” 

“Noted,” EDI replies. 

“Were we?” Shepard asks, eyes sparkling, like she wasn’t playing into it as a very willing participant. “I wasn’t feeling any moment-y things, Garrus. I think you’ll have to try again. Try harder, too. Maybe give me some more orders? In that serious, leader voice of yours?” 

“Is this a voice thing, or an ordering around thing?” Garrus has to ask. The voice thing is a very known aspect of their relationship. Shepard’s always been a huge fan of his—and Thane’s. But the power dynamic thing is very new. And very much not what he’s used to. 

“Wanna find out?” Shepard eagerly asks. 

That answers that. 

And most of his indignance-fed courage leaves him at the realization. Garrus is used to barking orders in the heat of the moment, such as in firefights or when Shepard is ignoring risks to herself for the greater good; he is not emotionally prepared to boss around his commanding officer in bed. Sure, relationship, dating, and the Normandy had thrown out most military regulations quite awhile ago, but she had made a point to give him the rank of executive officer, and that means something to him. A few somethings. 

“Sooooo,” Shepard says, drawing out the syllable, leaning forward in her chair to poke his forehead and make him jump, “that’s a no, then. You’re overthinking this. Power play not a thing to spring on turians on short notice?”

“Maybe,” Garrus hedges. “Not in that direction, anyway. I’ll work up to it. If you, uh, want me to.” The idea is intriguing—intriguing as hell—but also just as intimidating. This will need some more research. He’s pretty sure Joker could point him in the direction of certain vid genres to help get him used to the idea of it. (In his initial researching phase, Garrus had not looked up anything related to submissive human women. He hadn’t expected to. And hasn’t needed to look up further research for some time, thankfully.) 

Shepard gives him a smile, nudges their forehead together, then gently guides him back to his feet. “Well, maybe another time. Don’t stress yourself out about it, it was just flirting.” 

He is definitely going to stress himself out about it; it beats stressing himself out about morally dubious war prep. He intends to capitalize on the luxury of picking his stresses. 

“I think I’m gonna take a nap, then, since I don’t feel like dealing with anyone else staring at or commenting on my neck for the next hour or two. Think Thane’s going to be mad?” 

“Livid, probably,” Garrus deadpans. 

“All the more reason to sleep now and ignore that. I had planned on fooling around with you, because nothing knocks me out like an orgasm, but honestly, I’ll probably pass out as soon as I hit the pillow, anyway. Come be my cuddle buddy?” 

Like he can refuse an offer like that. But more importantly—Garrus catches her arm as she sidles by in the direction of her large bed. “Hold on, who said I can’t still give you one? Or two. Maybe I’m in a generous mood.” 

“Oh, are you,” Shepard responds with dry amusement. 

He pulls her against him. Garrus has learned to appreciate how easy it is to fit non-turian bodies against his; with a turian partner, keels would get in the way, and this is a type of closeness he’s grown to cherish. 

But right when he opens his mouth to reiterate his generosity, EDI interrupts. Again. 

“Shepard, Liara is trying to page you. She claims it is urgent, regarding new information she has gathered from her clandestine career choice.” 

Shepard sighs, long and hard, and Garrus tips his head back so he doesn’t growl in her face. “Alright,” she says, sounding more tired than when he joined her, “I’ll go see her. And EDI, please find a better, more subtle way to refer to Liara and her ‘career choice’ while using the intercom.” 

“I in no way referred to her as the Shadow Broker,” EDI replies, miffed. 

“Yes, but I want you to be subtle.” 

“Can AIs be subtle?” Garrus wonders aloud. 

“I will update my term usage and engage with more subtlety, that I do, in fact, possess the protocols for,” EDI replies, sounding even more miffed. 

—

Liara taps her slipper against a so-far unused screen. She’s brought copies and extras and redundancies for as many things as she could, as per the space allotted to her, but it’s a far cry from her various bases on Illium. (She thinks she’s made a rather nice use of space here, even if Feron calls it cramped. But he’s also not used to spending extended periods of time on a ship, either.) 

“You’re still being too obvious,” Feron hums, pointedly, which is a habit she really wishes he had not picked up. “Not even the Shadow Broker would create this kind of chaos, this fast, if they were not directly involved. Too many people already suspect you, Liara.” 

“Well, that’s what you’re for, isn’t it?” Liara returns—more sharply than she intended. Feron takes no offense, but she does, because she never means to snap at him. She sighs and puts a hand to her forehead. 

“You’re being unsubtle, and with this? You may as well shine a beacon out into space. ‘Hey, I’m the Shadow Broker, as so many of you suspected, and I’m abusing my power to help Commander Shepard piss off and later save the galaxy!’ Catchy. It’ll look good in the news vids when they find the pieces of your corpse,” Feron replies. Drell do not use communicative subvocals like turians do; he thrums beneath his words just to be a pain in her neck. 

And possibly to mess with Garrus. She hasn’t yet confirmed that part, and goddess, she is trying, because that will be worthy entertainment for a month, at least. Even funnier if it happens while Wrex is still aboard. 

“It is not abusing my power,” Liara says, sighing again, “it is using my power. And this is the very example that we were worried about, Feron. This is an actual emergency, where speed is of the essence. We can repair the cover later.” 

“If there is a later.” 

“You’re a pessimist,” she tells him. 

“I’m a realist,” he corrects, brows raised. “And I remember that the Shadow Broker’s enemies are just as strong as the title is. Secrecy and control of information are supposed to be our shield, not our first weapon.” 

“This is Prothean technology!” Liara exclaims. 

The door chimes as it opens. (Liara had asked EDI not to announce anyone like she was an innocuous VI; EDI has so far followed that request.) Shepard strides in, in cargo pants and a hoodie, but Liara does a double-take at the dark bruises lining her throat in an almost perfect ring. “Alright, Liara, what is it? So you know, you just interrupted something between me and Garrus—” She pulls up short when she registers Feron crouched between the two large monitors. “Oh, uh, hi. Not that I’m shy, but you’re not Liara.” 

“No, I’m not,” Feron allows with a smirk. 

Liara is on her feet in a flash, hands hovering over Shepard’s neck. “Shepard, what is this? Did Garrus—?!” 

“Wait, no, hold up, this wasn’t Garrus! Also, how fast do you think humans bruise?!” 

“Like an overripe cossewan,” Feron pipes up with another annoying hum. 

Shepard gives Feron—and his voice—an odd look. “I’ll pretend I know what that is, outside of mildly insulting. Anyway, EDI said there was an emergency, and it’s not a few marks on me.” 

“I know how biotics bruise, Shepard,” Liara replies, reproachful, but allows her space again. She will not pressure her further. (She’ll simply demand answers of Garrus later.) “But yes, we have something akin to an emergency. It’s very time-sensitive, but I can’t guarantee what we’ll find when we get there, but the true emergency is who the information has already been sold to. There’s been a Prothean artifact, or site, dug up.” 

“Oh, damn, really? It’s not another beacon, is it?” 

“No, but—well, it was found on Eden Prime.” 

Shepard’s expression goes oddly blank. Shuttered. 

Liara hastens to continue. “It isn’t near where the beacon you touched was found! There were expansions to the colony, and this is on the outskirts, as I understand it. They were digging and found some sort of ancient structure. It’s already been roped off, since the locals are understandably leery of another Prothean relic in their area, but the one who sold the information—Cerberus purchased it.” 

Shepard blinks, as if coming back to herself. “Cerberus knows about a Prothean dig site on Eden Prime?” she asks, slowly. 

“They’ve been quiet, haven’t they? Since you and Lawson so rudely resigned,” Feron remarks. “This is one of the first major operations they’ve had in months. The Illusive Man had probably been waiting for something big before making a move again and drawing your attention. New Prothean tech would qualify as ‘something big’.” 

“I know we’re going with Wrex to Sur’Kesh, and that’s important too, but it isn’t as time-sensitive as this,” Liara adds. “Although it isn’t very far out of the way, all things considered. I’ve seen you take larger detours for smaller things, Shepard.” 

“Hey, those asari writings turned out to be valuable to someone, didn’t they?” Shepard replies with adorably reflexive defensiveness.

“Whatever those ruins contain, Cerberus doesn’t need them, and Wrex would understand if he didn’t get the pleasure of being in a room full of nosy salarians for an extra day or two,” Liara tells her. 

“He was with us on all of those nasty detours, so I think he’ll survive. And I won’t feel much guilt if we give the salarians a bit more of a runaround, considering that they still haven’t given us jack shit about what they’re asking for. We’ll adjust course to Eden Prime. Do you have an ETA on when Cerberus forces could get there?” 

“Likely before us,” Liara grimly answers. 

“Well, they don’t have the galaxy’s foremost Prothean expert on hand, so I’m sure they’ll be scratching their heads for a day or two to give us time to catch up,” Shepard says, undeterred. 

“I-I am not the foremost Prothean expert,” Liara replies, heat flooding her cheeks, a little affronted that Shepard would casually throw around such hyperbolic terms. 

Feron smirks from his claimed section. Shepard matches it. Liara suddenly fears what will happen to her dignity if those two were to become better friends. The Shadow Broker shouldn’t have to deal with such trivialities, and yet, here she is. Very unfair. 

—

“Soooo,” Shepard says, sidling up to Thane as they suit up to land, “you didn’t seem surprised or upset about the. Y’know. Neck thing. Bruises. Suspicious bruises. Garrus thought you’d be mad—he was, I mean, and Jack is still looking like she wants to bite me because I won’t let her go back to Omega, and your silence is very suspicious, so you can stop me rambling at any time.” 

Thane gives her a slow blink. Then, he leans over, and presses a sweet kiss to her lips. “Siha, all of my weapons’ laser sights are UV-based, so most other races cannot see them.” 

“Were you seriously hiding in my vent,” Shepard hisses. How dare she feel awkward and worried about his reaction when he had been there to begin with. 

“Maybe,” Thane replies with a wan smile. 

She frowns. “Garrus already ordered me not to have any more private meetings, and I’ll oblige, but I’m going to order you to never breach my privacy like that again. And you’re getting grounded—you’re staying here with Jack and making sure no Cerberus fucks come near the Normandy.” 

“I am sorry if you saw it as a breach of privacy,” Thane begins, smile gone, replaced with gentle, respectful concern. 

“It was,” Shepard replies. She grabs the handle for stability as Joker brings them in to land, but also halfway as an excuse to turn from him. She’s not pissed, but certainly peeved. “I recognize that it came from a place of caring, though. But orders are orders.” 

“You never explicitly ordered anyone to stay away from your cabin,” Thane points out. 

“I did order everyone off the Normandy!” 

“At 1900. I returned at 1930. You never set a window of time.” 

“Krios, don’t get cute with me,” Shepard growls, but Thane frowns at her, cutely, because he’s obviously perplexed by the term, and she’s not in the mood to moon over innocent cultural misunderstandings while annoyed. 

“We’re headed in, about half a kilometer from the recorded dig site location,” Joker announces, a welcome interruption. “And I’m already seeing some Cerberus vehicles and ground commotion. No one’s taking pot shots yet. And no larger ships in the area.” 

“Liara, Tali, you’re with me—” 

“Do you really think you’re dragging me all the way out to the middle of human colony nowhere and making me sit on the ship?!” Wrex demands, barreling into the mini crowd waiting by the airlock. 

Shepard balks, just a moment, because she had thought that. Whoops. “Well, uh, they’ll probably be coming to take back the Normandy, if you want to crush the heads of those especially dumb ones—” 

“The last time you were on Eden Prime, your squishy human brain almost melted out your ears and I had to hear so many loud, pathetic concerns from Alenko about your health. For weeks. Someone stronger than a couple of humans—or Liara and Tali—is coming along to drag you back out when you try to melt your squishy human brain with weird alien tech again,” Wrex growls. 

Garrus raises a hand. “I could go.” 

“Aren’t all brains squishy?” Tali whispers to Liara, who nods back with concern. 

“Okay, I don’t care who’s going, but you’re crowding me up here!” Joker exclaims. 

“Well, we don’t have a working shuttle right now, due to batarian slaver reasons,” Tali retorts. “We’re staying out of your precious cockpit as best we can, Joker, so relax a moment!” 

“Yeah, try having glass bones and having two krogan yell at Shepard about who gets to hold her hand when she passes out this time right behind you. Wrex, didn’t miss this part of you. You take up too much space.” 

“And you’ve gotten mouthier since leaving the Alliance,” Wrex replies with obvious pride. 

“A new shuttle wouldn’t be remiss,” Liara says. “Instead of crowding by the airlock for every ground mission, I mean.” 

“It’s on the list of Eventual To Do’s. Also, a Mako.” A very loud chorus of complaints meets Shepard’s decision, as if it hadn’t been on the very public and very obvious budget list that she made sure every one of them had access to at all times. “What! The Hammerhead doesn’t have nearly the same specs, and we need something that can take a beating!” 

“This isn’t an invitation for more Mako-related troubles, but you’re going to need an actual shuttle pilot eventually, you know. Along with the new shuttle. And I might know a guy who can help us with both of those things,” Joker says, to Shepard’s surprise. Another thing to add to her list. “Anyway, that’s for later, Shepard—right now, try not to melt your brains by touching unknown alien tech. Again.” 

“You touch mysterious Prothean tech one time, and no one lets you live it down,” Shepard grumbles. The Normandy jostles again as it pulls in, and once the airlock clears, the doors slide open. Shepard, Wrex, and Tali jump out before it lands. Wrex lands on one of the poor Cerberus agents who decided to greet them with guns drawn. Shepard pretends that that hadn’t happened, and shouts with as much authority as she can muster, “My name is Commander Shepard and I am claiming these ruins for myself, so Cerberus can kindly shove off! If any of you have any issue with that, take it up with my crew!” 

The Cerberus forces do, in fact, take issue with that, and open fire. Wrex charges ahead with his shotgun before she can say anything; she wonders how much he’s missed fights like this since resigning himself to the life of a political figure. 

“Looks like it’s in this direction,” Liara says as she jogs over to catch up with Shepard and Tali. They completely ignore the firefight going on around them. Even the Illusive Man’s fancy armor upgrades won’t save his people from the force of a stressed Normandy crew. 

She hopes none of these are the Good People that Jacob swears are still in the organization. 

Damn it, she doesn’t want to humanize random soldiers in a terrorist organization. She’s never had that issue (too much) before. And now is not the time to grow a conscience about Cerberus of all things. 

“Can you get any further readings, or information, about what we might find, now that we’re on the ground?” Tali asks. Chatika takes pot shots over her shoulder, but her attention is on her omnitool and its scanning functions. 

“The seller of the information wasn’t sure what it was, either. They unearthed architecture and enough related technology to identify it as Prothean, that’s all,” Liara replies. “It shouldn’t be too far—we should be able to see it over this hill here.” 

Trucks, small digging vehicles, and well-used dirt roads dot the area, cutting through thick native grasses. There aren’t any buildings nearby, so Shepard wonders just how far the colony was looking to expand here. There’s a wheat field growing gold off to their right, untouched by the development so far; probably waiting for the last harvest before sacrificing that land, too. 

Shepard hasn’t seen a field in years. (Battlefields don’t count.) 

She lets Liara and Tali run scans and discuss what they may find and watches the gentle wave of the wheat in the breeze. It’s such a peaceful image that she can almost ignore the gunfire behind them. 

“So, Tali,” Shepard says, eyes on the field, “how do quarians handle the bulk of their hydroponics?” 

Tali looks up from her omnitool. “Um, what? Oh, right now, you want to talk about—?” She glances over, following Shepard’s gaze. “We certainly don’t have that much space. Quarians have become masters had maximizing crop yield in as little space as possible, as you can imagine. I don’t know much about what sorts of crops humans plant, but there ought to be enough, um, overlap? Between what we need. Even if our DNA is different, we’re still organics, and have roughly similar nutritional needs, but I hardly spent any time with any of the botany departments, Shepard.” 

“I actually am interested in the prospect of gardening on the Normandy,” Liara says, “but I think we need to focus on the task at hand, Shepard. We’ll likely encounter further resistance in the site itself.” 

Wrex again charges past with a throaty krogan battle cry. Apparently he had crushed enough human bodies to be sated in the Normandy’s landing area. Shepard flaps a hand at his back. “There we go.” 

“Wrex, don’t you dare break anything!” Liara shouts and dashes after him. “We don’t know what we’ll find—it could be fragile—!” 

“It’s just like old times, isn’t it?” Tali says with a giggle. 

“Wrex is a little more enthusiastic now,” Shepard remarks. “But yeah, mostly.” Only missing Garrus bickering with Wrex, and a pair of human squadmates. 

“I don’t blame him for feeling cooped up on Tuchanka. I mean, I’m very proud of him—if that makes sense? He’s doing a lot of good for his people. But it must feel so stifling,” Tali says with obvious sympathy. She shakes her head. “Even the Admiralty Board still gets to leave the Flotilla from time to time. But I don’t think Wrex has gotten that luxury for awhile.” 

“Think we should feel bad for taking a detour and extending his time away from Tuchanka?” Shepard uneasily asks. 

“Nah,” Tali says at once. “He’d complain if he were actually worried. He’s worked hard to get some stability there, so it must’ve gone well enough that he feels comfortable hanging around with us for a few extra days. And he needed the vacation.” 

“Ah, krogan vacations. Shooting people, stomping bodies, and arguing with Garrus,” Shepard says with playful nostalgia. Tali giggles. “They’ve calmed down, though, have you noticed? And Thane told me that Wrex actually admitted he was fond of Garrus.” 

“Oh, yeah, Garrus told me about that! He could hardly explain it for how hard he was laughing. I’m surprised that hasn’t come up yet, but maybe Garrus is trying to be mature and serious now that you’ve promoted him. It’s so cute, how hard he’s trying!” Tali says, giggling more, slight shoulders shaking in mirth. 

“Hey, I know he can step up, that’s why I put him in charge.” 

“I know that, Shepard,” Tali says with a light smack on her arm, “but he’s walking around with his crest all puffed up like a newbie officer with his first posting.” 

“Okay, well, yeah. That is pretty cute,” Shepard relents. She smiles, fondly, and wishes she were paying a little more attention to his swaggering around, if it’s as noticeable as Tali says. 

They crest the slope Wrex and Liara had already passed, and finally see the thing that brought them here. Shepard hardly registers more than the preliminary construction—trucks, a hole in the ground, piles of moved dirt—before Liara’s scream cuts through the air. 

Shepard and Tali are racing down the hill without further thought. 

Wrex stands out among the construction, deep-red armor and standing taller than the pick-up next to him, white-armored Cerberus bodies at his feet. But Liara isn’t immediately visible. Wrex’s head snaps around as Shepard and Tali run up. “She’s down there,” he says with a gesture of his shotgun. 

There are a few smaller holes, like they’d been testing soil or some scientific shit, and one larger, more shallow one dug out around the ancient alien architecture they’d found. Two walls are standing, one of them with glowing green circuitry connecting it to a working console. Liara stands in front of it. 

Unharmed, free of any color of blood, shaking hands hovering over the bright console. 

“Liara, what’s wrong?” Shepard demands. 

“What is it? What did you find?” Tali adds. They flank her and Shepard leans over Liara’s shoulder to try to read what she can. It’s pretty useful to have the Prothean language burned into her brain in times like this. 

The things Shepard reads and registers are, in order: low power warning, what must be the Prothean name for this planet, malfunction of power regulation, a choice for activation of something, and then a number that reminds her so much of the Project base that she almost balks. 

Almost half a million lives? 

“Had this been a city or something?” Shepard mutters, wishing more had been dug up so they had an idea of what they were dealing with. 

“N-No,” Liara replies in a trembling voice. “This was—there were plans for preservation—most of it failed, that’s a lot of power to regulate for fifty thousand years, it’s sort of like on Ilos—but it’s—Shepard, these were life pods. They were stasis chambers for the preservation of living Protheans.” 

Tali gasps. Shepard feels ill, thinking of standing on another failed experiment turned tomb. “Okay, right. So is there a VI or something we can—” 

“Shepard, there is a life pod still online,” Liara interrupts. 

—

“So I’m guessing they found whatever we were looking for, because Cerberus just started swarming the area like ants,” Joker drawls over the comms. “Reinforcement shuttles inbound. Typical, letting us do the hard work of finding it and probably letting Liara and Shepard decode it, then they swoop in to snipe it…” 

“Have they requested backup?” Thane asks. He’s seated in the open airlock, rifle tucked against his shoulder for the moment, as the area has been picked clean by Jack and Grunt some time ago. 

“No, no chatter from their direction. Wrex is with them, though, so can’t be going too bad. And you ought to see Liara in action if she thinks something archeologically important is threatened.” 

Garrus laughs, close enough for Thane to hear, so he assumes it must be quite the sight. “How many of those shuttles are coming here to cut them off, versus going there to the site where they are?” 

“‘Bout half each way, looks like,” Joker replies. 

“Are we allowed to go pick them up and escort whatever they found? Or are we still grounded for having a feeling about Shepard?” Jack irately demands. Joker and Garrus laugh without sympathy. 

“One whole feeling, huh, Jack?” Joker says with an audible sneer. 

“I will splatter you inside the cockpit, little man,” Jack retorts. “Don’t pretend like you weren’t staring at her neck, either. Stupid bitch almost got throttled in her own room because she wanted to let Aria T’Loak feel comfortable. Ugh.” 

“That is a gross oversimplification of the situation, Jack,” EDI reprimands. 

“And you, coming to your precious pilot’s defense yet again?” Jack coos with a terrifying edge to her voice. 

Joker snorts. “Hey, I’m as much a part of this crew as anyone else, and that means I don’t need to be defended like a helpless maiden or whatever civilian we’re escorting this time. I’ll have you know I made it through basic too—” 

“So are we allowed to go reinforce Shepard’s position?” Thane breaks in. Jack sticks her tongue out for interrupting her entertainment. (Even if she has softened toward others, she still finds arguments and fights the peak of entertainment value. Even, or sometimes especially, within the crew.) 

“Nuh-uh, not you two. Or you, Grunt. Shepard told you to stay put.” 

“Grunt left about twenty minutes ago,” Thane points out. 

Joker makes it a point to sigh loudly and raggedly over the comms. 

“Ground team to Normandy!” Tali’s voice comes in, making Garrus perk up from his claimed Cerberus shuttle turned cover. “We’re on our way back, with, uh. Well. We found, uh. A-Anyway, you best see it to believe it, because I still can’t believe this, oh and also Grunt got hurt, but it wasn’t Cerberus, and Wrex is helping him back—it’s not a bad injury, we’re okay, but we’re on our way back, with our, uh, finding.” 

“…Descriptive,” Garrus deadpans. 

“Listen, I cannot begin to actually describe what we found, because it’s impossible!” Tali retorts. 

“How many impossible things have you done with Shepard since you’ve known her?” Thane asks. 

Tali doesn’t respond, making Garrus chuckle (politely off the comms). Liara, however, reports in, sounding very breathless. “Could someone please get Dr. Chakwas to prep the medbay?” 

“Are there goddamn injuries or not?!” Jack demands. 

“Screw this, I’m gonna go fetch them and their mystery cargo myself,” Zaeed grumbles and saunters off in the direction of the dig site. “If Shepard’s bleedin’ like a stuck hanar again and swearing up and down she’s fine, someone better yell at her. Ain’t gonna be me this time.” 

“I’m fine, Zaeed. Actually fine. Thank you for your concern,” Shepard flatly announces over the comms. Zaeed barks a laugh before disconnecting again. 

“Are we taking turns yelling at Shepard for sustaining injuries?” Thane asks. 

“Isn’t that why she’s mad at you and Jack?” Joker asks in return. 

“No, I took advantage of her trust. Jack is trying to assault Omega as a one-woman team.” 

“I could take Aria!” Jack insists. 

“You could at least pin her down for a clear shot,” Garrus agrees. 

Thane sighs, rolling his eyes, and tracks incoming Cerberus shuttles through his scope. They’ll likely arrive before the ground crew returns, but this is hardly the most difficult position to hold. Jack and Garrus alone could probably do it. (Mordin and Legion have since abandoned the idea entirely, returning aboard to their own tasks.) 

Suddenly, Zaeed’s shouted swear bursts over the comms. Thane turns on reflex, pointing his scope in the direction he’d left, and to his relief, he can see the ground team in the distance. Zaeed’s large figure is staggering back from a knot of others, strangely shaped. 

“Can someone help us drag Zaeed back for Chakwas?” Shepard very wearily requests. 

“The hell is going on over there?” Garrus demands. He’s standing on top of the shuttle, heedless of the target that makes him, likewise looking through his scope in their direction. “Shepard, are you carrying someone?” 

“Well, Wrex has Grunt, but Liara’s helping here, because this is a really weird situation.” 

“They’ve got a goddamn monster they’re hauling back!” Zaeed hoarsely shouts. “Fucker about knocked me flat. The hell were those, biotics?” 

“We think so,” Liara breathlessly replies. “He almost knocked out Grunt with similar ease.” 

“No he didn’t!” Grunt growls. 

Liara continues as if he hadn’t spoken. Wrex’s chuckle is audible in her connection. “We’re doing the best we can to stabilize and restrain him, but it’s a, well, difficult situation. And heavy.” 

“C’mon, Liara, use those little stick arms!” Shepard jokes and Wrex’s laugh is even more obvious this time. 

“Shepard, I will loose him on you,” Liara pants. 

“What do you have?” Garrus demands. 

Thane looks at the slumped form on Shepard’s back, half of the body encased in Liara’s blue biotics, noting armor that seems somehow… familiar. He’s only seen it stylized, but it’s very common in art on Kahje. The dark navy crest is also familiar. Hanar art is more about the impression of something rather than realistic depiction, but it’s everywhere, has surrounded him for years, and difficult to miss the connections right now, considering what this mission had entailed.

“Is that a Prothean?” Thane has to ask. 

“Aww, there goes the surprise,” Shepard sighs. 

Chapter Text

Only Dr. Karin Chakwas could look at a hostile, probable Prothean patient and simply grin and bear it. Shepard stands by and watches the good doctor work. 

Grunt and Zaeed had been thrown around by suspected biotics—or the ancient equivalent thereof, because it had been a green light, nothing at all like what Liara had wrapped him in the moment he’d lashed out—so Zaeed has a fractured rib and Grunt has some minor bruising (and significantly bruised pride). Tali had never approached; Liara and Shepard had subdued the very woozy Prothean by force but otherwise got by. 

They know the probable Prothean (he has to be, right?) is a male thanks to the stasis pod he’d been sealed in. They actually know a lot about him. Between basic formatting rules and Liara and Shepard’s cobbled-together Prothean knowledge, they could read most of the attached information, and downloaded all of it to parse through later. An entire database of Prothean personnel details, plus everything else the VI could give them on the program’s intended purpose. 

But the anthropological implications alone. 

No wonder Liara had yet to leave his side. It isn’t simply a matter of safety. (And knowing all this, Shepard doesn’t really blame her for screaming when she’d realized what she’d found, even if it had scared the hell out of her at the time.) 

“Evajen Javik,” Liara says, their translators refusing to even begin to tackle Prothean. 

The Prothean’s four eyes slide over to Liara. He has settled since coming aboard the Normandy, no longer lashing out at anyone approaching, though Shepard had only allowed Liara in the medbay with them out of an abundance of caution. (There is a significant number of very curious onlookers pressed against the windows. Mordin’s breath fogs the glass at the locked door.) 

“We to you harm are not,” Liara says in Prothean. Shepard can only mostly understand it if spoken. At least spoken by things outside of her dreams. 

“Your accent is atrocious,” the Prothean replies. 

Chakwas rubs her ear. She circles her latest patient with steady and careful movements, nothing sudden, and keeps her scanner a safe distance from him. “I hope you understood that, Commander,” she mutters. 

“I did, actually,” Shepard says. “Can you understand me?” She can’t speak Prothean, that’s for sure. 

The Prothean doesn’t respond, eyes still fixed on Liara. Shepard is going to take that as a no. 

“I believe evajen is a rank or title,” Liara murmurs, mostly to herself, “so your name—Javik name is?” 

“Who are you?” he demands with hissing ire. His voice is deep, something else thrumming beneath his words like a turian’s would, and if Shepard has to deal with another hot voice on board, she’s going to riot. And Garrus will probably riot, too. Solidarity. 

“Response long is,” Liara replies. “Please—patience.”

“Well, Commander, I can concretely tell you that this is an alien being with no known database matches,” Chakwas says. She takes a careful step away. “I can only make educated guesses, but they’re acting disoriented, based on the unsteady movements, and if they’ve been in a stasis pod truly for so long, there will be a slew of other physiological responses to watch out for.” 

“He’s a male Prothean, according to his file—let me send over what we’ve found,” Shepard says and shuffles over to Chakwas (also giving the Prothean a wide berth). She shows her the omnitool screen with the personnel file of the one they’d just rescued. The sole survivor.

Chakwas rewards Shepard with a very flat expression. “Commander, I cannot read Prothean.” 

“Oh. Right. Well, uh, Liara says this first part is a rank, and his name is probably Javik, and he’s two hundred and thirty-eight years old, sex male, some type of marker here for some kind of genetic tag? Alright, I can hardly understand most of it, too.” 

“But you can read it,” Chakwas points out. 

“We’ll try to translate this stuff later for you.” And try to understand Prothean biology. Is he young or old or middle-aged for a Prothean, as a start? (Did Protheans have the same length of year? Ugh, probably not, but at least Liara would be likely to know that much.) How high up in the chain of command is an evajen? Were those biotics he’d been using? Mordin is probably going to have to be allowed in, as soon as they can be sure their new friend won’t assault anyone else. 

Javik. His name is Javik. 

Probably. 

Her pronunciation is probably atrocious, too. 

“What kind of physiological responses could we expect from any other organic being coming out of long-term stasis?” Liara asks, still holding her staring contest with Javik. Hopefully that’s not a sign of hostility in Prothean culture. 

Javik makes a sound like a varren about to throw up. And then he does just that, spitting sizzling, brownish bile onto the medbay floor. 

“Nausea is certainly one,” Chakwas dryly announces, “plus disorientation, lethargy, irritability, joint aches, and headaches. Those have all been recorded across the currently known sapient species. There are further common side-effects that are more species-specific, but I wouldn’t have the faintest idea where to begin with this gentleman.” 

“Uh, Liara, do Protheans spit acid?” Shepard asks. 

“I didn’t think so,” Liara replies, also eyeing the steaming bile with alarm. 

“This would hardly be the strongest stomach acid in the galaxy,” Chakwas says with a roll of her eyes. (Javik catches the gesture and bares his teeth.) “If you two will stop panicking each other, mind helping me with some water and a mop? I’ll sanitize properly later with Dr. Solus’ advice.” 

“Who are you,” Javik demands again, now glaring at Chakwas. 

Shepard steps protectively between them under the guise of handing Chakwas a bucket to fill at the sink. 

“My name,” Liara says, a hand to her chest, “Liara T’Soni.” 

“Asari,” Javik replies. 

Even Chakwas catches that one. “Did he just call her an asari?” 

Javik huffs, catching the word in her speech, too. “The blue skin is blatant and impossible to forget, asari. The two beside you—they are mhanavi?” 

“What did he just call us?” Shepard demands. 

“I, well, don’t know,” Liara admits, frowning. “A term for humans? Females? You two have a lot in common, morphologically speaking.” 

“Asari are female, too,” Shepard points out. 

Liara rolls her eyes. Javik’s attention snaps back to her. “Asari are mono-gendered, Shepard, and if this—if Javik can recognize me, then it stands to reason that he’d know that. And who even knows what the Prothean construct of gender could be like! Their language is not gendered. They have biological sexes but what little I’ve read about their culture appeared to imply that it is almost irrelevant, even within the context of breeding if you can believe that, so it is possible that they can—” 

“We can hear your academic dissertation later, Liara,” Shepard kindly interrupts, “but right now, we need to figure out a little bit more about each other. He needs to know he can trust that we won’t hurt him, and we need to know he won’t hurt us.” 

“Noisy primitives,” Javik growls. 

“Okay, that one I know was disparaging.” 

“Shepard, the dominant Prothean culture is at least seventy thousand years old. We are primitive, compared to that,” Liara reminds her. She musters a polite smile, takes a step toward Javik, and says, “My self asari is. We friends, ship share. Um, oh, this conjugation is eluding me…” 

“I don’t think grammar matters much right now,” Shepard mutters. She doesn’t know a whit about Prothean outside of what was jammed into her brain, but even she can tell that Liara’s linguistic approach is vastly different than Javik’s. They don’t need to be worrying about perfection right now. 

“You are slow, asari. Your tongues have not advanced enough to grasp our language, even in enough time for you to understand your own biotics. How much time has passed? What year is it? The land we crossed was verdant again but empty of my city. Your ship is strange and smells. Badly.” 

“It’s 2186 and tell him not to insult my ship again,” Shepard says and crosses her arms. 

Javik spares her a haughty look. “Asari, why does your mhanavi speak without your permission? Do you have no control? Your presence as leader leaves much to be desired.” 

“Does he know I can understand him?! Tell him to stop being such an asshole,” Shepard commands. 

“Please—patience. Civility. You to us proper words give?” Liara tries. 

“Why does your mhanavi act as if she can understand our words? Her simplistic pheromones become agitated and her odd expressions change upon my words, not yours, asari. What is the meaning of this? Can such a primitive creature understand my tongue?” Javik asks, with what is probably a wary tone from a Prothean. 

Shepard grins, wide and sharp. 

Javik leaps to his feet. Chakwas startles. “What is the meaning of this, asari?! You speak in broken tongues as if you have not been taught better! Your technology is foreign and too advanced! How long have my people been asleep to allow you to flail about like feral rachni on your own direction?” 

“Ooh, good, he already knows about—” 

“Shepard, not now,” Liara cuts in. 

“You will give me answers now! I tire of your primitive weaknesses!” With that as warning, Javik advances, legs strong and steady and with long strides that cross the room in a flash. None of the wobbly disorientation from before. Shepard shoves Chakwas behind her, going for her pistol, and Liara throws up a barrier.

That Javik reaches through. His green biotics fizzle through hers as if the blue light was wet paper. 

Everyone freezes when Javik very carefully touches Liara’s cheek. 

Shepard gapes. It looks like he’s cupping her jaw, almost tenderly. Certainly delicately. A deep violet blush rises into Liara’s face, but she stands stock still, eyes wide. 

Javik’s thumb trails over her chin then taps against her bottom lip. “Open,” he commands. 

Liara’s eyes dart over to Shepard and Chakwas, but after a beat, she parts her lips. Shepard just about shoots him when he presses his thumb into her mouth. This is the weirdest fucking first contact she has ever heard of. (Maybe there’d be fewer hurt feelings if this is how the humans and turians met. She ought to pitch that as a Fornax vid premise. For a fee, of course.) 

Liara looks ready to combust. Javik withdraws from her mouth, then brings both of his hands up to cup the ridges where her crest meets her jaw. That touch, too, lasts only a moment. 

“There,” Javik says, through Shepard’s translator this time, “now I can speak and understand your primitive languages. So, asari, use even half of the intelligence we gifted your race to explain to me clearly what is going on right now. Who are you, why are you with these mhanavi, and what year is it that you act and speak so differently?” 

“You’re speaking perfect Thessian,” Liara says with something like awe. 

Javik scoffs. “Of course I am. I touched and understood your tongue and aural canals to grasp what you consider language. And you are very bad at following orders, asari.” 

“Well, um, that would be because I don’t have to follow any order of yours. This is meant to be a—a conversation, a dialogue, and a lot of explanations—” 

“That I demand now!” Javik barks. 

Shepard elbows her way in. Liara’s blush may have faded, but her starry-eyed wonder has taken over all higher thought processes at the prospect of Prothean psychometry. This needs to be nipped in the bud—or at least postponed. Shepard demands, “You, be a little more polite now! We can actually talk, and we’ll give you all of the information you demand, and courteously at that, but we ask for the same—mmph!” 

Javik tries to shove his thumb in Shepard’s mouth as she’d been speaking. She bites down on reflex. 

Probably just as reflexively, Javik has her pinned to Chakwas’ desk in the space of a heartbeat. Shepard doesn’t even realize what had happened outside of registering a new soreness in her shoulder and the cold press of artificial wood under her cheek.

“Stand down,” Liara says with a voice like ice. Terrifyingly thick biotics surround both of them. In just as impressive a move as Javik’s pin, Chakwas had yanked Shepard’s pistol free in a blink and has it pointed at his head. Who knows how many guns are pointed at him through the medbay windows, too. Javik’s four eyes linger over each danger in turn. 

“You mean to tell me that this is the leader here?” he asks at last. His tone, as best as she can parse it, sounds insulted. She is insulted by his insultedness. And the pin. His hand, though about the size and shape as Garrus’, feels like a goddamn krogan standing on her back. Why didn’t Liara ever mention that Protheans had weird biotics and were jacked? That should have come up before they tried to rescue one. 

“I’m Commander Shepard,” she wheezes beneath him. 

Javik replies by sticking a finger in her ear. It is not something she had thought to put on her bucket list, having a Prothean claw in her ear, and she would not recommend it to anyone else. Not even Udina. 

“Get off me,” Shepard grouses. 

“This is a ship stinking of primitives and a human is in charge?” Javik says, finally releasing her. And finally learning what she actually is. Wait, is he no longer speaking Thessian, then? “It is little wonder that this is so undisciplined. Is this what your species calls technology?” Javik does a once-over of the medbay, then glances back at Chakwas again. 

She does not lower her pistol, but she gives him a reproachful look. “Shepard and I are both human, so you don’t need to invade my personal space as well. I’m the doctor aboard this ship, so my duty is to ensure your health and safety—only if you do not attack our crew any further.” 

“You are rational, at least,” Javik replies with a curled lip. His fangs are something. “But that small gun is hardly a threat. You are no soldier. Humans aren’t soldiers. Asari, I have remarked upon all parties present in this room, as dictated by the courtesy you demanded. Can you answer my questions already?! Even if the war has left this sector, your frivolity regarding this situation is hardly endearing.” 

“Well, which questions would you like answered first—” Liara begins but Javik whirls on her with sharp teeth bared and yellow eyes blazing. 

“Where are my people?! Why weren’t my soldiers woken with me? The entire plan was for my forces to join me against the Reapers when they least expected it—it could not have been wholly thwarted. How many years have I been asleep? Is this some small band of renegade survivors from the other primitive races you have taken upon yourself as useless charity? Who is actually in charge of the current war effort?” he fires off rapidly enough that her translator struggles to keep pace. 

“That last one would be me,” Shepard chimes in. She tries not to let her petty triumph come out in her voice, but she deserves that beautiful of an opening to regain control of this situation. “And, I’m sorry to be the one to inform you of this, but most of the rest of your questions can be answered by implication with the year—it’s 2186 CE.” 

Javik stares at her. His many eyes are a physical weight on her, but Shepard does not buckle. 

Liara clarifies, “That is our current era. The Prothean era is widely agreed to have ended roughly fifty thousand years ago. I’m sorry, but the Protheans lost the war against the Reapers. We’re in the next cycle.” 

“The end of it. The Reapers are on the way back to do the same to the galaxy’s races again right now, same as they did to your people back then. We can share with you what information we’ve recorded, as well as what we downloaded from your VI, but—” 

Again, Javik hits faster than she can react. Shepard is thrown back into Chakwas, Liara is slammed against the desk, and the locked medbay doors are blown outward with a blast of blinding green. 

Momentarily dazed, Shepard hears shouting from the mess, but she twists and helps Chakwas sit back up first. The older woman is holding her temple, and she has a bloody nose from where they knocked heads, but she waves out the broken doors of the medbay. “I’m fine, Commander. You need to go after him!” 

Liara, back on her feet, glances at them both for one worried second, then races out after their escaped Prothean. Shepard stumbles to her feet—and doesn’t make it as far, assaulted by worried crew. 

Worried crew, plus Mordin, who is already holding what appears to be a blood sample. 

“How the hell did you have time to grab that?!” Shepard demands. He grins and opens his mouth, but she shakes her head. “Nevermind, give me that answer in a bit. Which way did he go?” 

Garrus gestures down the mess hall. “He made it to the elevator and I think Liara and Legion made it in with him. Thane just made a break for the vents.” 

“He needs more than an asari chasing after him, his biotics are no joke,” Grunt growls. 

“You’re telling me. He kicks like a mule and I’ve never seen reflexes that fast,” Shepard sourly agrees. “Kelly, Joker, you’re about to have a very angry visitor on the second deck, because I think he’s going back the way we dragged him in. Put up your shields and open the airlock.” 

“You’re letting him out?!” Garrus exclaims. 

“How the hell am I supposed to keep him in here? Without breaking anything or anyone?! I’d freak out, too, if I…” Well, Shepard had freaked out, in her somewhat similar situation. She may have gotten pulled from the Lazarus project ahead of schedule, and she may have had a steep learning curve in how to use her body again, but she had mowed down anything and everything before Jacob had talked her down. Even afterward, there had been some screaming. Firefights only postpone the trauma response. She’s learned that one, the hard way, and repeatedly. (Maybe that lesson will stick one day.)

“Oh shit that is definitely an angry Prothean!” Joker shouts over the comms. “The hell did you do to him, Shepard?!” Crashing sounds and Liara’s yelling can be heard in the background. 

Shepard has rarely been so damn impatient with an elevator. Probably not since those goddamned Presidium ones during Saren-related meetings with the Council. 

“Shepard, he’s not making the beeline out like you thought he would,” Joker updates. “He got distracted by the galaxy map. EDI locked it from use, but if this guy is one of those super advanced Prothean assholes, then who’s to say he couldn’t override her?” 

The elevator dings and half the Normandy crew piles in. Shepard has never seen it so full, and she has half a mind to order people out to wait their turn, but EDI rushes the door closed and brings them upward with emergency speed. (Something Shepard really wishes she had known about as a loophole before.)

When it opens onto the CIC, they find arrested chaos. Javik stands not on the raised portion where users of the galaxy map are supposed to stand, but with one foot on the railing, the other on the table beneath it. Half his body is enclosed in the holographic display. It doesn’t move under his touch since EDI had locked it; he appears to be searching manually through the clusters and nebulae with names he wouldn’t recognize. 

Kelly, pasted against the far wall with trembling shoulders but appearing uninjured, jerks her head to where Liara stands between the distracted Javik and the door to their armory. Liara has a bruise already swelling one eye shut, her nose dripping purple, but her biotics are steady in front of her. Legion is on the other side of the CIC, blocking access to Mordin’s lab, rifle pointed precisely at Javik’s head. (He’s less than three meters away; that would be a nasty way to go, from that kind of range. She’s seen it in person before.) Shepard hopes that she not only does not have to kill the only Prothean in the galaxy, but that she does not have to clean viscera off the galaxy map. It’s something she’s avoided having to do in her colorful career thus far. She’d like to keep it that way. 

“These planets… Where are the battlefields? Where are your defensive lines? Where are the Reapers clustered currently?” Javik asks, voice strong, but probably to himself as he searches through stars. 

Shepard answers him anyway. Ignoring the various clicks of guns cocking behind her, she approaches slowly, arms spread to show she’s not visibly armed. “The Reapers aren’t here yet. There is no war with them—yet. We have cause to believe they’re coming again, very soon, but they haven’t been here in force in almost fifty thousand years. Not since they wiped out the Protheans and the rest of the galaxy’s sentient races then.” 

“I don’t believe you,” Javik replies, tone clipped. “You have hardly crawled forth from the caves you cowered and mewled in. How could I believe a human when it comes to the galaxy at large?” 

“Believe me, then,” Liara declares. “The Citadel is again the center of galactic space, and asari are the dominant race and culture.” 

(There are several dissenting murmurs, but Shepard holds up a fist, because now is not the time for politics.) 

“As was planned,” Javik mutters, “but only if my people were gone.” 

“They’re gone,” Liara tells him. 

Javik finally turns from his searching through the galaxy map, facing Liara, highlighted strangely from the holographic stars surrounding him. It makes him look even more alien; it points out the head shape, the sharp lines on his armor, the strange eyes and navy skin and unknown strength. 

“They have been gone for millennia,” Liara continues in the same hard tone brooking no further denial. “I am sorry for your loss and for what you must be going through. I’ve studied your people and culture for most of my professional life. But if you can really gain information through touch, then you know I’m not lying. You’ve already come to understand asari and humans—you know what we are currently. That doesn’t line up with your memories of us, do they?” 

Javik studies her, his eyes then flicking briefly over to Shepard. 

“If you believe you can handle it, we will allow you access to historical databases, cultural exchanges, extranet sites on current affairs, and more. But we need you to calm down and promise not to attack anyone else. We do not wish to hurt you or detain you,” Liara adds. 

Javik steps out of the galaxy map and onto the user platform. “You tell me you are not lying or tricking me, and that all of my people and my empire are dead. You then tell me to calm down, as if it were that simple to do, to only follow a command to do so.” 

Liara blanches. “Well, n-no, of course not, I mean, you are entitled to—” 

“At least asari have finally gained some strength in this cycle,” Javik growls, then leaps over the table, flies down the corridor (earning an alarmed shout from Joker), and vanishes out the airlock in a flash of pointy crimson armor. 

There is a long, weighted moment of silence as the Normandy crew collectively processes this development. 

Shepard is the one to break it. “How many Cerberus shits do you think are still alive out there? Were there any further reinforcements coming?” 

“Probably, since they figured out we accessed the Prothean tech here,” Tali replies. “Cerberus won’t be able to keep their hands off such a find.”

“Not many survivors down there right now, though,” Grunt adds. 

Shepard sighs. “Okay, then, I guess this is a sort of damage control, situation defense, and grief counseling mission, now. Grunt, Zaeed, you’re sticking by the Normandy for defense.” 

“It’s just a fractured rib!” Zaeed exclaims with wheezy anger. 

“Most people would gladly want to sit out in that case! Do you know how many fractured or broken ribs I’ve had that I wish I could say ‘hey, I have this injury, can I tag out?’—too many!” Shepard snaps back. “Liara, if you’re up for it, I need you, Tali, and Legion down at the site downloading everything you can. If you can wipe it after, even better, because I’d rather not destroy everything to keep it out of Cerberus hands.” 

“We will do our best to fulfill that request, Shepard-Commander, despite the unknown technologies involved,” Legion replies. 

“From what I saw, it follows most logical processes, thankfully,” Tali says, and Legion nods. “And Liara can translate the VI interface for us. It’ll take awhile, but we could probably figure it out, Shepard.” 

“Garrus, Jack, Wrex, you’re with them, and give them as much time as they need. Don’t let anyone else near that,” Shepard orders. 

“You’ve gotten used to bossing me around again, Shepard. Nice to return to old times, huh?” Wrex replies with a grin. “Aside from the little angry human, Drugari’s friend, it’s just like it used to be. And your geth pet. That one’s new, too.” 

“And since I’m coming along, it’s even better!” Jack declares. 

“This is far more tech-savvy than the SR1 ever was,” Garrus points out. “No offense, Tali, but you’ve come a long way. No more fumbling with decryptions and watching Shepard try to shoot electronic locks off.” 

“Hey! I only tried that once, and it worked, didn’t it?!” 

“Because you blasted a hole in the container,” Wrex replies. 

Shepard rolls her eyes at all of them. Let them have their nostalgic field trip, she doesn’t care, so long as they can scrape what they can from the Prothean site. “Mordin,” she says, and Mordin pops up at her elbow, vibrating with excitement, and almost making her wish she wasn’t about to invite him along to get to know Javik better. “You and Thane are with me. If Javik didn’t immediately head for the stasis pod we hauled him out of, then we have to track him down, and I hope we won’t have to subdue him.” 

Down the walkway, Shepard finds Thane standing guard by Joker, both of them behind the shields. Joker only drops them when she approaches. “What’s your plan for this, exactly?” Joker asks with his usual shrewdness. “Are we going to kidnap a Prothean if he doesn’t want to come quietly? I get that we don’t want him to get kidnapped by Cerberus, of all things, but it’s also not like we can give him a ride to the Citadel and drop him off to go about his merry, Prothean life again.” 

“When I have a plan, Joker, you’ll be the first to know,” Shepard deadpans. No, she does not have a plan on how to handle a grieving survivor of a fifty thousand year past war who has already tossed her and several of her hardest hitters around like they were rag dolls. And she will not turn loose such a person on Eden Prime, either; the colony has been through enough. 

Her only real plan is to react to whatever Javik says or does. She’ll try to remain calm, be rational and helpful, and… talk to him, she supposes. 

“I’m no longer grounded?” Thane politely asks as he files out after she and Mordin. 

“Worst case scenario, I need someone who can probably take him out quickly, at distance or close range,” Shepard admits. 

“Probably?” Thane asks, frowning, while Mordin snickers at his expense. 

“He pinned me in a second, threw Grunt on his ass, almost broke Zaeed, and ripped through Liara’s biotics like they were tissue paper. I know you’re the best assassin in the galaxy, Thane, but I’m going to say probably on this one.” 

—

The only two pieces of good news are that Cerberus reinforcements have not arrived en masse yet and that Javik did not head immediately for where they dug him out of the ground. Her squad locks down the dig site with time to spare before Joker announces the Cerberus-labeled shuttles jetting over from wherever they’d set up shop. (Another thing to add to her ever-growing list: clear out Cerberus base on Eden Prime.) 

Shepard, Thane, and Mordin catch up with him hardly a kilometer away from the Normandy—in the opposite direction of the ruins, away from the Cerberus bodies littering the ground, and with the main colony’s skyline only a distant, jagged outline on the horizon. 

Javik kneels below a large tree with draping, sage-green leaves. Another wheat field lies to their left and a dirt road with ancient fencing separates them. Lush, long wild grasses sway with the same breeze that makes the golden wheat shimmer. Strange bird-like creatures dart by overhead. 

Javik does not react when they approach. 

“This planet, we call it Eden Prime. It’s been colonized by humanity,” Shepard says, loudly, to announce her presence. As if Javik hadn’t already heard them. “They found a Prothean beacon here, a few years ago. Did your people utilize this planet for a lot?” 

“This had been a stronghold for our army,” Javik dully replies. She’s glad to get him talking. And glad that he sounds calm—well, dead inside, but calm, too. Silver linings. Beats having another fight on her hands. “Look at it now.” 

Shepard does look. 

Eden Prime had worked hard to rebuild itself after Saren’s attack. She knows, viscerally, what it is like to look upon a colony that had to rebuild itself after tragedy, and as with everything else it does, Eden Prime holds itself up as a shining example. Infrastructure had been easiest to replace. (It always is.) But the boom in construction had led to expansion, too, and the colony stubbornly remains on its upward slope, with its economy, population, and exports being dragged up, too. 

“Humans are hardy. This place had been attacked, brutally, once.” She does not reference her own hand in stopping it, or that she had been one of those who had touched the beacon that had started said brutality. 

“There are no scars from war here,” Javik scoffs. He finally turns, just halfway, glancing backward with two of his eyes, scanning over Mordin and Thane. Shepard studies his odd profile in turn. (He looks nothing like the statues on Ilos; hadn’t those been Protheans?) “More primitives. You brought with you akribhak and smiriyaa. I saw more on your ship. Are you running a zoo?” 

“Fascinating, use of known languages absorbed—psychometric absorption?—but knowledge and terminology confined to only those,” Mordin remarks. Javik’s eyes narrow before he returns his gaze to the tree. 

Mordin starts forward, but Shepard catches him by the back of the lab coat. “Not so fast, doctor. We’re here for discussion, not dissection.” 

Mordin glances back at her. “Know a thing or two about war, loss, horrors of morality. Know even more about what lack of information and context can do to a person. Wanted to offer salarian knowledge—language, history, whatever else he can glean from touch. Peace offering. Gesture of friendship. Salarians can do that much, even if historically rare.” 

Shepard releases him, chagrined. “Oh. Uh. Good to—I mean, uh, go for it. Javik, could you understand any of that just now?” 

“Squeaky little akribhak,” Javik growls. “That much has not changed, though they are nominally more bipedal now. You called this one doctor? Your standards are distressing.” 

Shepard tries to maintain a polite facade, even if Javik isn’t looking at her currently. “Dr. Mordin Solus, my comrade here, is one of the most brilliant people I know. He creates scientific breakthroughs that would astound you in his spare time. I actually don’t know how many areas of knowledge qualify as his specialty anymore, because I’ve never found anything that stops him for more than a moment.” 

Mordin beams at her, then falls to his knees beside Javik. “Flattery appreciated, Commander, but already known. Javik, your name, correct?” 

Javik turns to Mordin at the sound of his name, eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, but the fact that he hasn’t started glowing green yet is promising. (Though it’s possible that he does not register Mordin as much of a threat as he is, considering his condescending tone.) 

To Shepard, Javik asks, “What is this thing doing?” 

“Trying to offer you his language as a kind gesture. If you’d prefer, we can give you one of the universal translators that we all use, too, although they won’t work with Prothean, so you’d still have to speak one of the languages you pulled from me or Liara.”

“It does not sound very universal if it does not understand Prothean,” Javik flatly retorts. 

“That may be true, and we’ve actually run into a few other languages recently it doesn’t cover, but the Prothean race has been considered extinct for over fifty thousand years. I’m sorry to repeat that so bluntly, but it’s true. Liara’s an archeologist and a nerd—that’s the only reason she knows a bit of Prothean.” 

“She is an asari, not a nerd, whatever that is.” (Shepard would laugh in other circumstances. She may have to later, when recounting that beautiful line to Liara.)

Javik slaps Mordin’s hand away from him, fist flashing green, but at least Mordin doesn’t get thrown or crushed or splattered or any other gruesome thing for his daring. “Fascinating concept, evolution of touch as vector for information intake, quite curious—is it only in the hands?” Mordin swipes for his hand again. Javik bares his teeth and wrenches his hand back. “Must have incredible control as to prevent inundation with useless circumstantial information. Sensory overload if no control method. Very curious what sort of method. Filtering system? Conscious use only? Strictly limited to body part touched?” 

(In just about any other situation and company, Shepard may have been tempted to make a vulgar joke about that last part. And then, of course, she has to wonder the same question herself.) 

“In the interest of cooperating, I am restraining myself, but my patience is being tried,” Javik snarls. “Back away at once, squeaky akribhak!” 

“Salarian,” Mordin corrects—without stopping his grabbing in the least. 

“Okay, Mordin, seriously? The language barrier is only one-way. Keep your hands to yourself and back away from the pissed Prothean if you don’t want to get both of us mad at you,” Shepard tells him. 

“Please convey my offer to share language ability with him again,” Mordin replies at once. 

She rolls her eyes to the bright sky. Javik’s patience isn’t the only one being tried. “Javik, to be clearer, Mordin is offering you the same touch-information-share-thing that you pulled on me and Liara—without asking, like he is, I might add, which is rude at best in current society—and really wants to ask you questions once he can converse with you. Do you consent?” 

“No,” Javik deadpans. 

Mordin sucks in a gasp, utterly scandalized at the notion of someone not wanting to share in scientific discovery—but then, as usual, he is not dissuaded for very long. “Fine then, can speak in rudimentary Thessian, Prothean. Cannot ignore me now. How does your psychometry sense work? Is it only through your hands? How do you filter out extraneous information? Do you consciously switch between languages absorbed? How does mind processes new language acquisition, keep languages separate, grasp previously unknown terms? Basic grasp of new phonemes included, or learned rapidly upon first use? Muscle memory for speaking included in informational transfer? What of regional dialects or accents? How individualized is information taken?” 

She doesn’t even realized he’d switched languages until Javik’s increasingly horrified expression processes. (She also doesn’t think anyone rattling off questions like his as having a rudimentary grasp on a foreign language, especially one as convoluted as Thessian, but she has long ago learned not to argue with Mordin on trivial matters such as when the hell he’d had the time to learn all this shit.) 

(It’s probably for the best that salarians don’t live as long as asari or krogan, because Mordin Solus, given a millennium, would become a terror best never known or acknowledged.)

“We appreciate your cooperation, and in due time, you will learn to be endeared by Mordin’s enthusiasm for discovery,” Thane says, breaking into Mordin’s ongoing chatter when he stops to take a breath. 

“Cooperation? We haven’t gotten that far yet!” Shepard hisses at Thane. Isn’t that vocalizing too much hope? 

“How dare you assume my intentions,” Javik hisses in a matching tone. 

Mordin and Thane both shrug, eerily matching. “Would be most logical assumption, already implied,” Mordin says. “Best-case scenario for all parties.”

“We do not mean to assume your intentions,” Thane quickly corrects, “but your intentions were clear. You asked who the leader of the forces against the Reapers were and confirmed that it is Commander Shepard. You’ve already said you have interest in cooperating and have ceased hostilities against her crew, even in a situation that is, frankly, annoying.” 

Mordin hums and doesn’t disagree that he’s being annoying. “Reaper forces inbound again. Too late, far too late, to save Protheans, but still time to save current cycle. Isn’t that what you are interested in?” 

“You assume much of my generosity,” Javik growls at them. 

“But not of your desire to seek revenge on the Reapers. You’ve been told the Reapers are gone and you have never once considered this peace,” Thane replies. 

Shepard grabs his arm and wants to shake him. She nobly refrains, but her grip remains tight. “Grief response! Trauma response! There are bigger things to worry about when you’re told that your entire race got wiped out! Didn’t Kelly’s stuffy shrink talks post-Bahak process at all?!” 

Javik scoffs, loudly, and shakes Mordin off one last time, before rising to his full height again. “This one, I assumed you kept around for his scientific mind,” Javik says, nodding down at Mordin, who beams, “but I had assumed until now that you kept the other one around for breeding purposes. Not that any amount of genetic advancement could allow such primitive races to breed successfully, but even I know the use of stress relief in wartime.” 

Shepard releases Thane and starts to advance on Javik, but now it’s Thane’s turn to seize her arm and restrain her. She doesn’t care if he’s the last goddamn Prothean, no one gets to assume that she keeps her crew around for anything except their skills. Skill outside of bed. No one’s ever actually accused her of playing favorites, but it remains a private concern of hers.

“But I see now that you have surrounded yourself with those of a similar shrewdness and usefulness. Still a zoo full of primitives, but at least they have more than one use each,” Javik smoothly continues. He ignores how Thane strains to keep Shepard from being rash. (So does Mordin, who is trying to grab Javik’s hand again. Javik is going to end up with salarian biological knowledge at this rate, whether he wants it or not.) 

“Crew full of surprising skills, very varied resumes, quite useful in crises, and, apparently, Reaper war preparations,” Mordin remarks. 

“…What preparations could you primitives have possibly made?” Javik demands with an arm thrown wide at the idyllic countryside surrounding them. 

“We’ve already killed one Reaper and prevented the Citadel from being taken again,” Shepard snaps back. She unkindly does not point out that it had been Prothean help that had allowed them to save the Citadel and keep it from invasion. “And they’re not even here yet! We have the location of their entry point, will have estimations of their numbers soon, and a timeline to expect them.” 

“Then at least this cycle heeded our warnings,” Javik mutters. 

Shepard and Thane exchange a glance, because the galaxy most certainly has not heeded Prothean or Shepard-related warnings. But that seems like a bad idea to mention now. “Well, we’re doing the best we can,” Shepard diplomatically says instead. “And we were en route to discuss another alliance when we got the call about, well, you. There are others who would use Prothean technology for their own gain, or infighting when we can’t afford it, not to mention what less-than-friendly organizations could do to a living Prothean.” 

“I do not like that designation.” 

“Okay, sorry, that was on me—” 

“You think this is a life I have returned to?!” Javik continues with his lip curled. “I have been informed that my people, my empire, my cycle, are dead and my enemies are not vanquished. What sort of living is this?!” 

“Would you rather be dissected? Can arrange that,” Mordin suggests. 

Shepard stomps over and finally tears the doctor away from his would-be specimen. Maybe Javik is not quite as annoyed with his flippancy as his huffing and puffing would let on, and maybe Javik appears to be a little more inclined to help with the war effort than Shepard wanted to initially believe. But she doesn’t want to press a grieving man into service if he doesn’t really want to help. 

“This is not a life,” Javik adds. “This is revenge. This is vengeance. This is a continuation of the war the Reapers believe that they won. There is no life here, only that remaining purpose.” 

“Alright, so you are willing to join the war effort. Good to know,” Shepard replies, unable to help her surprise from showing. (Maybe he doesn’t recognize human emoting yet.) 

“Will need full physical examination to ascertain how best to approach Prothean-related medical treatment with Dr. Chakwas,” Mordin says at once. 

Shepard opens her mouth to shut that down, but Javik beats her to it. “Do not pretend with me that you have not been scraping scale samples the entire time you have been endeavoring to catch my hands. And do not think I forgot about the blood sample you have already taken from me.” 

“We will need to know roughly how to treat you, you know, in case things happen? Things that tend to happen during bloody and violent and uphill wars?” Also, everyone else aboard, even Jack and Grunt, had already submitted to a Mordin-sponsored full physical. Fair is fair. 

“This ground is very flat,” Javik replies. 

“It’s a human saying.” Oh no, she’s still teaching her non-human crewmates certain human phrases she hadn’t been able to train herself out of. Now she gets to do this with a man who’s been in stasis for fifty thousand years with zero cultural context of anything going on right now. 

“Primitive.” 

She can tell that that is going to be a thing with him. She can’t fix his personality, especially as it could be an aggression response amplified by grief (Shepard thanks Kelly mentally for all of the psycho mumbo-jumbo she’s shoved down her throat the past couple weeks), but at least she’ll warn everyone else. If he gets hit by Wrex or Grunt for being rude, that’s his fault. At least it doesn’t look like it will kill him in one blow. 

“If I bleed, apply pressure,” Javik flatly informs them. “If I suffer wounds worse than that can help, then let me die for my failures. That is all the medical knowledge you need to know about me or my people.” 

“Were krogan descended from Protheans somehow? The resemblance is uncanny,” Thane remarks, and it takes her a moment to recognize the joke. She elbows him in the side with an attempt at hiding her grin. 

Javik doesn’t respond to him directly this time, looking over their small interaction with open disdain. Instead, he says, “I will show your primitive engineers how to properly access the VI and its contents for the stasis program you broke me out of. Terribly, and it is only with great luck you did not break things. I assume by your lack of concern that the firefight in the distance is inconsequential.” 

Shepard had hardly noticed the gunfire. “Oh, yeah, don’t mind that. My team can handle mopping up some reinforcements.” 

“Why do you shoot at other soldiers if they are not indoctrinated?” 

Thank god that part already translates, she notes to herself, because that was a mess of terminology she didn’t want to get into with him. “They think they’re our enemies and priority right now, instead of the Reapers. Incredibly long story short, I worked with their organization for a time, never liked them, then stole their best ship—when they rebuilt it as a present for me and my pilot—all the resources I could get my hands on, and decided to go my own way.” 

“You have the superior military force, then?” Javik asks and Shepard nods. “Then why do you not subsume this other organization to bolster your own forces? They still have useable resources, correct? Obviously, personnel.” 

Shepard laughs. Javik does not. “Oh, you’re serious! Yeah, no, there are bigger things on my plate—on my list to do—right now than pick more of a fight with Cerberus.” 

“It is not picking a fight, it is growing your own power so you can best fight the Reapers. Do you not understand how strong they are? How easily they will wipe out the weaker species and planets?” 

Shepard claps Javik on his large, thickly-armored arm. “Yeah, we’ll revisit that one later, when we’re not digging up frozen Protheans and trying to play defense with unknown tech vaults. And when I don’t have to go talk to a whole room full of Mordins to figure out what they want in exchange for an alliance.” 

Javik glances back at Mordin with all four eyes. “That one is not an outlier?” 

“He is,” Thane replies, and Javik nods, like he understands him this time. “But his race is notorious for equal fervor in demanding what they want. We are still early in our preparations; there are a lot of political traps to sidestep before we can amass our full amount of power.” 

“Weak! You crush those who oppose you, use the parts you can, and assimilate those you can into your own empire for your use. How else do you propose to win a war such as this?!” 

“Siha, I believe we may be gaining significant insight into how the Prothean empire operated,” Thane says. “You may wish to warn Dr. T’Soni. And please, do not take his advice overmuch while there are still other options to pursue.” 

Javik doesn’t respond this time. 

“You’re switching languages, aren’t you?” Shepard suspiciously demands in a whisper. 

“Useful for avoiding further aggression from one who does not wish to share,” Mordin replies. Javik, again, does not react outwardly to his words. So they’re both doing it. Pity she and Liara had already given that up.

Thane smiles, mild and mysterious, and takes Shepard’s hand in his. “It is useful in its simplicity, until we can ascertain how much he can be trusted. And his own fault, really. Until he wishes to share, we cannot force him, and ought to take advantage instead.” 

“We need to at least trust him enough to get that Prothean data from his stasis project site,” Shepard replies. 

That much, Javik does understand. “You think this is a matter of trust?! No. It is a matter of convenience and a matter of vengeance. You claim to be leading the galaxy’s forces against the Reapers, so you are my best choice to continue my war against them. Trust has nothing to do with this.” 

Boy, is he going to be disappointed when he sees what they’ve cobbled together. “At least he’s enthusiastic,” Shepard replies, latching yet again onto the silver lining. If only all of her prospective allies were so eager. 

—

Shepard has already dismissed Javik’s war hound tendencies as a mixture of traumatized anger and his natural personality, and while she is just now realizing that she is about to have access to the only living being who’s ever actually fought the Reapers in a war setting (except maybe the rachni; she needs to investigate that further, and how the hell Javik knew what they were), she hasn’t paid much heed to his indignant demands to take over Cerberus, claim Eden Prime as her own, and fly immediately to the Citadel to claim their resources, too. 

He is going to be very disappointed when he discovers the exact details of their current situation. 

And he’s going to have a hell of a steep learning curve when it comes to the political bullshit they’re dealing with now, too. If he doesn’t already realize it, she isn’t certain how to explain no, they can’t just conquer the known galaxy with one ship and a handful of experts and create a unified war front from that. Hell, even after the Reapers appear, they probably won’t have a fully unified war front. Too much bad blood, politics, and assholes looking to get ahead for much hope of that. 

But as they’re cheerfully wiping out the outpost Cerberus had set up about fifty kilometers out in the wilderness of the planet who doesn’t deserve this repeated trauma, Shepard realizes that Javik may have a point. Maybe. 

She realizes this when two men in full Cerberus gear lower their guns with an exclamation of, “It’s Shepard!” 

Shepard herself falters at this stunning turn of events. One of their comrades is dead at her very feet right now. This is an active battlefield. No one else has stopped shooting, that’s for damn sure, and she probably shouldn’t have stopped, either. 

The Cerberus soldier steps forward, assault rifle still pointed downward. Her eyes remain locked onto that sight. How long has it been since someone has approached her in peace? “We shouldn’t be fighting you, you’re—” 

His head explodes in a spray of blood and gore. It splatters her already dirtied armor. 

“Traitor!” a centurion roars and shoots the other one who’d lowered his weapon, too. 

Then the centurion’s head, too, explodes from a well-placed sniper shot. 

Garrus’ voice crackles over her comms and from the gunfire coming in from both their connections. “Shepard, what are you doing, letting them get close like that? Are you okay? I know you’re trying out the new omniblade tech that we grabbed from Spectre requisitions, but I don’t think now’s the best time, when we’re still in the ‘swarming’ phase of these panicking little shits.” 

Shepard doesn’t respond for a long moment, despite the obvious concern in his dual tones.

Jacob had told her about good people, who believed in her and her ideal of humanity, who still remained in the organization. 

Then why do you not subsume this other organization to bolster your own forces?

They have only just met, but Shepard thinks she may become very close friends with Javik very quickly. Maybe he shouldn’t be as quickly dismissed as she had initially assumed. 

Now, however, is not the time. Eden Prime does not deserve to become another charred battleground, and even if there were so-called traitors within Cerberus ranks, it’s clear they’re a small minority. There are very possibly standing orders to execute dissidents, based on that centurion’s quick response. No one else hesitates to shoot at her, so she doesn’t hesitate to shoot and stab and murder right back. 

They spend the afternoon wiping Cerberus’ outpost off of Eden Prime’s map. Javik shows Tali—after many disparaging remarks about her needing an envirosuit, all of them directed to Liara—and Legion how to scrape everything they can then wipe the Prothean systems. He doesn’t hesitate in telling them to destroy the remains, either. No one dares ask what Prothean funerary rites may be. Javik doesn’t appear to care much for the dead. 

None of the Cerberus reinforcements made any real break to take back the Normandy, which is nice, but Shepard doesn’t trust it. If given the chance, the Illusive Man would go after her ship; the Prothean technology just happened to be the greater prize today. 

“Asari, tell the unknown thing—quarian?—that her VI assistant is surprisingly sophisticated. And perhaps more helpful in this endeavor than I would have assumed by the archaic technology I have otherwise seen your soldiers use,” Javik says as they file back toward the Normandy. 

Tali chuckles nervously. Liara sighs, long and wearied, as she has multiple times already when Javik had directed his remarks to her alone. “Uh, yes, my VI is very, uh, sophisticated,” Tali creakily replies, though she is one of the ones who cannot speak directly to Javik. (Still, he shouldn’t be looking to Liara like she’s the boss and/or translator. Liara obviously shares this opinion.) 

All eyes are either on Liara, who has just visibly realized what Javik had said, or Shepard, who is actually the boss in this situation, even if she does not want to do the No, AIs Are Not Actually Evil, And This One Specifically Is My Friend, In Fact song and dance right now, on top of everything else that had happened today. 

“We are not a VI, nor Creator Tali’Zorah’s assistant, though we were able to assist her in this task today,” Legion replies. Thankfully he is also not understood by Javik. Shepard doesn’t know what language Legion is actually speaking, but it has been translated faithfully by her translator thus far, so it must be some sort of galactic standard. Quarian, maybe? What’s theirs called again?

“Shepard, are there going to be concerns about Javik’s response to AI beings in his proximity?” EDI asks from the airlock intercom. 

“God, I hope not,” Shepard mutters. 

“Your primitive prattle bores me. I will take nutritional supplements and a spot to rest,” Javik decrees. 

“You know, when you refused to submit to a medical screening, part of that was to figure out your baseline nutritional needs,” Liara tiredly informs him. 

“I require ten poshai per day and can fight effectively on six for up to a week,” Javik waspishly replies. “There is no way I can eat any more than one of you asari, much less the large saanh.” He waves dismissively at Wrex behind him. 

“He’s got a point—no way that skinny little pyjak can eat as much as a krogan,” Wrex replies. (Nevermind the fact that Javik is probably one of the more muscular of her crew; neither krogan have been particularly endeared to his personality and have freely let this show since he refuses to take their language, either.) 

Liara sighs. Tali pats her shoulder in commiseration. “We don’t know what sort of unit that is, Javik. More importantly, we do not know if you are dextro- or levo-based, because races in our cycle have evolved in those two primary ways, and have very different needs. We have both kinds of food available, and many different types of flavors and nutritional profiles.” 

“You do not use your foodstuffs to create nutrient-dense blocks?” Javik asks with another scoff. “Wasteful! You will learn, if your cycle lasts that long.” 

Shepard lets others file past her, further into the ship, until she can catch up with Mordin. “Hey, so since you already took some samples—” 

“Levo-based amino acid makeup, such as salarian and human,” Mordin supplies. 

“Thanks. Liara, he’s like us! Go ask Gardner to feed him some of the good chocolate, he’ll brighten right up then.” 

“We’re wasting fucking chocolate on this prick?! Shepard, I’ll follow you through the fire, but I’m drawing a goddamned line here!” Jack snarls. 

Unlike the two krogan currently aboard, Javik can understand Jack. He does not appear to like her much; she, of course, hates him with vitriol Shepard hasn’t seen from her in some time. 

“I don’t know what a chocolate is, but now I am prepared to eat it out of spite for the loud one’s squealing,” Javik thinly replies. Garrus and Wrex haul Jack back from full assault. (Jack has Liara beat in the biotic area; Javik had Liara beat. They have not gotten the chance to see what Jack versus Javik could do, but Shepard would like to avoid that, because she likes her ship and her squad in one piece, thank you very much.) 

“I say let them fight it out. Maybe then he’ll figure out what the hierarchy really is,” Grunt grumbles. 

“Oh? And what do you think the hierarchy is, Grunt?” Shepard asks with wry amusement, because the galaxy will be ending before she gives up a chance to tease her favorite krogan. (Damn, she should have trotted that one out to Wrex and his stupid favorite remarks.) 

Grunt holds one hand up high. “This is you, at the top, battlemaster. We’re ignoring Wrex because he’s old and no longer officially part of this crew, even if he’s an Urdnot battlemaster, too. He doesn’t get a spot in the ranking.” 

“Don’t make me throw the Prothean at you, kid,” Wrex calls over. 

Grunt lowers his hand a bit. “This is me, below you, because I am the perfection of the entire krogan race. Liara is also here, as she wields considerable power now, so I guess we can’t ignore her and her squishy blue body anymore.” 

Oh, this is already great. Shepard grins. At the sound of her name, Liara turns from where Feron is trying to wipe the dried blood off her face. (No one has left the CIC, because Chakwas has met them here, and no one wants to leave in case Javik starts more shit. Of the physical altercation or the drama kind.) 

“Are we measuring this in relation to you, or strict hierarchy?” Grunt asks with a suspicious pause. 

“Oh, I don’t care, give me your best bet here. Your choice,” Shepard replies with much delight. 

“Okay, then the assassin gets to be here, along with Jack, Urz, and the geth,” he says. He moves his hand noticeably lower than the first two parts. 

Shepard bites her lip to stop herself from laughing. “The assassin has a name. And Garrus isn’t up there with him?” 

“Garrus is second lowest, because he’s a turian and needs to learn that no one else cares that he got a promotion in your military power ladder shit,” Grunt growls. Shepard can’t help but burst out laughing, which is worsened by Garrus’ annoyed shout. 

“Grunt, I’m really—really glad you’re not the one drawing up personnel orders!” Shepard wheezes around her laughter, holding onto him for a sense of stability. 

“You asked my opinion,” Grunt replies with a shrug. “And it’s the right opinion. But I guess I’ll respect yours, since you’re still in charge here.” 

“Your soldiers are highly undisciplined!” Javik all but snarls, but his actual anger, next to Garrus’ sulking, plus the fact that Grunt had his own notion of the hierarchy and he put Urz ahead of half the crew only makes her laugh harder. Her sides are going to hurt at this rate. “…Your entire ship is crazy. I see this now. Are you sure you are the ones in charge of the war effort against the Reapers?” 

“We’re the best in the galaxy,” Garrus drawls. He spreads his arm over the mixture of laughter and annoyance in the knot of crew. “Can’t you tell?” 

“Your cycle is doomed,” Javik deadpans. 

Chapter Text

Official introductions have been made, and Liara promises to compile something along the lines of How To Introduce Your Prothean To Modern Society And Its (No Longer Primitive) Races, but Shepard kind of doubts Javik will take well to any of it. They have a few days until they reach Sur’Kesh, which means Javik is left stalking the Normandy like a caged tiger—with most of her crew treating him like a tiger, too. Sure, it wasn’t the best of first impressions, but very few of them have had good first impressions. (Except maybe Zaeed. God, did Zaeed count as the best first impression of her crew? Oh no. Wait, no—Jacob was okay; Shepard appreciated running into a friendly during the chaos of her awakening.) 

Shepard catches Javik stalking through the mess at 0130 and decides that it’s best to nip this in the bud. 

“Hey, Javik, could I have a word?” Shepard calls over. 

Javik does not startle, though he gives her an annoyed look over his shoulder before he goes back to poking through the lockers lining the wall. 

“A word means like a short meeting, not a literal word,” she adds, though he had not given her even that much. “I’m not really asking, you know. You respect the commanding officer, right?” 

“If you insist that is what you are, then I suppose I must,” Javik finally replies, drawing back to his full height. Shepard is not a short woman, and she spends a great deal of her free time craning her neck to look up at a tall and handsome turian sniper, but Javik is something else. Intimidating in a wholly alien way. She hasn’t felt this daunted since meeting her first yahg. 

The mess is empty, so she pulls out a chair and gestures for him to do the same. Javik sits as stiffly as a newbie recruit during their first interview. Or maybe it’s all the armor that makes his movements so stiff. 

“So,” Shepard says, prompting, but Javik says nothing. “How are you adjusting?” 

“Your food is odd. Your crew is much like a zoo, even if they appear to be highly trained primitives. None of your crew have the decency to control their pheromones, either. Your technology is sufficient for travel. Your VI assistants are surprisingly advanced. Your weapons are odd, but sufficient to repair my own with. I assume I will be able to repair my armor, if needed, from the materials I have seen aboard your ship. I will be able to survive here,” Javik reports. 

“Informative,” Shepard replies with a tight smile. “None of the crew should bother you outright, if you don’t pick a fight with them, but pheromones are not used a whole lot anymore—at least not on purpose, and not everyone can pick it up—so you may need to grin and bear that one. Sorry. Has Mordin succeeded in sharing anything more with you?” 

Javik’s lip curls. That’s answer enough, but he responds, “No. Mercifully, he appears absorbed in other work now.” 

“And has Liara asked you for your life’s story yet?” 

“No. She, too, appears absorbed in other work.” 

“Sorry that being the last—er, only Prothean isn’t getting you more attention. I imagine you, of all people, know what sort of effort it takes to mount a war against the Reapers. I’ve been meaning to ask you about that.” 

“You should have immediately,” Javik retorts. “You are unprepared and inexperienced. I may only be one soldier, but I can provide you with much information and context you desperately need. You were wrong to not seek out further intelligence at once.” 

“Have you read over any of our proposed war prep strategies yet?” Shepard asks in return. She’s pretty sure EDI has allowed Javik into the locally accessible stuff. 

“From what I understand, you do not have a fleet and you are utilizing these krogan for ground soldiers, but in exchange for some disease cure. If they are diseased, let them perish and utilize stronger soldiers! I do not understand how you can rely solely on whatever the geth are for mining purposes, either. You claim you have time until the Reapers arrive, but you do not have enough time to subjugate enough races to mount your defense properly. And why haven’t the asari been dominating the weaker races to bolster their own power?” Javik demands. 

Shepard resists the urge to facepalm. It’s a very strong urge. “Alright, I’ll ask Liara to hurry on the explanation of the cycle’s current dominant races, so you know who’s who. That said, we aren’t going to conquer anyone. Neither are the asari. We’re forming alliances—” 

“A waste of time! You are human, and even that Cerberus organization is fighting you. You cannot even ally with your own people, so why are you bothering with talking about alliances with other species? Subsume weaker forces and gain power, because you will need far more than what you have,” Javik tells her with his sharp teeth bared. “You want to know how the Reapers will destroy you? They will take control of the Citadel first, then they will target your dominant species’ homeworld, they will spread out from there with their new armies, and then they will use corpses of your primitive zoo’s brethren to destroy the morale of anyone weak enough to let them.” 

“See, that’s helpful!” Shepard exclaims. 

Javik stares at her. Not quite taken aback, not fully, but pretty confused by her lack of being threatened by the horrors of the Reapers. (He’s sort of like a big, angry dog; if she didn’t show him that she was scared of him, he’d back off a little. Right? She hopes so.) 

“The Citadel, we knew that would be targeted, and it’s shitty because while they only have the one relay in and out, they don’t have any real defenses outside the fleet. Not Reaper-level defenses, anyway. But homeworld—we can work with that. We assumed that, too, at least eventually. So Thessia first, then. It doesn’t have many moons like Palaven, and I don’t know much about its system off the top of my head, but we’ll investigate what other planets can be used for defensively,” she says, mostly to herself. She can ask Liara about what sort of defenses the planet and system could have, too, and play to those strengths. Shepard doesn’t want to have to be thinning her own forces if native forces can defend themselves, after all, and she knows the asari have more than a few tricks up their sleeves when it comes to how they’ve maintained dominance in the galaxy. 

“You are unusually cavalier concerning the future destruction of your galaxy and cycle,” Javik points out with fresh wariness. 

“If we know where they’re going to focus on first, then we know how to defend and in what order we can prioritize more efficiently. Also, we already knew that they would turn population centers into husk farms, and we already have extensive experience fighting husks. Yes, they’re scary and demoralizing to think about, but they’re not new, at least not to my team,” Shepard explains. 

“Your team is small, confined to one ship, and has no clear chain of command.” 

“My team is the best of the best, our one single ship is the best stealth vessel in the galaxy, and the chain of command is easy—I’m in charge,” she tells him, smiling sharply. Daring him to argue. Javik wisely does not, so Shepard’s smile eases into something a little more genuine and less threatening. “So, what else can you tell me about the early phases of what a Reaper war would be like?” 

“Choose who to trust very carefully, because indoctrination will begin without warning, and do not spread yourself thin trying to save everyone. You cannot. You will not.” 

“We already know what their earliest targets will be, so we can build our first defensive line around that. That puts us at a bigger advantage. And as for the indoctrination—we know its threats,” she tells him, seriously, thinking back to Saren and Benezia. And the scare she had, less than a month ago. “We actually have a system for that, at least a small-scale one, so I know I can trust some selected others. And you mentioned the rachni before, actually.” 

Javik frowns at her, yellow eyes narrowing, but she doesn’t think it angrily this time. “The rachni were an insectoid race in my cycle. They were fierce, but more intelligent than one would believe. We harnessed their power multiple times to turn against the Reapers.” 

Alright, wild: the rachni had been around since Javik’s cycle. The rachni had fought Reapers before. True, the queen had mentioned her mothers’ memories of such things, but Shepard had thought it more of a metaphorical or mythical thing. Shepard cannot stop her grin from spreading. “Well, do I have a blast from the past for you, then. EDI, where is Shania right now?” 

“It is currently in the main battery,” EDI replies, surprising her. (If the rachni is messing around with the cannons, Garrus will never let her hear the end of it.) 

Shepard stands, glancing down the corridor to the battery. “Follow me, if you’d please, Javik.” 

Javik dutifully follows her, albeit with a very suspicious demeanor, but with no questions asked. Shepard ducks into the battery, pleased that Garrus hadn’t snuck back down to continue working, and finds the rachni curled up like a cat on the lower level, in the far corner. It doesn’t appear to be sleeping and raises its head as soon as Shepard steps down the stairs. 

Shepard watches Javik carefully for any signs of the usual yelling or holier-than-thou (or holier-than-rachni) attitude, but instead, Javik is fucking smiling. 

Please let that mean something positive with his emoting system, Shepard prays inwardly. 

The rachni stands, stretching out its bowed spine, then skitters over to Javik with a curious sound. Javik drops to one knee and offers a glowing green hand. The soldier sniffs him. “This is not one of the biotically inclined ones,” he realizes, a moment later, smile gone. “But this is a small rachni. They have not changed much in fifty thousand years…” 

“Guess you can’t improve much on peak insect race design,” Shepard replies with a shrug. “The last remaining rachni queen is one of my allies—and friend, I think. They can sense indoctrination in a case of comparison. I believe the older queens learned how to sense it in your cycle, actually, and they shared the memory down their lineage.” 

Javik glances back at Shepard, but doesn’t draw his hand away from the soldier just yet. He doesn’t go so far as to pet it or offer any sort of affection, but Shepard still considers this great progress. Someone else who doesn’t hate the rachni. Things are looking up at last. “We weaponized the rachni in many different ways in my cycle. Some were quite useful against the Reaper threat, but they are more useful in cutting through swaths of husks and smaller, ground-based threats.” 

“They have starships now.” 

“So even these primitive things have learned flight now…” Javik shakes his head, then draws back to his full height. “It is smart of you to use them for your own gain, Commander. I am pleased that you are not completely ignorant to the threat of indoctrination.” 

“Oh, trust me, I’m not,” Shepard tightly replies. 

They stay up through the night, but considering what a fount of knowledge Javik is, and how he’s actually acting like a person instead of a vessel of anger, Shepard doesn’t give a damn. 

—

Garrus had only been to Sur’Kesh once before, on what Shepard called a ‘field trip’. (Despite the name and the fact that she uses it to describe the occasional mission, it is apparently an activity for school-aged children.) The planet hasn’t changed much, even if it had been nearly half a salarian lifetime ago that he’d been here. Still verdant, still carefully manicured, still dangerous in how pretty it is. 

“Ambient temperature stands at thirty degrees. Humidity is also notably high at seventy-nine percent. Our descent has been tagged and monitored but no hostile actions detected,” EDI announces over the intercom as they come in. Their meeting location is a large scientific outpost bordering one of the southern cities, and true to their word, no government officials or planetary defense systems had objected to the Normandy’s arrival. It’s probably secret, but at least salarians know how to do things secretly (and very well at that). 

“Wrex, you ready for this?” Shepard asks him, like they both aren’t already standing at the airlock doors, looking ready to vibrate out of their hides. 

“Let’s see what those little pyjaks want. Can’t wait to hear what kind of shit they pull this time,” Wrex replies. 

“Joker, keep the Normandy warm. I don’t know how long we’ll be, but I can’t imagine it’s going to be friendly peaceful tea time down there, and if things go sour, they probably have a Spectre or two, or half the Council fleet if they’re feeling spiteful, on speed dial.” 

“Roger that,” Joker replies. 

“STG members usually enjoy resorting to spite, but only in case of unsuccessful first assault,” Mordin advises. Ah, the tried and true method of salarian warfare: strike first and without warning. Just as charming a prospect now as when Garrus had first read about it in his xenowarfare history course in school. 

“Garrus, Liara, you’re on the ground team with us. Legion, you and EDI see if you can’t poke around—secretly! As secretly as you can, I’m serious, even if you get nothing, I want absolutely nothing on the salarians’ radar—but maybe, if you can poke around, I’m sure they have a bunch of goodies,” Shepard says. No one argues with her ordering two AI to infiltrate a Council race’s intelligence network. She still glances about uneasily, anyway, as if expecting that argument.

Garrus wishes he could erase that latent concern of hers that her crew will turn on her again. But only time will heal that wound. Well, time and a lot of loud support, such as Jack has been gleefully (and aggressively) supplying. 

“This is the site of your proposed alliance with the salarians?” Javik asks, striding up in full armor. (Others may give him shit for wearing his armor constantly, but even Garrus takes it off from time to time. They’ve had confirmation from EDI that Javik sleeps in his. Or what passes for Prothean sleep.)

Shepard turns on him with a false smile. “Nope, you are staying put, Javik. I am not about to lead a living Prothean into a den of salarian scientists who are already in under-the-radar mode. They’d probably be just as pushy as Cerberus when it came to obtaining you.” 

“You think you can order me to remain here?” Javik dubiously replies. 

“Of course I can. And I am. That’s what it means to be part of this crew—I am in charge. I know you’ve been given information on our ship and crew, so you can’t play dumb with me.” 

“Javik, it’s for your safety, ours, and theirs. No one else knows you exist yet, and we’d prefer to keep it that way, since no one knows how anyone else will react to the news that a Prothean is among us again,” Liara adds. “We will have open comm links for anyone to listen into the proceedings, so don’t worry.” 

“I wasn’t worried,” Javik scoffs. 

Garrus and Thane exchange a glance. If that is what Prothean worry looked like, he’d hate to see protectiveness. “So, looks like you’re stuck here again, too,” Garrus remarks. 

“I’d rather not go out in that humid air, all things considered. And I’m certain Shepard still views me as insurance against Javik’s more aggressive tendencies,” Thane replies. 

“She did say you could probably kill him,” Garrus muses. 

“And I agree that I probably can, but I’d rather not test it. If he’s not going to make a nuisance of himself here, then frankly, I’m going to go read and likely nap. Some of us have learned when worrying is fruitful, and when things will go to shit regardless of the worrying, purely by virtue of Shepard’s presence.” 

“Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence. You really think we’re going to screw this up?” 

Thane shrugs, then pats Garrus’ hand. “No, not you. The salarians, most likely. They would only ask us to be physically here if they had something important to discuss—and what is important to salarians is rarely pleasant for other species.” 

“Solid theory, if mildly insulting,” Mordin interjects. “Consider also: need for secrecy for all involved.” 

“Then why invite us to Sur’Kesh? Your people have the advantage here, Mordin.” 

Shepard waves them over. Thane squeezes Garrus’ hand before letting him go. She announces, “Enough chit-chat, we’re getting invited in! Garrus, Liara, stay sharp. Wrex, don’t kill anyone as a greeting. Mordin, help us figure out why the hell we’re here and not skulking around Omega so Garrus can try to set up sniper shots on Aria.” 

“Aw, you’d actually let me? That’s sweet, Shepard,” Garrus says and wraps an arm around her shoulders. 

Shepard frowns, but pink rises into her cheeks, informing everyone that she liked the affection. 

“Why is your face changing colors? Is this a mating ritual?” Javik demands. 

Shepard’s face, of course, turns redder—and her scowl turns darker. “Javik, go sit your ass down somewhere else and keep your comments to yourself. No one else is allowed to leave the ship unless is is the peak of emergency situations. As in invasion or the drive core about to explode. We’ll keep broadcasting, provided their tech doesn’t shut us down, and we’ll have a debrief whenever we get back.” 

“Bring me back a salarian’s head as a souvenir!” Grunt calls as they exit the airlock. 

“Are you actually going to get him one? I know you like to spoil him, and he’d love it,” Garrus jokes, tugging Shepard against him again. 

“I hope I don’t have to. Now come on, big guy, let me go before the salarians also think this is a mating ritual.” 

“Oh, no, wouldn’t think that,” Mordin corrects. “Already quite obvious you two are in sexual relationship. Very visible markers. Aware of turian and human mating methods, far too much armor on for current mating rituals to proceed. Unimportant to task at hand, anyway, all present know that.” 

“But if they make crass comments, it’s a nice excuse to rip some heads off. You know, Shepard—for your honor,” Wrex offers. 

Shepard sighs, aggravated, and gesture with her rifle toward the open door of the complex. “Everyone, in. We’re back in business mode, not banter mode. No head-ripping until all other avenues are exhausted.” 

They aren’t asked to holster their weapons when a salarian greets them at the door. But before Garrus can take in the building’s interior, outside of a surprisingly open floor plan, he—and the others—do a double-take at their greeter. 

“Kirrahe?” Shepard asks, eyes wide. “I mean—Captain Kirrahe? Wow, imagine meeting you here!” 

“Major, actually,” Kirrahe responds with a smile. “Acknowledgement of Virmire actions—once dust settled, of course. It is good to see you too, Commander. And many other familiar faces.” 

Kirrahe pulls up short when Wrex stomps toward him. “Oh yes, I remember you, too. You’re the salarian who was so eager to blow up that genophage research outpost of Saren’s.” 

“Wrex, we’ve been over this,” Shepard warns. “Krogan slaves, had to do it, Saren was a bad guy? I almost shot you in the head over this argument? It’s old news.” 

“I just like putting salarians in their place. Reminding them exactly what they’ve done to the krogan, taken from us, and how badly we’ll fight to get it back,” Wrex replies, waving a hand dismissively. 

“Always was bit of a cloaca, don’t blame Wrex for ire,” Mordin mutters. Garrus clamps his mandibles against his face and hopes no one present could hear that thrumming chuckle. 

“Solus,” Kirrahe says. Not even Wrex’s posturing had completely erased his geniality. Yet Mordin’s presence does. Shepard and Garrus watch, shamelessly, utterly enraptured by the prospect of Special Tasks Group drama. This alone could possibly make the entire trip worthwhile. “Knew you were working with the Commander, but honestly shocked she could stand you for that long.” 

The tension breaks when both Kirrahe and Mordin smile, then clasp forearms. “Assumed friendlies in STG were known quantities, still pleased to see you here today.” 

“And it makes sense that you and the Commander found each other, considering your love for playing it fast and loose,” Kirrahe returns. 

“So you’re not going to bite each other’s faces off?” Wrex complains. “Boring. Disappointing. Back to business, then. Why are we here?” 

“He has a point. It’s not as if STG and the Normandy’s encryption processes weren’t enough to discuss whatever it is you wanted. We came a long way on faith, considering no one has told us what you wanted,” Shepard adds. “And if someone thinks that we’re going to be more agreeable because we happen to know you, Major, then I’m going to be highly disappointed. That’s not something you want going into an alliance proposal.” 

“My presence is liaison, yes, but not out of hope for nostalgic feelings. Can’t imagine Virmire would give you many pleasant feelings of nostalgia, anyway, Commander. Successful mission, but nasty business,” Kirrahe replies. 

Shepard grimaces. Liara hastens to step in. “That may be true,” she says, “but we still have a lot of questions that need to be answered here, Major. The first being—how did the STG know that we were brokering an alliance with the krogan concerning a genophage cure to begin with? We’ve had no contact with your operatives for, well, possibly since Virmire several years ago. Even as a Spectre, Shepard has rarely worked with your people directly.” 

“Aside from him?” Kirrahe replies, gesturing to Mordin. 

“Retired,” Mordin cheerily reminds him. 

Kirrahe sighs. With a wave, he leads them further into the surprisingly pretty base. Garrus wishes turian architecture were half as easy on the eyes, but then again, turian architecture was actually built to last, not to be updated with every new generation of egotistical scientists. Many of the windows are open as they pass, letting in warm air and plenty of natural light, but this floor is remarkably unstaffed. They pass only two other salarians in lab coats by the time Kirrahe is punching the button for an elevator. 

“Would’ve been the height of stupidity to assume that you weren’t working on a genophage cure,” Kirrahe finally explains. “Commander Shepard has been known to be exceptionally friendly and sympathetic to the krogan, even before Urdnot Wrex’s rise to power. And you, Solus, you’re an expert on the stuff. Probably one of our best minds still alive. With sudden pressing concerns and few allies, it’s only logical that you would turn to the krogan for help, Commander.” 

“That may be, but this timing of yours was… uncanny,” Garrus points out, prompting. 

Kirrahe shoots him an unimpressed look. “Are you doubting STG intelligence?” 

“I traded the confirmation of genophage cure and confirmation of krogan alliance,” Mordin says, completely taking Kirrahe’s air of mystery away. Garrus would find it funny, if he didn’t find it so infuriating that Mordin would do such things casually. “As Major said, STG had already assumed as much. Rather worthless information to trade.” 

“Why am I only finding out about this part now,” Shepard mutters, hand to her forehead. “Alright, fine then. Mordin, what did you trade that for?” 

“Confirmation of STG also working on genophage cure, of course.” 

“Which we are. Also a logical assumption to make,” Kirrahe adds. They’re crowded into the elevator, especially with Wrex looming over them, but Garrus would rather remove himself from Shepard’s side than ask if Wrex wanted to leave the situation to wait for the next elevator. He’s being calmer than what he probably deserves to be, but Wrex really has shaped into a decent leader and politician in these past few years. 

Not that Garrus will ever tell him that. 

“Okay, so we’re both working on the big scary illegal virus cure. Good to know. So what do you want now? Mordin told me that you’re offering resources like data, and assistants, and science-y things for him to speed up the process for him to make a genophage fix-it. He’s given me some pretty surprising timelines until full cure creation. I would’ve thought that salarians would’ve been against that? So what’s the catch, what do you want, and why are you offering,” Shepard demands. 

“Catch implies we have more power over this negotiation than we do,” Kirrahe replies, not at all deterred by her tone. 

The elevator doors open, revealing a lower floor, no longer drenched in sunlight, but with many bustling scientists and armed guards flitting about. Desks overflow with high-tech computers, datapads are scattered about on every available surface, and there are several large machines that Garrus vaguely recognizes as bigger versions of things Mordin has in his lab on the Normandy. No one looks up or bats an eye when Kirrahe leads them further inward. 

But what’s most attention-grabbing at all is not the newcomers or the scientific progress surrounding them (even though the krogan in their midst ought to be some cause for alarm, however mild, but Garrus supposes he’s not the one making that call here), but the two adjacent rooms with walls of thick but clear glass. 

And the pair of krogan enclosed in those rooms. 

“Volunteers,” Kirrahe says as soon as Wrex lifts his shotgun. “From clan Jair. I believe you know a cousin of theirs, Urdnot Wrex, since you absconded with her and turned Jair on its head. Unsettling political ramifications, but you have appeared to have averted full-scale war between your clans. So far.” 

“You think just because there’s a few dozen of you scrawny pyjaks in here with me that I’m intimidated by you? I can handle Jair. I can handle anything and everything on Tuchanka. I can handle the STG. I can handle this, whatever it turns into. But I want you to explain to me, real quick and clear and simple for my slow krogan brain, why the hell you have two females locked up in a top secret STG base on Sur’Kesh,” Wrex growls. 

“Volunteers,” Mordin reiterates before he dashes forward. He crosses the room in a flash, earning a few yelps and startled datapad drops, and Kirrahe rolls his eyes with an exasperated flutter of his eyelids. “How far along in trials?” Mordin shouts back over his shoulder. 

“It’s okay, that’s Operative Mordin Solus! Answer his questions and he probably won’t kill you!” Kirrahe calls over to the alarmed scientists swarming Mordin with guns and syringes. To himself, he mutters, “Ex-Operative, but that’s unnecessary nuance in this case…” 

“We already knew that you were offering to collaborate on a genophage cure,” Garrus points out. “Even if you have so-called volunteers, this isn’t really a revelation. I assume there’d have to be test trials at some point. So what are you really after here?” 

“Cooperation. An alliance, even if it’s covert and unofficial,” Kirrahe replies, “and, to most succinctly answer your question: control.” 

“Control? Over what?” Liara asks. 

“Control over genophage distribution.” 

Wrex, who had been halfway to the two female krogan, comes to a complete stop. Very slowly, he turns around, crimson eyes blazing. To his credit, Kirrahe doesn’t balk or turn away from Wrex’s glower. 

He does twitch, slightly, when Wrex charges back at him with his shotgun raised. He stops right in front of Kirrahe, the end of his barrel maybe a hand’s width from Kirrahe’s big eyes, and Garrus cringes with sheer historical instinct away from the deep, dark growl Wrex releases. 

“No,” Wrex snarls. 

“You haven’t asked me for any clarifications or details as to what that might mean,” Kirrahe says with a blink. His impassive expression is damn impressive, but his darting eyes gives away the nerves he’s feeling at Wrex’s abrupt and feral anger. 

“And you haven’t asked me to lower my shotgun. See, we’re both smart here, aren’t we,” Wrex growls. 

“May I ask you to lower your shotgun, Wrex?” Liara asks with the most honeyed, innocent voice Garrus has ever heard from her. 

Wrex hardly glances at her. “Not unless Shepard lends me her sniper rifle to replace it with.” 

“Fat chance,” Shepard mutters, cradling her Black Widow. (Garrus is happy that he’s finally gotten a Widow sniper rifle, plus some beautiful Spectre-level mods to go with it, but she just had to go higher, didn’t she. He tries not to think about it.) 

“We need more information on how this is going to work out, and what they’re asking for, don’t we?” Liara continues. Garrus hasn’t heard such a soothing tone since Samara left. Are all asari capable of this? Or had Liara decided to step up as one of the few sane ones of the Normandy crew? Or is this another weapon she’d picked up as an information broker? 

“This isn’t about requesting payment—in any form—or withholding it on a grand scale,” Kirrahe points out. His eyes dart sideways again, having noted that no one is getting Wrex to cease hostilities. But his voice remains perfectly composed and there is not a single tremor in his slight frame to give away any nerves at having a krogan battlemaster maintain a shotgun aimed at his face. 

“So then, what is it about?” Liara asks. 

“Liara, I like you, but don’t make me think you’re stupid for humoring him. You’re not supposed to be the stupid one. The salarians wanted to parade around their science shit again and try to pull one over on the krogan. Again. It’s not gonna happen,” Wrex rumbles. “If these are supposed to be negotiations, then I quit.” 

“You don’t have that authority, Wrex,” Shepard finally chimes in. She places a hand on the barrel of his shotgun—spirits, but her hand looks tiny compared to that gun—and Wrex lowers it without her exerting any force on it. “This is a deal I’m making with the salarians. Or not making. That remains to be seen.” 

“Allies are supposed to support each other, not give in to any and every stupid grab for power,” Wrex tells her with a sneer. 

It is probably only Garrus’ superior hearing that catches the very tiny sigh of relief that Kirrahe lets out. He steps forward, holding himself as tall as ever, and replies, “I’m sure Dr. Solus has already informed you of what we can offer in terms of resources to get you this cure. I’ve read over the Commander’s reports and the predicted timeline of the Reaper invasion—not that the salarian government or the STG officially acknowledge such a force—and if we work together, we should be able to synthesize a cure for the genophage before even the earliest predicted arrival time. That’s an assurance for your population even before a galaxy-wide war starts. No other race could have that.” 

“No other race has been castrated like us!” Wrex snarls. 

“We’re aware of the proposed timeline,” Shepard cuts in, sending each of them a look full of warning, “and what it could mean for the krogan population. Not that I think having a huge amount of babies immediately before a severe threat arrives is the best of ideas, but that’s not my decision to make, and it’s not my people we’re talking about. Nor are they yours, Major. We need to keep that in mind here. I, on behalf of the Normandy crew and my allies, are the ones negotiating with you here, but Wrex speaks for his people, and I value his input. Highly. Higher than yours, bluntly put.” 

“Understood, Commander,” Kirrahe replies. 

“Not to interrupt important negotiations!” Mordin calls over in a voice that clearly is meant for interrupting. More than half of the large room’s scientists are swarming around him, pressing up against the thick glass. A yellow light begins flashing in the corner. “But one of krogan females is currently dying. Thought you ought to know!” 

—

“You know, it’s a lot easier to not be upset about being left behind on the Normandy SR1 reunion trip when I also have to balance not being upset by two AIs poking around one of the most heavily defensible networks in the galaxy and if they get caught we’ll probably get destroyed before we blink because that’s how salarians like to enact violence!” Tali announces, then slumps into a set opposite Thane. 

He blinks at her. After a weighty beat, he must ask, “Are you upset? About either of those things?” He’s grown used to the general flippant tone aboard the Normandy, but Tali is not usually one of those who relies on it. 

“No! Not really. Jokingly, yes, because that’s my right as a quarian and one of Shepard’s friends. But then if I think past the joke, maybe I should be upset about it? I would’ve been when I was younger. I don’t know how Garrus does his ‘I’m Too Cool To Care And I Make Frivolous Jokes When I’m Nervous To Hide That I’m Nervous And That Made The Galaxy’s Best Spectre Fall In Love With Me’ thing. I tried joking around when I’m nervous, but it makes me more nervous, because it’s just keeps those things up at the forefront of my mind, and then I’m worried about being funny on top of that. Quarians are best left to ignoring problems! Not that that works any better, we know that, but at least then I don’t feel like a fool for laughing at bad jokes. No one deserves to laugh at bad jokes. Especially Garrus’ bad jokes.” 

Thane stares at her. He tries to cover his complete loss for a response by taking a long sip of his tea. 

Tali reaches over and pats his other hand. “Don’t worry, Thane, I don’t actually think Garrus is cool, and I know you don’t, either. You’re a better man than that.” 

Thane swallows quickly to prevent himself from snorting his tea. 

“I feel like I ought to defend him, if only by virtue of the fact that we are partnered in a romantic relationship,” he replies as soon as he’s certain he won’t cough up a lung. What a way to go—not by Kepral’s or a rival assassin or a Reaper monstrosity, but by tea choking him out. (Tali would be eligible for an obscene amount of money if she knew how to cash in any of his bounties. Perhaps that could be a way to fund the growing war effort. Perhaps they could set something up when the disease pushes him past the limits of a comfortable life?) 

“And yet, that’s not a defense,” Tali points out with her glowing eyes curved up in a quarian smirk. 

“No, my mind wandered momentarily.” 

“Still not a defense!” 

“Would you like to change the subject to something that wouldn’t be so upsetting to you?” Thane asks. 

Tali giggles, seeing right through him, but that’s fine; it’s what he intended. Better her laughing at a fondly-intentioned slight against Garrus than growing more and more concerned about AI goings-on. Or feeling left out. (Thane thinks that to be a little immature, but then again, she is quite young, and he cannot fathom the bond the original crew shared, or what a return to traveling together, however temporarily, could mean to a quarian. He reminds himself that not everyone is as solitary as he is.) 

Unfortunately for them both, a forcible change of subject appears: Javik marches into the mess and slams his hands onto the table. Thane regards him coolly over his mug of tea. Wariness replaces Tali’s mirth. To Thane’s knowledge—and he is going to keep track of this very carefully—Javik has not taken either of their native tongues or a translator. Nor has he been enthusiastic about starting conversations with others, despite the ample opportunity he’s been given. 

“I have read over the outlined proposals for assembling a force to combat the Reaper invasion,” Javik announces in Thessian, “and I find it highly lacking. I have also read over the data regarding onboard species and the current state of the galaxy’s primitive races. I now realize you are vaayun.” He points imperiously at Tali. Her eyes narrow a fraction further. “I am honestly shocked your species survived this long. You were remarkably frail and naive. Not even sport to hunt.” 

“And here I was beginning to feel left out of all of the insulting,” Tali sighs. “Stars forbid a quarian catch a break on the discrimination front.” 

“You don’t speak Thessian, do you?” Thane asks her while maintaining a careful eye on Javik, watching for any sign of reaction. There remains none to their words. Thane wonders if it’s pride that stops him from conversing with anyone else. 

“Nothing but Khelish. Language study has always been pretty low priority for quarians, and me especially—I mean, I work better with machines and synthetic parts, not words. As I’m sure everyone aboard already knows,” Tali says, flapping her hand. “So long as he’s speaking something my translator can handle, it’s fine. Not that I want him trying to pick up my language through that weird touch thing of his.” 

“I wonder if he could, given your suit,” Thane wonders. After the initial confrontation, Javik has made no move to take any other language knowledge from any others. But he’s noticed a distinct suspicion that the non-human crewmates carry around Javik, as if they’re waiting for it. 

Mordin aside. 

“I will not concern myself with your archaic gibberish and your opinions of me do not matter,” Javik declares with a haughty toss of his head. That much translates across time and culture, it seems. “But I need to know what it is about these ‘geth’ that are so integral to the proposed war preparations. What sort of race is so quick to produce so many ships and machinery? Why have we not immediately sought them out to conscript them?” 

“I am going to hazard a guess and say that no one included the geth in Javik’s data on this cycle’s sapient races,” Thane says with another sip of his tea. 

“Well, are you going to tell him that Legion isn’t a VI?” Tali hisses back. 

Javik bares his teeth at them both. “Commander Shepard’s initial generalized strategy appears to hinge upon preventing Reapers from landing and forcing as much of the war to remain in space as possible. A sound idea only in theory—entirely unfeasible! Your cycle cannot produce so many ships capable of warfare on level with the Reaper fleet, and even if avoiding the production of husks would prevent their armies from overrunning your planets, there is no way to prevent them from harvesting organics!” 

Tali grabs Thane’s hand, but her glare is on Javik. “Thane, tell him that the quarians have the largest fleet in the galaxy! And no one actually knows how large the geth fleet is anymore! We will not simply die and be harvested.” 

Thane does not get the chance to relay the message. Gardner comes over, with uncharacteristic friendliness, and thrusts a plate between Javik and the other two. On the plate is a single example of what the humans call a muffin. 

“Here ya go, try this one next!” Gardner exclaims with an only partially forced smile. “Blueberry muffins, one of humanity’s greatest culinary inventions. The blueberry part got fudged a little, not exactly swimming in fresh produce here, but it’s at least as good as the premixed stuff that comes out of a box. I can promise you that much!” 

Thane doesn’t know why Gardner has bothered explaining, since Javik had already shoved the entire thing in his mouth. Even the silicone wrapper. 

“Uh,” Tali says. Thane silently echoes the sentiment. 

“Someone hasn’t had processed sugars in a Prothean lifetime, plus fifty thousand years, and there’s no olive branch quite like indulging in a sweet tooth,” Gardner advises like he is a great sage. “Of course, he’s eaten more than Grunt today, so I don’t think his winning personality is a side-effect of being hangry. Too bad.” 

“I despise you the least of those aboard,” Javik says with his cheeks stuffed, “but do not let this feed your ego, human. I smell something similar to what you have just fed me, so I demand more of these wastefully produced calories.” 

“They’re called muffins.” 

“They’re called waste of ingredients,” Javik sourly corrects, but he follows at Gardner’s heels back to his improved kitchen. 

“Think the Reapers just need a sugary snack to stop them?” Tali asks, head cocked. 

“I doubt we will be so lucky. But perhaps Javik will volunteer to attempt that for us,” Thane replies. 

Tali adopts a more at ease posture now that there is no irate Prothean hanging over their heads. She folds her arms on the mess table and lays her head on them, helmet tilted, glowing eyes peering up at Thane. “Gardner had it right—‘winning’ personality. That kind of sarcasm doesn’t need translating. So I take it you’re not friendly with him, either, are you?” 

Thane thinks back to watching the Prothean stick his fingers in Shepard’s mouth, then throw her to the ground and pin her with unnerving ease. “No,” he replies shortly. “But I will be civil and work with him as needed. Provided he does the same when not bribed with sugary foods.” 

“If he’s eating as much as a krogan… I wonder if that’s a side-effect of coming out of stasis, or if Protheans are just like that? And he’s a biotic, too, so that’s probably part of it. It’s really frustrating to think that there are so many things we don’t know about him, and we don’t know if they’re him or all of his people, and I don’t think he’s going to be very forthcoming on cultural insight trading. Poor Liara.” 

“I understand that Dr. T’Soni had based most of her academic career on the study of Protheans.” 

Tali nods against her folded arms. “Yeah, and from what I read of her works, that guy is a big disappointment. She told me that the Protheans were these graceful, wise, powerful but not cruel beings. How they shared their culture and taught others about new technology and discoveries. And now, instead of that, we got stuck with… that.” 

Thane sips at his tea again. “But we must keep in mind that he is the only being in our cycle who has truly been to war against the Reapers. I sympathize with Dr. T’Soni, but her disappointment is little cost to have access to this sort of historical insight. We will not be able to throw the Alliance and Citadel fleets at a single Reaper in every battle, so we must learn of new ways to wage war.” 

“But he’s rude,” Tali pouts. “And I don’t want to have to live through the realization of the quarian and geth history by myself whenever he figures that out. Our cycle hasn’t forgiven that yet!” 

“I can’t imagine he’ll have many kind things to say about any of us, given further historical context. But rest assured, Tali, that the entire Normandy crew will support you and Legion both, even if that means defending you physically against him,” Thane tells her. 

Her pout turns into a smile in a flash—a sly smile. “Oh, I know—I heard from Garrus about the ‘probably’ bit. So you’re what, a reverse bodyguard? What’s the opposite of a bodyguard? You’re insurance in case we need to kill him, but it’s not like a contract, because it’s only a possibility, right?” 

“Insurance is a good way to put it,” Thane mildly agrees, “but that is not to say that if it were to turn into a fight, that no one else would be unable to stand against him. In fact, I’d rather not fight him only by myself. And that’s only if he turns out to be hostile, which I am disinclined to believe at this point. The only thing he appears to hate more than socializing is the Reapers.” 

Tali hums. She sits back up, glances over her shoulder to ensure that Javik is still distracted by baked goods, then leans in with a lowered voice. “Well, that’s useful common ground. But um, I was thinking last night—I mean, if I were in the closest thing I could think of to his situation, which would be if I lived in the middle of the Morning War and went to sleep and then woke up and the geth—the evil hostile ones, like the heretics, I know this isn’t a perfect analogy—were gone but were coming back and no one else appeared to be prepared to fight them, I would be… Well, a little more upset that is is?” 

“Do you think he was indoctrinated?” Thane bluntly asks in return. 

“Well, no, I hope not! But we wouldn’t know, would we? The rachni function off of a comparison thing, a before and after, and we’ll never have a before for him. But for how angry of a person he seems to be, he’s adjusted to taking orders and reading and hasn’t attacked anyone else.” 

“That’s likely just a survival instinct,” he points out. “We’re strangers to him, with only words to prove our intentions to fight his enemies. He is learning to trust us just as we are learning to trust him. Not to mention—it is vastly preferable if he doesn’t have any sort of breakdown or start another fight. If he’s adjusting to this with ruthless compartmentalization, then I won’t blame him, nor will I correct him.” 

“And what happens when the compartmentalization fails?” Tali asks with a critical tone. “Kelly can’t do her therapist support thing with him. He’s already almost attacked her and she refuses to interact with him until his temper is better understood, or however she put it.” 

Thane finishes his tea. It has chilled and ruined the taste, but he is not one to waste food or drink. (Especially with Javik pointing out how frivolous all of their diets are.) “If he comes to a state where he is either too broken or too furious to cooperate any longer, then we simply point him in the direction of our nearest enemy and watch.” 

It is difficult to reconcile the large alien stuffing his face with almost a dozen blueberry muffins with the only survivor of the Prothean empire and the last Reaper invasion, but stranger things have occurred. 

—

Wrex charges through the salarian scientists like they are little more than—well, Garrus doesn’t know, because a krogan battlemaster charging through a bunch of panicking salarians is already a damn useful metaphor. Shepard is only a half step behind Wrex, glaring at the scientists who are reacting to Wrex’s advance by drawing guns, and Garrus is barely behind her. He glances back, once, to find Liara watching Kirrahe with sharp eyes, but to his credit, Kirrahe is moving with as much urgency as anyone else, and it’s not in response to the angry krogan. 

Wrex slams a giant fist against the thick glass separating them from the collapsed female. “What the hell do you mean, dying?! Get someone in there to help her!” he snarls. 

Mordin takes a datapad from two other salarians who are hastily radioing whatever authorization codes are necessary for help to proceed. Fucking bureaucracy at its finest. “Need to enter with proper protocols—mainly decontamination procedures,” Mordin reads aloud. “Females’ immune systems incredibly suppressed during test trials, I see. Sterility a must for any physically entering the rooms.” 

“So throw some salarians in some fancy clean suits and get in there!” Wrex roars. 

Garrus cranes his head over the sea of shorter aliens. The only door into the cell is on the far side, opposite the glass wall, and he can’t see what sort of corridor it’s attached to. Probably all the decon stuff. “Wrex, have you ever known a salarian not to do things at high speed? But if someone messes up now and brings something into those clean rooms, we’re going to have a worse problem on our hands,” he points out. 

“Worse than dying?” Wrex archly replies. 

“Cascading failure of organs, including redundancies,” Mordin announces. Shepard glowers at him for continuing the bad news; it’s not doing anything to prevent Wrex from squishing heads. Or breaking the glass. Wrex isn’t a stupid man, especially for a krogan, but he’s as much a krogan as anyone else when it comes to making rash decisions when tempers run high. 

Garrus and Shepard exchange a glance. They each grab one of Wrex’s arms and begin hauling him away from the glass wall. Kirrahe circles them, keeping space clear, though he obviously does not wish to approach Wrex himself right now. 

Despite all of the nonverbal growling, Garrus and Shepard drag Wrex out of the immediate way of the swarming scientists. They’re now in front of the other room and its inhabitant—who is thankfully upright and has no emergency lights flashing overhead. From this angle, Garrus can see that they have a window between their rooms (though no door). 

The healthy female does not look in the direction of her possibly dying cohort. She hardly looks at Wrex, either, instead studying Shepard and Garrus in turn. Like the other, she’s wearing an odd blend of krogan civvies and medical scrubs, meaning there are a lot of layers on her, especially her face, so he can really only see her sharp eyes. 

Finally, through that shared window, Garrus sees a trio of scientists in full clean suits bustle into the room. The emergency light stops flashing. 

“Killing a female in front of me,” Wrex growls with a shake of his head. “The quads on these salarians. When do we shoot our way out, Shepard?” 

“Wrex, these sorts of medical… unfortunate situations happen, especially when they’re trying to do whatever it is they’re doing,” Shepard reproachfully replies. She sighs, and with a hand to her temple, she adds, “We had seen messier experimentation awhile ago with other attempted cures. At least these guys appear to be doing it by the book.” 

“The salarian book on krogan genetics already involves a lot of dead krogan, Shepard. Here’s a question for you, Major, that only just occurred to me—” Wrex turns on Kirrahe, who answers his fierceness with utmost professionalism. “How many females did you start with?” 

Oh no, Garrus thinks. Though it does make sense, in hindsight; what kind of medical trial would use a sample size of two? Not to mention how desperately so many krogan had thrown themselves at Mordin’s (ex-)apprentice for even a chance at fixing their ruined fertility. 

“Fourteen,” Kirrahe replies without shame or fear. “Regrettably, all but these two have perished so far, due to various causes. We will supply you with all of our data so far—” 

Wrex grabs at Kirrahe and Garrus throws himself at Wrex’s outstretched arm to stop him. Krogan may be strong, but a full-grown turian hanging off an arm tends to slow anyone down. 

“Wrex, stand down!” Shepard barks, shoving her way between them. 

Wrex bares his teeth at Shepard, lowering his head until they’re almost eye-level, and Garrus wishes someone would headbutt the other already so they can get this tension over with. (If only all their problems could be so simply solved.) “They invited us here to show off dead females and demand control over the cure dispersion. Why the hell do you think I’m the one overreacting here?! You’re in Council space despite them calling for your head, they wasted my time and yours, they dragged me off Tuchanka, and now they’re not only insulting us by trying to control these factors, but they didn’t even have the quads to admit how many people they’ve already killed!” 

“Sample size of fourteen for first trial run commendable, actually,” Mordin chimes in with his usual lack of tact. “Volunteers, no less. Certain blocks cannot be overcome without test subjects. Data already appears to be promising. Primary negative issues connected to organ failure and compromised immune systems.” 

“I’d say that’s negative!” Wrex snaps. 

Mordin glances up from his datapad with a flutter of his eyelids. “But fixable. Krogan have redundant organ systems for a reason, no?” 

“What about the immune system issue? Tuchanka isn’t the cleanest place around, and it wouldn’t exactly be a fix for the genophage if they have to suit up to do the deed. Might ruin the mood, in addition to an awful lot of logistical issues,” Garrus has to point out. Wrex snorts at his attempt at levity. 

Mordin hums and returns his attention to the datapad. “Supportive options available—with further testing, can figure out exact cause and nullify it. Point of scientific testing in any field: figure out issues and continue testing new or altered options until issues nonexistent.” 

“Those are my people who are dying for this! Who have already been dying for this!” Wrex snarls. 

“These were volunteers!” Kirrahe snaps back. 

“Ooookay, we’re breaking this up, for real this time. Wrex, calm down. They’re going to save her. Something like a genophage cure does need live testing, so the fact that they’re that far is promising—let’s focus on that. You’re one step closer to the cure for your people,” Shepard interrupts in a firm, no-nonsense tone. 

Wrex grumbles, but much of his temper leeches out of him, and Garrus finally releases his arm. 

“Major, is there somewhere a little quieter we can continue to discuss this? We want more information on what, exactly, you’ve been doing on here, and what, exactly, the salarians are asking for in regard to the cure distribution,” she continues, turning to Kirrahe. 

“Yes, that would be wisest. We wanted to show you the lab to ensure you understood our commitment to this research. There are a few empty rooms further down this way we can use to continue our conversation…” 

Emergency lights begin flashing again, a split second before alarms ring out. Garrus winces and Wrex snaps his head around so fast to look at the other female he’s a little surprised he didn’t break something. Mordin is already back there, peering through the thick glass with a deep frown. 

“That’s not any alarm connected to test subject health!” Kirrahe shouts over the blaring. Scientists bustle about, again with guns drawn—but most of them are headed away from the cells with the female krogan. “That’s our facility proximity alarm! There’s been a breach of security!” 

“Of course there has,” Wrex deadpans while Shepard shouts, “There’s a what?!” 

She and Garrus both reach for their comm links, but his visor doesn’t offer anything, not even a beep to signify active connection. Kirrahe shakes his head. “No outgoing communications from this deep within the building, have to head back up to ground level. On-site STG forces will have already scrambled and we can lock down this floor—” 

“I’m headed back up to see what’s going on!” Shepard snaps. “I’m reconvening with my ship and crew. We’ll supply reinforcements, but we are not separating until we know exactly what’s going on.” 

Kirrahe bows his head. “Understood, Commander. I will accompany you. Our elevators will shut down in case of a breach like this, but I can authorize access to the stairwells.” 

Liara is already waiting by the stairwell door, pistol drawn but pointed at the floor. Garrus hadn’t realized he missed her until this moment; she hadn’t been over with their argument by the cells, had she? 

She locks eyes with him, and Garrus decides it’s better not to ask right now, knowing her current profession. Even he can have a sense of subtlety at times. 

“Liara, Wrex, I want barriers that a thresher maw couldn’t bite through. Major, if you’d watch our six, I’d appreciate that. Garrus, you’re taking point with me,” Shepard says while Kirrahe inputs a stupidly long code into the red keypad by the door. 

“Bold of you not to put the krogan out in front,” Wrex mutters. 

Shepard grins, sharp and bright, and punches his shoulder. “Welcome to being politically important, Wrex! Right here and now, you’re as much a priority on getting you out alive as the females down there. Besides, you can’t lie and tell me you’ve never wanted Garrus as your meat shield.” 

What a colorful human phrase. Garrus flicks a mandible in distaste, but Wrex chuckles, low and rumbly, and agrees, “Fine, I know how much you like granting favors, Shepard. I’ll allow this one.” 

“Just like old times,” Liara fondly remarks before they storm the stairs. 

Chapter Text

“Didn’t Shepard tell us that we’re to remain on the ship except in cases of invasion? Specifically that term?” Joker asks, chin on his fist, casually watching the Cerberus-marked shuttles deposit their troops on the dock second farthest from theirs. Armored salarians already swarm the area; say what you will about the STG, and there is plenty to say about them, but they have a great response time when it comes to crises. 

“She did, in fact, use the term ‘invasion’ specifically,” EDI agrees. 

Joker hums thoughtfully and continues to ignore the very angry and ready-to-murder Jack and Grunt behind him. He can feel the glares boring through his lovely chair and into the back of his skull. “She’s never been great with her words, and circumstances like this like to prove that,” Joker muses. 

“Are you going to let us the fuck out or not?!” Jack demands. 

He pretends to think about it. (Pros: it’d be fucking hilarious, it can get rid of some of the pent-up tension aboard, and he doesn’t like to be the thing between Jack and carnage. Cons: he still would rather wait to see if Shepard does have an opinion on this contrary to letting out two of her most aggressive squad members, the STG can likely handle this themselves, and the Cerberus mooks had been acting… odd.) “Ideally, we’d wait for concrete orders from her—” 

“The salarian shits cut off everything as soon as they went in, which duh, their whole thing is secrecy and shit! But that’s Cerberus, our definite enemies, and these are salarians which are hoping to be our allies, so this is clear, Joker. Open the damn doors,” Jack orders. 

“Shepard would cry if we had to break them because you were being stupid and disobeying her orders,” Grunt adds with mean smugness. 

Joker twists his seat around to spare them both an unimpressed look. His best unimpressed look, actually. He’s very good at it. “Yeah, yeah, forgive a guy for not wanting to loose two agents of bloody chaos on would-be allies in a politically precarious situation, would you? I’m just—” 

“Shepard to Normandy!” comes in over their comms and Joker throws his hands up in gratitude that he doesn’t have to be the responsible one. He’s not cut out for that shit. 

“We read you, Shepard,” EDI replies. “What is your situation?” 

“Proximity alarms went off, STG are scrambling, a lot of political bullshit downstairs. But we’re en route to engage!” 

What happens next would be funny in any other circumstance than one where a lot of people have a lot of guns. 

Joker had thought that the Cerberus soldiers who had poured out of the shuttles had looked surprisingly… apprehensive. Several milled around their exit vehicles before advancing. He saw at least two gesture with their assault rifles at the docked Normandy. No one had hailed him, and none of their forces had gotten farther than the STG-created chokepoint near the entrance, so he wasn’t worried about his ship just yet. Of course Cerberus would have a latent interest in reclaiming her; that’s all their behavior meant, surely. 

Except when Shepard and her ground crew charges into the fray, damn near almost every Cerberus soldier lowers their gun out of aim, like they’re surprised to see her. Surprised in not the shooty kind of way, for once. 

Shepard skids to a halt, her Black Widow tucked against her chest, and Garrus nearly runs into her. 

“Uh,” Garrus says over the comms. Eloquent, as always. 

“What’s going on?” Thane asks, sliding past Jack out of nowhere and peering out the viewing windows without a sound, because he’s a creepy guy like that. 

“Do you hear one of them speak and are just, like, summoned?” Joker snarks. 

“Why aren’t they shooting them to bits?” Grunt demands. As Thane had bullied his way into the cockpit, Grunt also takes that as invitation. A drell is one thing; a krogan is another, and even though she’s tiny, Jack is not a welcome addition, either. Joker hates feeling crowded in his own damn domain. He always loses the pushing matches. 

“I’m receiving a hail from the Cerberus forces,” EDI announces. 

“Jesus,” Joker mutters, and unfortunately, EDI takes this as permission. 

“Normandy SR2, this is Cerberus’ Sharvara Cell Operative Commander Nitya Flores. We would like to confirm your designation and reason for being here,” a Cerberus person says like this is a totally normal request to make between two parties who should not be in this secret location right now, much less on friendly terms with one another.

“Designation: fuck you,” Joker replies. Jack high fives him, a little too hard, but at least it’s camaraderie. 

“We confirm that this is the Normandy SR2, operating independently of any government or organizational oversight, under command of Commander Shepard,” EDI replies, because she’s unfortunately polite and helpful, even to their sworn enemies. “Basic identification scans you have already completed of our ship upon your arrival should have confirmed that information for you. Why do you ask for this confirmation, Operative Commander?” 

“EDI, you need to get some rudeness protocols installed,” Joker mutters. 

“I will look into that, Jeff.” 

“Ugh. We thought so, of course, but we didn’t really want it to be,” Nitya replies. She doesn’t sound any happier with this conversation than Joker is. “We have some, well, conflicting orders concerning the Normandy and Commander Shepard. And personally, I’d rather not engage at all. Avoid a lot of bloodshed. We received bad intel, and had no idea you guys would be here.” 

“So you… don’t want to fight us,” Joker clarifies. 

“Ideally, no. Would you want to engage the Commander Shepard and her crew without warning or preparation? I don’t think our goal today is worth losing so many lives.” 

“Well,” Joker says—and doesn’t know what the hell to follow it up with. He looks at his console, to EDI’s interface, to Thane, to Grunt, and to Jack. 

“Are you communicating this information and desire for a ceasefire to Commander Shepard as well right now?” Thane asks, leaning over Joker’s shoulder. 

“Trying to,” Nitya deadpans. 

—

“What do you mean, you surrender?” Shepard asks again. 

“No, not surrender, Commander. But we really don’t want to engage with you. We weren’t informed you’d be here, and, well, you’re kind of a nightmare to deal with. Sharvara Cell had been outfitted for salarians today,” a man in centurion armor replies. 

Shepard glances back out of the corner of her eye to check on Garrus and Liara’s expressions. They look as baffled as she feels; good, she’s not the only one feeling crazy right now. “Well that’s, uh… civil of you,” Shepard says, awkwardly, “but you guys just came in here first and started shooting, so…” 

“We had intel that salarian scientists were trying to reverse the genophage and unleash the krogan again on the galactic community,” he replies in a hard voice. “That’s not something you risk lightly, Commander. I assume you heard the same? Came here to stop them?” 

Shepard grimaces hard enough that it puts the guy off from asking to team up with them. She’d probably have to shoot him on principle alone at that point, which would be a pity, because actually talking her way out of a hostile situation is a new one. A far less painful one. 

“Why are we listening to this drivel?” Wrex grumbles. 

“Because when a lot of people drop their aim and decide to try talking instead of shooting, we respect that,” Shepard replies. “So put your goddamn shotgun down already, Wrex.” 

He grumbles even more, but lets his shotgun fall. 

“She really can tame the krogan!” another Cerberus operative whisper-yells loud enough for it to carry across the tense space. 

Wrex hefts his shotgun up again. 

“How about we all holster our guns—you guys first—and we’ll let you turn around and leave and we all pretend like we hadn’t been here?” Shepard offers with a hand on the barrel of Wrex’s gun to force it downward again. 

“Commander, we need to ascertain how they came across such sensitive information,” Kirrahe hisses at her with urgency. 

“The Shadow Broker probably obtained it and used it,” Liara replies in a whisper. 

“The whomst,” Shepard bites out. It takes every ounce of her willpower not to turn around and glare at Liara. 

Liara keeps her eyes straight ahead, expression calm. “I have reason to believe that there was at least one mole within this STG cell, Major. Information like this, no matter how much secrecy is involved, is very valuable and easy to sell. It makes the most sense.” 

“Hey, will you tell us who told you about the scientists’ research?” Garrus calls over. 

“No?” the centurion calls back. 

Garrus shrugs. Shepard facepalms. “Worth a shot. We’re willing to keep this ceasefire going if you are, but we’ll have to detain someone for questioning. And we’ll use force if someone from your side doesn’t volunteer.” 

“We’ll withdraw, but that’s it.” 

“It is kind of a problem if Cerberus knows about our search for a cure and exactly how far we are,” Wrex points out in a growly undertone. “So I say we shoot ‘em all and be done with this. Playing nice isn’t your style or mine, Shepard.” 

“Yeah, but if I can go to sleep with a little less blood on my hands, maybe I won’t have nightmares for once, Wrex,” Shepard replies with false brightness. She drops the sarcastic smile a moment later. “Seriously though—I’m no fan of Cerberus, and I’m not suggesting an alliance with them next, but if we can avoid loss of life here, we really need to consider it. It’s not just us or them—even if the STG guys can fight, there are some brilliant minds in there, and what if a salarian who gets shot had a breakthrough in their brain?” 

“Even them knowing we were here is a pretty big deal, though,” Garrus uneasily points out. 

“They probably already reported that much back. No fixing that part,” Wrex replies. 

“Are we really going to let that traitor just walk away?!” another Cerberus soldier shouts. “She left Cerberus! She took our shit and hung us out to dry!” 

“Stand down, and that’s an order! We have standing orders not to engage her!” the centurion barks back. 

“Heh, looks like we might be getting a fight, after all,” Wrex says. 

“You stand down, too,” Shepard replies. 

“She wiped out how many of our own on Eden Prime?! She’s our enemy, not someone to revere, and we don’t let enemies walk away just because a bit of risk!” Oh no, that’s another, different soldier. They’re not conveniently grouped, either, but more than a few shift from side to side, grips on guns tightening. 

One raises a rifle. 

The operative goes down with a sniper shot in the middle of their helmet. 

“If you raise weapons to us again, we’re going to consider that hostile action and engage,” Garrus calls over as he lowers his Widow again. Shepard half-glares up at him, because she hadn’t ordered that, even if he possibly prevented the situation from worsening. And maybe it was a little hot. 

“We are still willing to let this end without further violence!” Liara adds. 

“Speak for yourself,” Wrex growls. 

“We’re still compromised in some fashion; we need to identify the leak concretely. I’d rather fight it out and interrogate the survivors,” Kirrahe grumbles. 

“Can’t believe I’m agreeing with a salarian.” 

“Then we’ll ask them nicely to wait twenty minutes, finish our negotiations here, and let you duke it out!” Shepard waspishly replies. “I’m not about to mow down a bunch of people who otherwise don’t want to fight just because of the color of their armor. This is an actual break we probably needed! We have confirmation about disorder in their ranks—and hey, if they’re avoiding me, then even better.” 

Right when Shepard thinks this might be salvaged, one of the dissenters shoots the civil centurion and another two open fire with SMGs. Liara and Wrex throw up a dual-layered barrier without missing a beat; the small bullets plunk harmlessly to the ground in front of them. 

“I don’t think we’ll get the luxury of talking things out from this point forward, Shepard,” Garrus says, swapping guns to his assault rifle, but at least he sounds contrite. Not that it improves Shepard’s mood much. She had hoped, for a moment there, goddamn it. 

She and Kirrahe head left to regroup with the STG agents who had already set up defensive positions. Wrex marches solidly ahead, his barrier flickering with each step, but Liara and Garrus hang back, trying to provide cover while Wrex does his reckless krogan thing. Just like old times. 

“Anything to offer on the situation here?” Shepard asks as she and Kirrahe duck behind a heavy metal barrier made for just such an occasion. Salarians: always prepared. 

“We’ve already tagged those as having non-aggressive body language,” one of the salarians, surprisingly a female agent, replies with a wave of her omnitool. Without asking for permission, she brute forces her way into Shepard’s to update her combat display, with several of the Cerberus soldiers becoming outlined in grassy yellow. “If there is going to be a divide, it will likely be those individuals—look!” 

They all peek out of cover to find Cerberus—some of them with the special maybe-friendly outline—shooting on their own. Those nearest Wrex are still shooting wildly at him, making his biotics flicker, but ones further away from the immediate krogan threat are turning on each other. 

“Any chance you could pull Urdnot Wrex back to allow Cerberus to fully divide their forces and kill each other?” Kirrahe asks. 

“Not when he’s already elbow-deep in corpses. And since the shooting’s already started, I don’t think we can salvage this situation,” Shepard replies, resigned. “Priority remains protecting the outpost and the project within. If we capture someone alive, I might look the other way while you extract the information you need on the leak, but only on the condition that it’s shared with us. Cerberus probably does already know that we were here meeting with you, but they apparently might not suspect our motives just yet. For some reason.” 

“Human stupidity?” Kirrahe suggests. 

Shepard sighs, scrubbing a hand over her face. “Yeah, maybe. I’ll give you that one. Any news on the situation downstairs? Are they secure?” 

“The only points of entry to our lower labs are located within the building. They’ll have to physically come past here to get inside,” the female STG agent replies. (Shepard is uncomfortably aware that she must be someone important, but now is not the time to figure out who the hell she is.) 

They are far enough away from the knot of Cerberus forces (and Wrex) that Shepard has her easy pick of targets. The Black Widow’s scope makes it a joke, honestly. She doesn’t even need it. She tries to avoid those tagged as possible friendlies, but more and more of them blink out as the shooting continues, despite her intention to maybe have this end with a sympathetic side winning. Wrex and the STG agents make no such distinctions in targets, not even the agent who had updated her omnitool with the information. 

Cerberus thins their own forces fast. And it had been such a nostalgic return to the haphazard fighting style they called ‘strategy’ on the Normandy SR1 that Shepard doesn’t even bat an eye at how Wrex throws himself directly into the fray. 

But even with Cerberus killing themselves, there’s still plenty there to take on a krogan. 

Wrex’s barrier splutters out. His armor sparks with bullets, most of them ricocheting off, but his shields must have already died from the ongoing whittling down. 

And then, some Cerberus hostile gets a lucky angle with a shotgun at close range. 

Wrex stumbles back with a roar, voice sounding wet, his free hand flying to his suddenly orange-soaked throat. Shepard jumps to attention behind cover and Liara yells in panic. Wrex swings his gun around like a bat and throws the now-unlucky Cerberus soldier off the dock. 

Everyone else who decided they didn’t want to play nice now notice the injured, unshielded krogan with a fresh eye. Shepard and Garrus actually shoot the same guy in the head, purely because he’d been the next nearest to Wrex, and from afar, Shepard gestures rudely at her boyfriend. “Mark your shots!” she shouts over. 

Garrus makes an equally rude gesture back. “Get a better angle!” 

“Can you two stop your flirting for long enough to throw a med pack at me?” Wrex gurgles, stumbling backward. He completely ignores the bullets sparking off his armor, but a few others hit flesh and make him shudder. “Stupid—fucking—pyjaks!” 

Realizing that the injured krogan makes excellent sniper bait, a hail of bullets hits their hard barrier. Kirrahe yanks Shepard down just in time. Growling to herself, she throws on her tactical cloak, then runs out of cover. 

Liara beats her to it. With a burst of blue, she charges the nearest enemy to Wrex, colliding with the poor bastard and sending him flying. Liara goes stumbling with the excess momentum, but Wrex catches her shoulder with one large hand and steadies her. 

“When’d you learn how to be useful in a fight?” Wrex asks. 

“You can charge now?!” Shepard shouts. 

Liara jumps, looking around for Shepard, who decides to give up her cloak when she lunges at a soldier omniblade first. It slices through Cerberus armor like butter. 

“Great, more of you can literally throw yourself headfirst into a firefight,” Garrus deadpans over the comms. 

“It’s just a little something I picked up. I’ve never actually done it before. Well, not successfully,” Liara says with a hand to her head. “It’s dizzying. Wow.” 

“Try not to get dizzy in the middle of a shootout,” Wrex advises and shoves Liara behind him. She throws her barrier overtop them both. 

At close range, Shepard blasts through two enemies with one sniper shot and sets another on fire with an incinerate. Now once again semi-invincible with a barrier, Wrex marches through the remaining hostiles—ignoring the two women trying to look over his freely bleeding wounds. That’s a big hole punched in his neck, soaking his front in orange blood, and there are more superficial scrapes and burns along his hard head. 

Wrex shoots over Liara’s head as she presses medigel into his injury. “Is this really necessary?” Liara asks, wincing from the noise. 

“Krogan think it romantic, you know,” Wrex shoots back. 

“Now who’s flirting on the battlefield?!” Shepard exclaims. 

“Oh, don’t let Feron hear you say that, I’d never hear the end of it,” Liara groans. 

Shepard files that away as Another Thing To Pester Liara About later, because she still hasn’t quite figured out why she’d insisted on bringing the other drell with them, but now is not the time. Wrex is hard to miss in a fight, but the two women flanking him are evidently more appealing targets, even if Cerberus had apparently had non-engagement orders at some point. Not anymore. 

Her N7 armor allows her to ignore most shots, brushing them off as blunted force, but it doesn’t mean it won’t hurt later. Especially when one nails her helmet and sends her stumbling. Wrex catches her with one huge hand, almost splaying across her entire chest, and takes the head off another centurion with his shotgun without even glancing to see if she’s okay. Good old times indeed. 

It doesn’t take much longer for them to push their superior force. Shepard is used to being outnumbered in firefights, and it hasn’t done a damn thing to stop her or her crew yet. And, like Cerberus had admitted, they had not been prepared for Commander Shepard today. 

“Any survivors?” the female STG agent says as she darts up out of her own tactical cloak. She doesn’t wait for an answer before picking over corpses and flitting about the battlefield like Wrex isn’t even there and still shooting to ensure there are no survivors. Probably out of spite. 

“Your neck still needs looked at,” Liara says, tugging at Wrex. 

“That means the battle’s over and we’re allowed to tend to injuries,” Shepard pointedly adds. “Stop shooting the dead people and let the salarians mop this up.” If there are any survivors, they’re probably going to wish they were dead very shortly, if any STG agents get their hands on them. 

“I’m fine,” Wrex scoffs. His voice still sounds wet. “You think this is enough to topple an Urdnot battlemaster?” 

“It is if infection sets in. A wound that deep can’t be fixed with medigel,” Garrus calls over and Wrex glowers at him. 

“If you let me look at it now, then you won’t have to go back to the Normandy for Dr. Chakwas to look you over so urgently, and you won’t miss the negotiations with the nice salarians. Even better—they won’t have to offer to patch you up themselves. Now, do you want salarian doctors to be the ones to tend to you?” Liara asks, brow raised. “Or me?” 

Wrex looks like he’d rather receive another shotgun blast to the throat. 

Liara manages to get him sitting so she can scan over the damage to his neck and face with her omnitool. Shepard stands nearby, half an eye on them, to ensure Wrex isn’t actually hurt. It wouldn’t be the first (or second, or third, or twentieth) time he lied about the severity of a wound. The rest of her attention is on the STG agents who check over bodies with frightening quickness and unerring precision. It takes them two touches to ascertain if a body is dead or not, and neither looks to be checking for a pulse. Creepy. 

The female STG agent approaches Shepard with a wan smile. She has red blood covering both her gauntlets. “Well done, Commander. Had heard numerous stories about you, of course, but refreshing to see you in action firsthand. Very impressive. You’ve earned your reputation, it seems—doubly so if you successfully work beside someone like Urdnot Wrex.” 

“I don’t need to be standing to kill a salarian,” Wrex warns. 

Her smile widens into something more genuine. “True enough, but not me, for your information. Major Kirrahe was your liaison for this meeting, and I am not officially affiliated with this cell or its projects, but suffice it to say—I am the one in charge here. Aekon Jaewana, Commander. It’s a pleasure to meet you and your crew.” 

She sticks her hand out for Shepard, which is a rarity among salarians. Shepard takes it after a confused beat. “Nice to meet you too, ma’am,” she replies, a little awkward. She only knows that female salarians tend to be political powerhouses and usually the ones in charge. She’s never met one in armor like this before. 

Aekon’s smile dips into something sharper and less polite. “You have no idea who I am, do you? I had assumed as such, but that’s a dangerous mistake on your part, Commander. You ought to know the names of your fellow Spectres, at least, if not their faces too.” 

Shepard rips her hand free and raises her gun. They’re close enough that the barrel is nearly touching Aekon, but she doesn’t flinch, only continues her scary smile. 

“Are you here on behalf of the Council?” Shepard asks, now aware of just how many STG agents are outside with them. Too many to easily take, not with Wrex temporarily down. It had been a possibility, that this had been a trap to lure her back into Council space to be detained (or worse), but they had dismissed the idea because that sort of obviousness isn’t the salarians’ style. 

“No, I am not,” Aekon replies. “But do you believe me when I say that?” 

“You better hope I do,” Shepard retorts. 

“Hope has nothing to do with it, Commander. Use logic instead. You clearly had no idea who I was, and we were in a firefight together just now. I could have easily killed you and pinned it on Cerberus, should subtlety be required. It isn’t, based on how you humiliated the Council and betrayed the human Alliance, so you’re aware, moving forward. And even now, you are outnumbered by my agents, and even your allied krogan cannot save you. I am here of my own interests—isn’t that how Council Spectres are supposed to operate?” Aekon points out. “Isn’t that how you operated, when you were one of us?” 

“I was a symbol,” Shepard deadpans. 

“You still are. Hence why I am here. I had not initially planned to join in on the negotiations, as Major Kirrahe has all the necessary information and clearances to do so, but now, I’d rather participate myself. I had not expected Cerberus interference, and neither had you—but I had not expected Cerberus infighting, either. A fascinating development, is it not?” 

There isn’t any one single thing about Aekon that Shepard dislikes; her rigid body language is that of any STG agent, and while her smiles are a little mean, Shepard has dealt with more poisonous politicians and liars and allies. Her frankness is actually a little refreshing. But there’s something about her that keeps her on edge, and it has nothing to do with her Spectre status. 

—

Upon seeing a salarian conference room for the first time, Garrus finally understands that the grandstanding of the Council isn’t simply them acting high and mighty and haughty. Salarians just do that. Whoever holds the power in the negotiation is expected to take the higher platform, to literally look down upon the other, and the distance between the two parties is just as intentional. It’s a big room, sure, but it almost feels like this is designed for a shouting match. Isn’t that closer to krogan politics than salarian politics? 

Aekon gestures Shepard up onto the high dais. Interesting: the salarians think Shepard has the greater power here. 

But Garrus and Liara are prevented from joining her on the platform. “Hey!” Garrus exclaims, glaring down at the tiny, helmeted agent, and Liara scowls so severely she almost looks like a matriarch. 

“Stand there and look pretty,” Wrex advises as he lumbers up onto the higher position next to Shepard. 

“Wrex thinks I’m pretty,” Garrus remarks, loudly, and Shepard’s lips thin into a line that means she’s trying not to laugh. “So, are we actually supposed to stand off to the side here? Just that?” 

“We could bring in chairs, if you’d like to sit,” Kirrahe deadpans. 

“Are we considered neutral parties, then?” Liara asks, sensing some sort of opportunity. 

“No,” he replies, and she wilts. 

“Commander Shepard,” Aekon begins, cutting across the room like she’d been speaking in these open areas all her short life, “Major Kirrahe has already informed me that you have balked at our initial offers of negotiation regarding the development of a cure for the genophage.” 

“You said you wanted control over distribution,” Wrex growls. 

Shepard puts up a hand to stop him from raising his voice, so he settles on maintaining an ongoing growl as she speaks. “We were asking for further clarification on what, exactly, he meant, before things downstairs happened. Do we get to ask how the female downstairs is doing right now, or is there a specific order to these things we have to talk about?” 

Aekon and Kirrahe both cock their heads. “This is a negotiation, Commander, not a scripted event,” Kirrahe explains, perplexed. 

“How is she doing, then?” 

Aekon taps something on her omnitool and projects her holo-screen into the air between them. That she, apparently, can get a connection between the insulated lower levels and where they are shouldn’t be a surprise. Garrus wonders how many clearances a female STG agent/Spectre could have in salarian space. Probably all of them. 

Mordin and another salarian scientist pop up on the screen. “Commander!” Mordin says with a bright smile. “Assume shooting went well for you! Always does. Good job. Unfortunately, things not going as well in labs. Test subject suffered multiple organ failure and attempts to resuscitate have failed. True pity.” In the background, the furor makes it clear that resuscitation attempts are still ongoing, but the lack of emergency lights and decreased urgency tell enough about her chances. 

Wrex lunges forward and Shepard throws her entire body into stopping him. Garrus and Liara start forward, too, but again, the annoying guards get in their way. 

“You told me she’d be fine!” Wrex roars. 

“Made no such promises,” Mordin replies, affronted. “Very unethical to promise such things in medical or scientific testing setting. Would never be unethical like that.” 

Kirrahe sighs through his teeth and Shepard’s lips press into that not-laugh line again. Aekon cuts the feed. “Dr. Solus does have a point—no one could make such promises, such as survival rate or success rate, given what we’re doing here. I am truly sorry for her loss, but she knew the risks better than you, Wrex.” 

“Shepard, let me shoot them,” Wrex demands. 

“Not yet, Wrex,” she grunts, both arms still around him, full weight pushed into keeping him stationary. 

Wrex finally steps back with a sneer. Shepard resumes her position after wiping her brow and heaving a deep breath. Neither Aekon nor Kirrahe outwardly react to Wrex’s show of temper. 

“First stipulation of this—the remaining female krogan is coming with us. You can transfer your data to us if there are any medication regimens she needs to continue, but this is over,” Shepard announces. 

“What a pity to cut this off before we can reach success,” Aekon replies, though she doesn’t sound particularly upset. “This could be arranged, if it must be, Commander. Barring unexpected miracle, a test pool of one subject is not the most useful for our trials.” 

“You won’t be grabbing any other females!” Wrex snarls, starting forward again, but again Shepard reels him back. 

“They were informed volunteers. We’ll forward you all of the paperwork and documentation,” Kirrahe replies. “There was a list of interested parties who wished to sign up for a second phase of trials, as well, so you know.”

Wrex gives him a look that tells him and everyone else in the room where he can shove his paperwork. “No. More. Females. You salarians have done enough damage, and just because you’re known to be fancy scientists does not mean you get to trick anyone else into believing in your kind of hope. You don’t offer hope, you offer further misery.” 

“Wrex, come on, they are working on a cure,” Shepard admonishes, though her gaze on Aekon is nearly a glare to match his. “But I think your approach to this does need to be revamped. Forward us the documents, sure, but I’m with Wrex on this one. Maybe we can set up a volunteer program later, once odds of success and not death are way higher, but for the time being, we want to shut down these test trials of yours. Any other approach by the STG—this cell or not—to Tuchanka is going to be considered a hostile action.” 

“Or an act of war,” Wrex growls. 

“Wrex, come on, we’re avoiding war here. We’re trying to do the opposite of war.” 

“I may not be a scientist, but even I know that test trials on living subjects are supposed to go at the end of the research and testing phase. I don’t think you salarians are that close. I think you just wanted to experiment on krogan again!” 

Kirrahe glances away, but Aekon meets Wrex’s aggression without batting an eye. (Which is saying something, for a salarian, given their usually twitchy eyelids.) “Research progresses far more quickly with subjects at multiple stages of development,” she replies. 

Spirits, Garrus thinks, watching as Shepard struggles to haul Wrex back again. So they were just experimenting on them. No wonder this isn’t a lure from the Council for Shepard—they’d have the Council up their cloacas if they heard about any of this. Granted, Garrus knows that there is a lot the Council turns a blind eye toward, especially considering the STG. Hell, they were the basis for the Spectres. But medical experimentation gone wild does not sit right with him. 

“Why do the salarians want to cure the genophage?” Shepard demands in a hard, icy tone. 

“To help mend these silly ongoing hostilities between our races. With proper guidance and rules, and brakes in place, the krogan are at a point where they could hopefully be given room to grow their culture again and join the galactic stage in a more reasonable and constructive manner,” Aekon replies. 

“Brakes,” Shepard and Wrex chorus in angry disbelief. 

Aekon, still, is undeterred. “If there were no regulations any of this, a krogan population boom, even if well-intentioned or peaceful—though most predictions point otherwise—could ruin the galaxy. This isn’t a matter of turning the genophage off and leaving it be, Commander. This needs to be controlled, gradual, and measured. If you were to release a large addition of any population, even a native species, to its habitat, it would overrun it, crowd out other species, and do worse. This has been demonstrated time and time again by well-intentioned conservationists.” 

“Are you calling us animals?!” Wrex snarls and Shepard skids back several feet as he stomps forward. 

“No—it was a metaphor,” Aekon deadpans. “Used to compare this situation to something that may be better understood. But apparently a mistake on my part to use it. Do remember who you are speaking with, Urdnot Wrex. We are salarians. Our breeding programs are the most rigid in the galaxy, and we are utilizing our own historical data to help build the best option for the krogan to rebuild. Taking the xenophobia out of the equation—we, ourselves, know what it can be like to have a population out of control. We are trying to help you and your people avoid yet another disaster.” 

“You’re the ones who used us as a bludgeon and set this all in motion to begin with! You think the krogan would give you an atom of control over how you think to fix us?!” Wrex stalks forward further, pushing Shepard as if her full weight and strength were not in front of him. He advances until one of her boots falls off the edge. 

Shepard stumbles, unbalanced, but Wrex catches her flailing arm without breaking his glaring match with Aekon. 

“This is getting too emotional and too personal,” Shepard breaks back in. 

“Which is why we’d hoped to work with you, Commander,” Kirrahe says, interjecting with the same sort of relief to avoid an argument. “For a more neutral perspective. Not to dismiss generational trauma suffered by krogan, but we need to be level-headed and focused now. Focused on the future, not on the past.” 

“That’s true, but let’s not be callous about this,” Shepard reluctantly agrees. She finally gets Wrex shoved back and somewhat behaving again. Garrus worries that the next time, she won’t be able to hold him back—or that Aekon may say something worse and that Shepard won’t want to hold Wrex back. 

Kirrahe glances between them, and then, with a sideways look to Aekon when she doesn’t speak, he steps up to respond. “We want control and input over genophage cure dispersion to help krogan population grow at a sustainable rate. We’ll forward you our proposed programs, our own breeding program data sets—what we can send, that isn’t classified—and there is some room for negotiation on which clans or population centers are focused on first. There is less room for negotiation in the math of it all, you understand. Given remaining krogan population, genetic diversity won’t be an issue, and partners won’t need to be selected for each other.” 

“I understand that this is how salarians do it, but most other species don’t, and that wasn’t actually on the table to begin with. I also understand that you’re concerned about the numbers and rates of growth and a lot of scientific stuff I am going to leave to you, Mordin, and others who have a better head for this,” Shepard frankly replies, “but this isn’t going to be a terribly popular proposal. People are going to think the salarians are just trying to control the krogan again. Also, we’re kind of ignoring the fact that the krogan are their own people—we need to extend a bit of trust that they won’t let themselves get carried away immediately. They almost destroyed their planet once, and I don’t think they’d be keen on doing it again.” 

She turns to Wrex, who shrugs. “It’s a pile of rubble, but it’s our pile of rubble. And I know this may come as a shock to you salarians, but I have already been keeping records of my own on populations and their growth and what areas can support how many. Kind of comes with the territory of being a leader. Pretty basic stuff, once you get past the stereotype that krogan can’t count past their fingers.” 

“Good to know we won’t be starting from zero,” Aekon replies. “Shall we send over our proposed cure dispersal programs, then, Commander? We want you—and everyone we work with on this project—to be fully informed.” 

Shepard turns to Wrex, under the guise of looking for his response, but Garrus catches the way she rolls her eyes. “Send it all over. Negotiations over numbers, my very favorite thing. Yay.” 

“You and me both,” Wrex grumbles. 

With a few swipes on her omnitool with her scary clearance levels, Aekon sends over what must be a pile of truly mind-numbing documents. After Shepard’s omnitool dings with the receipt, she taps hers, and Garrus and Liara receive their own copies a moment later. Aekon rolls her eyes with a flutter of her eyelids but does not remark on this. 

“Oh no,” Liara murmurs, so quiet only Garrus can hear her, which is not how he wants this to start. Peeking over, he finds that she’s already on the fourth page of charts, while he’s still puzzling out the acronyms they’d used on the first. He’s not a dumb man, but Liara is something else; this is a big reason why Shepard had wanted her here today. 

Shepard and Wrex share a holo-screen on their high dais, peering at the multitude of numbers and columns with matching expressions of half confusion, half grumpiness at having to puzzle these out. It’s cute, on her. It’s hilarious on Wrex. Garrus wishes he could take a picture on his omnitool without a dozen STG bastards swarming him and accusing him of stealing state secrets. 

Garrus finally sees the issue Liara had, just a few moments before Shepard and Wrex catch on. It isn’t about the confusing categories or unexplained jargon—it’s about simple math. 

“These numbers can’t be right?” Shepard realizes aloud, head cocked, eyebrows furrowed. Through her holo-screen, Garrus sees her pull up a calculator to double-check it. “This would be less than four percent of the krogan population.” 

“It would be approximately six percent of the krogan population on Tuchanka,” Aekon corrects. “We would assume distribution would happen there first, both for stability and record-keeping purposes. And to solidify Urdnot Wrex’s political power, of course. Krogan will likely have to make the journey there to receive the cure as time goes on, if only for logistical sake. They are far too dispersed across the galaxy to track down individuals.” 

“Okay, I’m not arguing about Tuchanka being the main place, or not having to round up krogan mercs, because that’s a resource sink that we can’t handle right now, but I am arguing about the fucking six percent?” Shepard forces out, voice rising in anger. Wrex is very still and very quiet beside her. Too still and too quiet. (Garrus wishes he could ready his assault rifle without, again, a dozen STG bastards swarming him.) 

“Yes. The first year would be six percent of the krogan population currently living on Tuchanka. We understand the krogan’s haste here, so we are being quite lenient with projected population regrowth rates. The next year would be seven percent, with one percent increase yearly until we hit ten percent of the adult krogan population, in which case we would reassess the program, based on successful birth rates.” 

“That’s not a cure. That’s another test trial,” Shepard points out in a quaking voice. 

“No cure, for anything, is absolute,” Aekon replies with a dismissive shake of her head. “And I would argue with the nuance you’re misunderstanding here—but this is the cause for the reassessment points every few years, you see. To ensure continued success.” 

“That’s not a cure!” Shepard repeats. 

Wrex hefts his shotgun. Almost a dozen (he knew it) STG agents swarm out from hidden places, readying their own weapons, all guns pointed up on the platform. When Garrus and Liara draw their own weapons, only two switch aim, one for each of them. It’d be insulting in other circumstances. 

Shepard does not ask Wrex to lower his gun this time. Her eyes blaze and her fists, clenched tight at her sides, shake. The rest of her is deathly still, yet tension radiates from her. “You called us all the way here, asking us to undergo significant political risk, asking the leader of the only stable krogan government system away from his planet, to give us an experiment.”

“Science is never-ending, Commander, and given the population range of krogan, hostility of krogan toward scientific advances especially those of my people, and the vastness of the galaxy—including spaces outside of Council jurisdiction—I’d say it would actually be impossible to fully cure the genophage in the total krogan population. There would always be those left out for various reasons. That is part of why it is so important to keep strict records about this, to try to maximize the population who is eventually cured of the genophage.” 

“That ‘eventually’ sure is something,” Wrex finally says in a growl more dangerous than a black hole. “For such a short-lived species, your timeframe on this is fucking astounding.” 

“You really demanded we come here, to you, for this?” Shepard adds in a voice equal parts incredulous and furious. “Sure, I get that it’s going to be a pain to round up the krogan. I frankly don’t care about a couple of outliers who get lost in the Terminus Systems because they’re too drunk on Omega to care about the future of their species. I really don’t!” 

Wrex shoots a half-glare sideways at her, but Shepard blusters on ahead, unheeding. But she is careful in the way that she steps forward—so she’s partially between Wrex and Aekon. 

“But the krogan are more than a couple of random mercs that we can statistically dismiss. The krogan are an entire people who have suffered through miscarriages, stillbirths, a loss of culture, historical disrespect, declining population, declining dignity, and being blamed for it all to boot. And you want to line them up, announce you might have a cure in several years, and then tell Wrex to pick and choose who gets it first? Who gets the honor of maybe being able to start a family? Or who gets the chance to be another salarian guinea pig?” 

Garrus doesn’t know what a rodent has to do with this—is she referring to her pet? He’d thought they were called hamsters—but Shepard’s rising volume and anger are more pressing. This situation is unraveling. He doesn’t blame her a single bit, because he’s still unpacking a lot of krogan-based, turian-raised xenophobia of his own, but even he can see that this is cruel and a joke. 

An insult, really. 

And neither Shepard nor Wrex take insults very well. 

“You called us here, and we agreed to come here, because you said you had a cure,” Shepard snarls in a close mimic to Wrex. 

“We will, given time and data,” Aekon replies. Kirrahe looks between her and Shepard with growing unease, but neither woman is backing down. “The krogan should be thankful we are going so far to help them.” 

Wrex points his shotgun at her. Shepard steps between the barrel and the Spectre, her back pressing against the gun, but still Wrex doesn’t lower his aim. His only courtesy is moving his finger off the trigger guard. 

“We’re done here,” Shepard almost hisses. “We’re escorting the remaining krogan female home to Tuchanka. The Normandy will not be returning to Sur’Kesh, even if you’d like to reopen negotiations—if you get your heads out of your asses, you can come to us next time, and maybe I’ll clear a spot in my schedule of saving the fucking galaxy for you.” 

“You’re making a mistake, Commander,” Aekon says—and finally, her professionalism (and arrogance) breaks. Her dark eyes dart over to Garrus and Liara, then return to Shepard’s furious form. 

“I don’t think I am,” Shepard growls in reply. 

“Commander,” Kirrahe starts, stepping forward, but Aekon snaps a hand up and he freezes. 

“The future is not written in rash actions based on panic and emotion. The salarians have already learned that lesson—we thought we taught it to the galaxy at large. We acknowledge that there may be greater threats out there, ones that will need addressing on a grand scale, but we cannot work together based on your senseless devotion to the monsters who almost destroyed the galaxy,” Aekon icily tells her, large eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. 

“That was the rachni, and actually—” 

Thank the spirits Shepard had not finished that sentence, because no matter how funny it would’ve been to see a bunch of STG agents shit themselves at her proclamation, now is not the time or the place for that. 

Wrex had tugged her back, and off the barrel of his shotgun, and Liara had thrown up a barrier between the higher platform and where Aekon and Kirrahe stand. 

Garrus had not noticed Aekon draw her own weapon. 

She holds a slim pistol, deceptively tiny, and polished to a deadly shine. She doesn’t bother aiming it at anyone, but instead uses it to gesture. “I see you are beyond reason in this panicked crusade of yours, Commander,” Aekon says in the same cold tone. “I had sincerely hoped we could work together. Pity. But life is full of disappointments, is it not?” 

“Apparently it is,” Shepard replies. “I’m taking my crew, and the krogan female downstairs, and going. Do not try to stop us.” 

“Do not overstep what you need to do to depart, and I see no cause for hostilities between us. You, alone, will be escorted downstairs to retrieve the test subject and Dr. Solus. Your crew will remain under watch up here. Then, you will all be escorted back to your ship, and your ID will be scrubbed from our satellite safety protocols. That will give you an hour to exit our atmosphere.” 

Garrus thrums in angry unease; he doesn’t want Shepard to go back downstairs alone, even if the salarians are playing neutral right now. Interestingly, Aekon is not the one who escorts her—she leaves that to Kirrahe. Nor does she stick around to watch them. 

The Spectre casts one last look over each of them in turn, eyelids fluttering, before she holsters her slim pistol and walks off. 

“Females,” Wrex scoffs with a shake of his head. “Ice-blooded in any and all species.” 

“It could have gone worse,” Liara reasons. Wrex and Garrus both spare her flat looks. “It really, honestly could have, even if this was… a huge waste of time and energy. We may not be friendly with the salarians, but no one is hostile. We didn’t gain outright enemies. We even gained some very interesting intel today.” 

“That the salarians are huge sacks of pyjak shit? Yeah, could’ve told you that one already, Liara,” Wrex replies. 

She swats his arm. “Wrex, I know you’re upset, but your pessimism is also a waste of time right now! We learned much about Cerberus, as a start. That’s a development no one could have predicted.” 

“Still ended up in a lot of bodies,” Garrus points out, earning another scowl from Liara, “but yeah, I suppose that was quite the development. It’d be nice if they stopped shooting at us in the future. One less thing shooting at us. And so long as the salarians don’t start, we didn’t lose too much today.” 

“Outside of time. Not like we have a lot of that,” Wrex grumbles. 

Both Liara and Garrus wince. Unfortunately, that’s the biggest point of them all. 

Shepard and Kirrahe come back up the elevator after not too long; Mordin supports the lumbering female krogan behind them. She’s wrapped in so many layers and protective gear that she looks more like a mountain of plastic than a krogan. Garrus can’t tell if she’s limping or just finds it difficult to walk, but to see a tiny salarian helping prop up a large krogan is an interesting sight. Funny in other circumstances. 

“Are you alright?” Wrex demands at once, practically rushing over to her. 

The female spares him a very unimpressed look beneath all of the fabrics and sealed plastics she’s draped in. “Still alive, aren’t I? That’s all that matters to you.” Her voice is muffled from the sealant. 

Garrus presses his mandibles tight to prevent a laugh at Wrex’s expense. It’s dark humor, but it’s nice to see the old krogan get a dose of it—especially when he can’t snap back. 

“Stable condition, just general fatigue,” Mordin explains. “Simple medical and dietary regimen to follow during recuperation process. Needs vitamins. A lot of them. And multiple injections to revive immune system. And much protein. Shepard, can we cook Urz for her?” 

“Mordin, I will leave you here in the jungle,” Shepard flatly replies. 

“Will find other source of protein shortly,” Mordin tells the female krogan, undeterred. “Kirrahe, almost pleasant to see you again. Give my regards to Aekon. The impolite regards. Wrex, no need to fret, only fatigued! As previously stated.” 

Wrex, hovering badly, backs off with a frown. Garrus doesn’t bother quashing his laugh this time, though he does try to hide it with a cough. 

“Commander,” Kirrahe says, stopping Shepard before she can follow the rest of them toward the docks. Garrus lingers, because there are too many STG bastards around for him to be comfortable until they’re back on the Normandy. Liara, too, hangs back. 

“Major. Sorry this all went sideways—I know you were enlisted to try to prevent that,” Shepard tells him. Then, she shrugs. “It happens, even though it sucks. Can’t say I’m sorry. Your demands were unreasonable.” 

“Science requires rules,” Kirrahe replies. He sounds just as remorseless as her, but at least they’re being civil about it. 

Then, he sticks out his hand. It’s an uncommon gesture among salarians, usually only used by those dealing with other species. Shepard doesn’t hesitate before taking it, but breaks into a smile as she shakes his hand. 

“It was an honor to serve alongside you on Virmire, no matter how it ended. Never got the chance to properly thank you for saving my men. So—thank you, Commander. Sincerely. I hope we can meet again in the future, under brighter circumstances than then, or today,” Kirrahe tells her. 

Shepard’s grin grows. “I hope so, too, Major. Tell Aekon she can lose my number, but you can keep it. The Normandy and the salarians may not have an alliance, but you can count me among your friends.” 

Garrus waits until they’re out of earshot, out of the building and almost to the Normandy, before snarking, “That was a fonder goodbye than I was expecting, considering how you and Aekon were yelling at each other earlier. Should I be jealous?” 

Liara rolls her eyes at them. The airlock door opens for them—Wrex, Mordin, and the female already back inside—but she waits until the doors close and they’re officially sealed away from nosy STG agents again. “What did you get? I’m sure Mordin gathered a lot while he was in the labs as well.” 

“Get? What? Wait, does this have to do with why you disappeared during that medical emergency?” Garrus asks, clueless. 

Shepard grins again, just as happily as before. “Major Kirrahe decided to give us a going away present.” There is a small data drive held up between her fingers that Kirrahe must have passed off during the handshake. The Special Tasks Group may be masters of subterfuge and technology, but sometimes, low-tech answers are the easiest. 

“I picked up a dead drop from the mole in that cell. Some of the information would probably overlap, and before you ask, yes, I sold the information to Cerberus,” Liara says as she plucks the data drive from Shepard. “I left a few scanning and auditory recording bugs behind, too. I’m sure some will be found, but we may be able to monitor any of their future research. I can’t imagine the salarians would leave this project behind just because they aren’t working with us and lost two research subjects today.” 

“Don’t try to distract me, Liara—why the hell did you sell that information to Cerberus?!” 

“Woah, hold on, before we get into another argument today—you two were playing spies the entire time?” Garrus asks, baffled. Liara, sure, that’s what she did nowadays. But Shepard? His Commander Shepard, who almost gave away the secret of the rachni just because she got angry? 

“I figured Liara was going to do whatever she wanted—which she apparently did—and Mordin could memorize anything he saw down there. Kirrahe was a surprise,” Shepard says, temper fading, replaced by a little more fondness for the salarian Major. “Nice to know there are still friends out there in the galaxy. It’s probably a bunch of stuff Liara already picked up, as mentioned, but it’s something. And it’s a hell of a gesture of trust. I’m glad we’re not walking out with nothing… Now, Liara, what the hell were you thinking?!” 

“It was an educated guess that they would move while we were there. Mind you, I never would have suspected that Cerberus would already have orders—or hesitation, at least—to avoid us, but that is very useful to know.” 

“Liara,” Shepard tries again, catching her by the upper arm as the doors to the CIC open. “You sold information that could have endangered us. Endangered our allies.” 

Liara turns away, regretful, but her voice is hard when she responds. “The Shadow Broker is supposed to be a neutral entity, Shepard—” 

“You’re my friend, and you were my friend before you were the Broker!” Shepard nearly shouts. 

“Uh, wanna try not yelling about really secret things in the middle of the deck?” Joker suggests from the cockpit. 

Shepard releases Liara and sighs. Liara crosses her arms, defensive, eyes still downcast. “You didn’t let me finish, Shepard,” she quietly replies. “The Shadow Broker is a neutral entity, and people have noticed that it hasn’t been. I am your friend. But I am also the Shadow Broker. I will never act in a way that would unduly endanger our mission or goals, but I’ve been too careless thus far, and certain… mitigating actions need to be taken. It would only worsen everything if the Normandy were to be attacked because more people suspected me of being the Broker. I will probably have to sell other information that would work against us in the future. I will never do anything that would ruin us, however, and you have to believe me there.” 

“I believe that much,” Shepard says with another sigh. She rubs her temple. “The information today is yours to go through with. And I know that sometimes, in the future, you won’t be able to warn me about things, because I’m a shit actor and probably would give things away. But I don’t have to be happy about it, either.” 

“Do these ‘mitigating actions’ have anything to do why you brought your boyfriend on board?” Garrus chimes in. 

Liara’s downcast expression immediately turns to indignance. “He is not—we’re not together like that, Garrus! As I have told you before, more than once!” 

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” Joker calls from the cockpit, causing Shepard to snicker, though Garrus’ translator can hardly make sense of the phrase. 

Liara puffs her cheeks with a very angry—and purple-cheeked—scowl. “You want to know why Feron is here?” 

“Yeah, it would be nice to know why I’m dealing with double the voice kink jokes now,” Garrus drawls. Shepard snickers again. 

Liara shakes her head at both of them and their shared sense of humor. “That’s because Feron has a crude sense of humor. But—fine. It’s almost time, anyway. I’ll explain tonight, after Mordin and I go over everything we’ve gathered today, and the female krogan is stabilized. I’m not certain how much help I can offer Dr. Chakwas, but I can at least help stop Wrex from making a fool of himself in front of her.” 

“I don’t think anyone can stop that,” Shepard points out, “and frankly? I don’t think we should stop that. I think we should watch.” 

Chapter Text

Their next course is set for Tuchanka. It’ll take just two days, since they’re already in Citadel space, which Mordin claims is more than enough time to stabilize the female’s immune system, now that she’s going off whatever drugs they’d been pumping her full of. Shepard hasn’t had the time or will to go through the STG notes just yet. She probably won’t like what she’ll find, even if it is good progress—that they’re going to piggyback off of. 

What she also doesn’t like: referring to their temporary companion as The Female. It sounds clinical, even if that’s the preferred term for krogan. But she won’t give out her name, and she’ll hardly speak to Wrex outside of throwing some impressive (and hilarious) shade. 

“And we’re sure just this much is fine?” Shepard asks, her breath hot beneath her surgical mask. She’s keeping her distance, she went through decon, and she’s wearing gloves and booties, but humans are walking disease vectors. Shouldn’t she be wearing a suit like Tali’s to be in the medbay right now? 

“Not many shared diseases between humans and krogan, Shepard,” Mordin dismissively replies. “Very, very few airborne. Krogan hardy, immune to most viruses and bacteria and infections. Which is why genophage necessary at all.” 

The female glowers at Mordin. As usual, Mordin doesn’t give a damn about other people’s opinions of him. 

“How are you feeling now?” Chakwas asks, checking over a datapad Mordin had loaded up for her. Chakwas has adapted admirably, considering she had just been given joint medical custody of a precarious krogan female, and then Mordin’s own hyperspeed medical explanations on top of it. 

“Better, now that there’s solid food in me, instead of the liquid crap the STG scientists were feeding me,” the female deadpans. She tore through two very rare steaks and half a shipping box of klixen-style roasted varren jerky. (Grunt is still mourning its loss.) “I appreciate your misplaced concerns, but if I haven’t died yet, then I won’t.” 

“Hopeful, that’s good,” Chakwas notes with her usual dryness. “I like that in a patient. Keep it up, if you’d please.” 

“Is there any way to tell if any of the shit they were testing on her was working?” Wrex asks, undeniably fretting in his position by the door. He’s wringing his hands and everything. Shepard has never seen him like this before, and it’s fucking hilarious. 

“Bloodwork already done, other samples taken, tests already underway,” Mordin replies with a click of his tongue. “Patience, if you could? Science has its own pace. Answers come with time.” 

“Trust Mordin, Wrex. If there’s an answer to a scientific mystery out there—especially in the medical field—he’ll figure it out,” Shepard kindly tells him. 

“Typical male,” the female grunts. 

“Your health is stable now, so of course I’m worried about all of the experimentation those damned salarians did on you!” Wrex snaps back. 

Shepard wonders if it’d be rude to get popcorn. “Well, let me know when you do get any results, or if there’s any other change in her condition, Mordin. Ma’am? If you need anything, or wish to speak with me for any reason, you can ask E—our, uh, ship’s assistant for me.” 

“Your politeness is appreciated, if stupid and funny,” the female replies. 

Shepard bows her head before leaving the medbay. It takes a bit of shimmying to pull the plastic coverings off her boots, and then one of the gloves sticks on her fingers just to be stubborn, but she thinks she gets off without too much loss of dignity, considering the mess is empty. 

Until Shepard looks up to find Javik watching her, yellow eyes glowing in his shadowed spot. 

He doesn’t approach or say anything, so Shepard offers an awkward little wave, then scoots over toward Liara’s den of information. 

—

“No second thoughts, remember? This is the best plan we’ve got,” Feron reminds her, nudging her knee with his foot. 

Liara can hardly bring herself to look at him. It’s been nice, actually, to spend so much time with him, even if they’ve been absorbed in her work for most of it. And she has missed being on a ship—certainly missed being on the Normandy with all of its colorful characters. (Most of them, anyway.) But that no one had questioned why she had brought someone else aboard until now is a little… disconcerting. 

Or is it her who has become too mistrustful of others and their motives? Why would Shepard question her? They assume that she and Feron are romantically involved, of course, but that is a frivolous reason for someone to join the front lines of an impossible war effort. But apparently an allowable one. 

Glyph chimes when the door is unlocked. Shepard comes in, glancing back over her shoulder, before turning her attention to Liara and breaking into the normal warm, friendly smile she wears when speaking to her crew. (Liara has missed that, too.) “Oh, I’m first? I would’ve assumed Garrus had been breaking the doors down to get to gossip.” 

“EDI, would you please ask Garrus to come here?” Liara asks. She could’ve asked Glyph to relay the message, hijacking the Normandy’s intercom system, but she’s doing her best to adjust to EDI’s presence. Omniscient presence, at least as far as the Normandy is concerned. It has not helped her paranoia, but, well, she’s trying. She knows the Normandy has changed without her, and she must respect that. 

“It was mostly a joke,” Shepard says, then perches on the only available chair. “Do you want anyone else in on this? Is this classified, or a personal secret? …You look down, Liara. Is everything alright?” she belatedly realizes. She leans forward, head tilted, trying to look Liara in the eye. 

“EDI, would you also ask Tali to come here, too? I’ll speak to Wrex personally later. He appears rather… preoccupied.” 

Shepard snorts. “To say the least. I know fertile females are a big deal for the krogan, but he’s acting like… I don’t actually know.” 

“Like a moonstruck hanar,” Feron supplies. 

Shepard laughs again, though Liara doubts she understands the simile. (Or rather, how crass it is. Oh, she hopes she doesn’t ask Thane about it later. …Even if that would be funny to hear about. Maybe she hopes, a little.) 

“I told you. His sense of humor is… something,” Liara says, shrugging one shoulder. Feron smirks at her, and Liara sticks her tongue out back at him. 

Glyph chimes in announcement and the door opens, revealing both Garrus and Tali this time. Tali flounces in with the usual enthusiasm she gets when being allowed into this area—Liara loves her, but unfortunately, she does have to restrict her access, if only because of the speed with which Tali could get into her systems and would, out of pure and innocent curiosity. “Garrus told me we were getting a gossip session about the steamy drell romance you started when you refused to join us on the Collector mission!” Tali chirps. 

Liara levels a flat glare up at Garrus, then moves from her perch on the desk to allow Tali the space. Feron laughs at her expense. The Shadow Broker shouldn’t be getting laughed at as much as she is; that’s probably why Feron is doing it. Keeping her humble. And laughed at, very unfairly. 

“I didn’t say it in exactly those words,” Garrus hedges, glancing away with false innocence. 

“Since you don’t believe Liara,” Feron starts, and Garrus goes rigid at the sound of his voice, earning another snort of laughter from Shepard, “let me tell you plainly—I am not, nor have I ever, been fucking Liara T’Soni.” 

“Feron,” she scolds, heat rising in her cheeks. “Goddess, must you be this way? We are not romantically or sexually involved! Despite his charming personality, Feron is one of my very dearest friends. …Very much in spite of that. Remind me, why do I keep you around?” 

“Because we’ve both learned, despite our differences, we make a hell of a team?” Feron points out. “Or maybe it’s the eidetic memory. Or maybe the turian isn’t the only one with the affinity for drell voices.” 

Shepard laughs again. This time, Garrus raps her on the head, earning a surprised squeak. Liara hadn’t been aware adult humans, much less Shepard, could make such a sound. 

“You’ll get used to their flirting, now that they’re out of the pining hopelessly stage of things,” Tali deadpans. “Well, you’d get used to it if you ever came out to socialize with the crew again, instead of staying cooped up in here all the time.” 

“I’ve been busy,” Liara insists. “We’ve been setting up an awful lot of moving parts for this to work. And it’s about time, too, so at least it’s working.” 

“Let’s find out what ‘this’ is, now?” Shepard suggests. “I hadn’t thought anything about Liara bringing you on board—her vouching for someone is trust enough, even if she weren’t the Shadow Broker—but you haven’t been very keen on socializing, either, Feron. Not that you need to be best friends with the crew, but we’ve sort of become accustomed to each other, and have an established baseline of camaraderie.” 

“Oh, I’ve noticed. Going through a suicide mission or two would do that to a team, wouldn’t it?” Feron replies. “I’m not here for friendship, if you don’t mind, Commander. I’m here for Liara. And the jokes you’ve been making at her expense—I’ll fondly remember those for awhile yet.” 

Liara sighs again, face held in her hands. 

Feron laughs. “She’s never been so easy to embarrass until you came back onto the scene!” 

“Oh, Liara’s always been pretty bashful. You just got to know the scary, professional part of her first. This is her charming true side,” Tali says with a pat on her shoulder. She says it so earnestly, too, which only elicits a worsening blush in Liara. “So then, what is all this about? Is this a mystery or not?” 

“It’s not a mystery, it’s a backup plan,” Liara says into her hands. 

“I don’t mind explaining it,” Feron suggests, probably the nicest he’ll be for the duration of this meeting. While he may not want to socialize with the crew more than is necessary, it is clear he’s enjoying this much. It’s one thing to read the entire Shadow Broker dossier on someone’s life, and quite another to watch them get flustered by old friends. 

Liara would probably do the same, if their positions were swapped. But Feron has always been cagey about his past—even if she’s read it all—and she is nice enough not to pry into what he’d done for the previous Shadow Broker or how he’d come to leave Kahje. Some things are better shared than read. 

“Feron is going to return to Hagalaz to reclaim the Shadow Broker’s ship and pretend to be them,” Liara tells them. “I will continue my duties, but Feron will be assuming some as well—more like a temporary partnership than solely me in charge. Part of this is to create more of a shield around myself, but part of it is…” 

“Bait,” Feron replies without a hint of shame. “There are a few players who suspect Liara right now, or know enough about the Shadow Broker to probably figure out Hagalaz, given enough time. So we need to set up someone they can find, so it’s not her.” 

“Wait, you’re being bait—you mean like a decoy, right?” Tali asks in alarm.

“Unfortunately, it will probably come to a point where it is bait,” Liara murmurs. “This is my own mistake; I’ve been too sloppy, to obvious with my loyalties. Some of that can be repaired still, or mitigated, but not all of it. And I can’t know for certain who all of my enemies are. The Shadow Broker may know a lot, but not everything, I’ve found. So Feron agreed to help me in this, and we’re setting the ship over Hagalaz back up as a working base. He’ll take our shuttle and head there once we’re closer to the Migrant Fleet, since it is close enough for him to make it to Omega and charter secure passage there from another broker we can trust.” 

“On the upside, with that beast of a ship back up and working at full capacity, plus Liara graciously giving up a few of her duties to me, she won’t be such a ball of tension,” Feron points out, like this silver lining is worth him risking his life. 

“Wait, why does he have to be bait at all? I understand splitting duties and using that ship again, and I understand that you’ll have to be a little rougher on us going forward, but why does Feron need to go and be a sitting duck?” Shepard asks. 

“A sitting what?” Feron asks with a squint, off guard for the first time tonight. 

“We have the krogan—we can pull a security detail, no problem. We hopefully won’t even really need them until we need ground forces against the Reapers, anyway. Half a dozen could help him hold that ship for a long time, Liara, we saw how defensible it was. Hell, a dozen krogan would be as good as an army on that ship—” 

“This is about not drawing any more attention to ourselves!” Liara exclaims, frustrated and angry at herself for her frustration. Ashamed at herself. She sighs, shoulders drooping, and massages her temples. “It will be known shortly by many key players that you have secured a krogan alliance and rebuffed the STG concerning a genophage cure, Shepard. If Feron were to suddenly enlist a dozen krogan soldiers, even if we could secure their loyalty and secrecy, even if we could pass them off as mercs, it would still be a very obvious move. Too obvious.” 

“So you know, it isn’t as if I will be completely defenseless,” Feron adds, arms crossed. “I may not have all the fancy hanar training that Compact guy of yours has, but I can hold my own, and I’ve spent enough time on that ship to give anyone a runaround. It’s designed to be practically a maze. A highly defensible maze.” 

“But you’re still risking your life to draw attention away from Liara,” Tali says with concern obvious in her voice. 

Feron just shrugs. “Well, it’s my turn to do so.” 

“You take turns?” Garrus asks. 

“Apparently,” Liara sighs again. 

—

“Mordin, given all the data we scraped from the STG, does this improve your timeline of developing a cure for the genophage on your own?” Shepard asks during the official debriefing. 

Thane has already heard piecemeal from her and Mordin both, but he’s glad she’s sticking to her resolution to be open with her crew. Others may have stronger feelings about the genophage and curing it than he does, but she isn’t shying from the openness. 

“Oh yes,” Mordin cheerily replies, “by several months. Difficult to gauge exactly, but certainly very helpful. Also helpful to have blood samples from surviving female krogan.” 

“You were already giving us about a year. What’s several months?” Wrex presses. 

Mordin tilts his head, thinking. “Two months, three months less? Depends on range of factors, cannot estimate just yet until test results come in. Still, very promising.” 

Wrex growls to himself. Mordin doesn’t bat an eye at the seething krogan within arm’s reach of him. “Those STG bastards were promising it to us in three months, not three months less than a year.” 

“They were promising you a series of test trials,” Shepard reminds him. “For those who haven’t read the report yet—we will not be having an alliance with the STG or any of its cells. Their proposed cure was more of a series of trials, and they insisted on controlling cure distribution, with frankly insulting numbers. We can’t work with that. So Mordin, it’s your project now, and whatever you need, we’ll do our best to give it to you.” 

Wrex claps Mordin on the shoulder, staggering him and earning a chirp of alarm. “Congrats, doc. You have the entire future of the krogan race on your shoulders—and you’re about to become the most protected person in the galaxy for it. Not that Shepard isn’t a great bodyguard, but when I put word out that you’re about to be our hero, you’ll have the strongest allies in the galaxy at your command.” 

“Hero of the krogan race…” Mordin trails off, sounding bemused for a moment. Off-kilter and taken aback. It’s so uncharacteristic of him that Thane has to smile. “Fascinating concept. Intriguing. Even more fascinating: words’ elicited reaction to latent guilt over past genophage work.” 

“Hold up, you actually feel guilty over that?” Jack exclaims, sounding shocked, and her surprise is mirrored by several others. 

“Maybe,” Mordin flippantly replies. 

“But your whole thing is that you don’t give a shit over ethics or whatever anyone else thinks of you! It’s why you’re actually kinda cool!” 

“‘Coolness’ levels do not matter. Possible guilt addressed on personal level. Interesting, but for another time.” 

“See, what’s what I mean!” Jack insists. 

“I don’t give a damn about your own moral dilemmas or how you feel, so long as you get the work done,” Wrex says, giving Mordin’s thin shoulder a less-than-friendly squeeze. 

“Always see project through to the end. Professional pride,” Mordin sniffs. 

“Good. And you—whelp.” Wrex turns his red gaze on Grunt, who tenses, lip already curled. (Thane catches Mordin rubbing his shoulder where Wrex had grabbed him.) “You’re part of my clan, so you’re following my orders. Your duty is now to protect this salarian with every atom in your body.” 

“He’s part of my team, old man. The Normandy team you didn’t join. So I was already doing that,” Grunt growls back. He valiantly ignores the affectionate look Shepard sends him for his declaration, but Garrus and Jack snicker. Without looking at him, Grunt punches Garrus in the shoulder, this time earning a laugh from Zaeed. 

“Do you even know how important this is?” Wrex asks. 

Grunt snorts. “Of course I do. I’m krogan, too, even if you think I’m inferior for being the perfect result of an experiment.” 

“I don’t think you’re inferior—I think you’re young,” Wrex scoffs, shaking his head. “You haven’t seen a thousand years of dead babies and weeping parents and dying population. This is more important than you, or even Shepard.” 

“It’s not more important than the Reapers, Wrex,” Shepard reproachfully points out. “But you’ve made your point.” 

“Heh, for you, maybe. I’d say it’s about on equal importance footing for the krogan. Don’t forget—you’re young, too, Shepard, even if you’re a battlemaster.” 

“Entertaining notion, to be protected instead of targeted by krogan!” Mordin remarks. 

“Yeah, well, hopefully you won’t need that much protecting. Unfortunately, Mordin, you’re grounded from most missions for the time being. I can’t think of a back-up if you were to get hurt or die out there, so you’re the most protected person in the galaxy, and about to be the most confined. Good luck with lockdown,” Shepard says with the morbid cheer of someone who had been recently forced to confine herself as well. “Keep all your notes and progress backed up, though, and EDI can make and store redundancies, too.” 

“Of course, Shepard,” EDI says from her door interface. “I will also do my utmost to assist Dr. Solus in whatever capacity he needs.” 

“AI helper—ought to be useful,” Mordin muses, chin in hand. 

“I’d offer you krogan scientists, but you’d probably laugh them off the Normandy,” Wrex dryly says. “Let me know if you need anyone else, though. Shouldn’t be too hard to stage a kidnapping or two. As a personal favor, doc.” 

Mordin opens his mouth, but Shepard cuts across them both with a glare. “No, we’ll push the kidnappings aside right now, thank you very much. Mordin, go through me if you need anything, and we can arrange it for you. No kidnapping. Explicitly—no kidnapping, coercing, taking, threatening, or any other terms you think of, Wrex.” 

“You need to expand your vocabulary then, Shepard,” Wrex returns with a sharp grin. 

“Anyway,” Shepard says with one last unimpressed look for Wrex, “we’re headed to the Migrant Fleet now, who have agreed to meet us sort of close to the Perseus Veil. The quarians know we’re going to offer peace between them and the geth, so this is a good sign. Tali, any updates from the Flotilla?” 

“No, they’re prepared to receive us whenever we get there, and the Admiralty Board has still agreed to meet with us. I think Admiral Xen is excited,” Tali says, obviously chagrined. 

“Legion, any updates with the geth?” 

“Negative, Shepard-Commander. This platform has remained in contact with the consensus after relaying your proposals for an alliance. We remain in consensus.” 

“Good! Finally, something might actually go smoothly.” 

“You know that human term—‘jinxing’?” Garrus says. 

Shepard snorts at him, cheer gone. “You know, it usually doesn’t hit until someone points out that we’re jinxed, big guy. So if this goes tits up, I’m blaming you.” 

Grunt and Wrex both laugh. 

—

“I think Samara would’ve liked this,” Shepard says, fists on her hips as she surveys what the asari’s room had become. 

“I know she would have. I’ve already sent her pictures of the progress,” Thane replies. Shepard shoots him a grin before wiping her sweaty brow. Thane doesn’t care how sweaty she is, and wraps an arm around her waist, tugging her against his side. “I don’t know much about plants, but this will likely be a very pretty room when everything is installed.” 

“This is as much as we can get done without those quarians helping to nitpick,” Gardner says, ignoring their affection as he bustles over to another tank of water with a note taped to it. “And whatever we’ll have to do with our own learning curve. Commander, you sure about these, uh, crop choices? I’m not a gardener, even if you’re havin’ fun poking at my name, and I can only read so fast with all those manuals you’ve heaped on me.” 

“The quarians will have to walk us through dextro-based plant stuff, and there’s supposedly a dual-chirality crop they’ve been trying to breed as a potential export. And I don’t know much about hydroponics specifically, but hey, I was a rancher for my entire childhood. I picked up a few things.” 

Gardner straights and spares her a suspicious, narrow-eyed look. “Commander, you know I’m not one of those fancy career military types, and I’m not one of those big colony types, either. I may not have been out in the fields all my life, but I know the difference between a rancher and a farmer, so you know, too.” 

Thane doesn’t understand the nuance; he believes it may be a translator thing. But there is, apparently, nuance, and Shepard chuckles nervously as she avoids Gardner’s gaze. 

“Joker has already forbidden me from having a chicken or two, but we did have a big garden. I helped my grandma and uncle a lot. And I know with utmost certainty that zucchini and squash are the highest yielding fuckers in the universe when it comes to crop choices,” Shepard declares like this is a battle strategy. And it is, in some way, since food is a necessary calculation when preparing for a war, even if they’re only providing for themselves right now. 

Not that he knows what a zucchini or a squash is. Isn’t squash a verb? Well, Thane supposes he will get a crash course on human crops in the very near future. 

Nearly all of the tanks have been set up, many of them filled, with labels attached for planned plants. Gardner, despite his complaining, has studied up on what Shepard had requested of him. Multiple nights, Thane had come into the mess hall to find the man poring over a datapad with a determined, if perplexed, look on his face. The quarians have already agreed to help with the rest of the set-up, including passing over programs for EDI to utilize to figure out watering schedules, so much of it will be automated. But it had been purely physical work to drag the parts in. 

In a month or two, this will be a room of greenery. A rare break of nature on a starship. Samara definitely would’ve liked it. 

“Shepard, we are approaching Tuchanka now,” EDI announces. 

“Roger that. Wrex and our lady guest know?” 

“They’ve been informed as well, though there may be some… complications concerning that, Shepard.” 

Shepard and Thane exchange a worried look. “Hoo boy,” Gardner says. “Have fun with that, Commander. I’ll be in here, away from that.” 

The medbay is a commotion, with several other curious parties already peeking through the windows from the mess hall. Even outside, Thane can hear Wrex’s raised voice from within. Chakwas remains seated at her desk, however, the picture of calm exasperation, so it can’t be that bad. Surely.

“Report!” Shepard barks as soon as she marches in. Following her, Thane scans over the room to ensure there are no active threats or injuries sustained so far. As usual for the Normandy and its passionate crew, it appears to be an argument, not a true fight. 

Mordin opens his mouth—he’s grinning—but Wrex closes a huge hand over his entire head and forces him back down onto the medical cot. “Shepard, finally, a voice of reason. Talk some sense into this female, would you?! And get your salarian out of here before I eat him!” 

“So much for being the most protected being in the galaxy and krogan hero,” Thane mildly remarks, earning a glare. Mordin ducks out from Wrex’s hand and sidles over, still looking far too smug with the situation. Not a good sign. 

“The female has a name, so maybe she’d warm up to you a bit more if you referred to her as more than ‘this female’?” Shepard archly points out, arms crossed. 

“Yeah? And you know her name, then?” Wrex demands. 

They all turn to the female krogan, who has not, in fact, given out her name. She tosses her head. She’s been dressed in what they can offer—some of Grunt’s armor and a few more protective layers to hypothetically support her immune system and stop her from breathing in things she shouldn’t—and it still hides most of her face. “My name doesn’t matter. Call me anything.” 

“Ma’am, you don’t want this crew to name you, considering the suggestions we’ve had for—another crewmate,” Shepard replies, faltering briefly. (The rachni soldier’s current name is Athau, he thinks. He has honestly lost track of how many it has been through.) 

“Doesn’t matter to me, but my name is irrelevant here, isn’t it?” she maintains. “I’ve heard we’ve arrived at Tuchanka, Commander. Good. Can you get this noisy little brat away from me now?” 

Thane first thinks she is referring to Mordin—he has certainly been called noisy and many synonyms in the past—but her glare is on Wrex. Shepard bites her lip to very obviously keep herself from bursting out laughing when she makes the same connection. 

“I rescued you!” Wrex cries in dismay. 

“Yes. And I already thanked you for that, didn’t I?” 

“Yeah, but now we’re back on Tuchanka, and we—” 

“And Dr. Solus is still on board. He may be a salarian, and an annoying one at that, but krogan are just as annoying,” the female deadpans. “You do not need to fret over me, Urdnot Wrex. I am not your concern anymore. You’re welcome.” 

“Uhh,” Shepard says, and stalls out. “Ma’am, that’s… Uh. Why?” 

“There is no cure for the genophage yet. The salarian doctor is currently the only one working on it that we trust, right?” 

“I am!” Mordin pipes up with pride. 

“Then I will stay here until I’m given the cure I was promised. Then, and only then, will I return to Tuchanka. Dr. Solus has already agreed and seems quite happy with the arrangement, given that he’ll have a test subject to study. Won’t that help, doctor?” 

“Yes!” Mordin chirps again. 

Chakwas spares Shepard a baleful look. “You see what I’ve been dealing with this morning, Commander? My medbay is not the place for krogan infighting. And frankly, Mordin is only making it worse. Wrex believes he talked her into staying aboard.” 

“Because he did!” Wrex snaps. “Why else would a krogan want to stay on a ship to be poked and prodded by a salarian, when Tuchanka is right here? It’s really shaped up, you know. The females are quite happy with their territory. Not like I’m going to be hovering over you every minute of the day, since they can guarantee your safety, and I guarantee everyone’s—” 

“Your arrogance may sway other females into letting you into their bed, Wrex, but it’s not appreciated here,” the female breaks in. 

Wrex stomps his foot with a loud, metallic whump. “This isn’t courtship, this is safety!” 

“And the Normandy is a small, moving target in space, with half a chance for sterility and two doctors on board.” 

“You are stabilized, ma’am,” Chakwas interjects with her usual professionalism. “You immune system is on the mend, you’re out of danger of organ failure, and given no one coughs on you and you follow basic hygiene practices, there is no medical reason for you not to return to Tuchanka. Should that be what you wish to do.” 

“I wish to be cured,” the female growls. “That’s what I signed up for with the salarians. That is what I was promised. That is what you were promised, Wrex, in exchange for a krogan alliance with the Commander and her alien vessel.” 

“Then I’m staying, too,” Wrex announces. 

“No,” Shepard says at once, with such sternness that even he is taken aback. “Wrex, I can’t support three full-grown krogan on this ship for however long it takes Mordin to synthesize a cure! Hell, two might be a challenge, if only for protein requirements. Not to mention what Javik goes through. More importantly—you are the leader for what amounts to the krogan government right now, or did you forget that because of one pretty female?” 

“She’s not that pretty,” Wrex grumbles. 

“Neither are you,” the female shoots back. 

Wrex huffs a growl at her, then turns to Shepard, though his glare remains on his boots. “I didn’t forget about that part. But I promised my people a cure to the genophage. It’s not common knowledge yet, but more than a few people know what I was speaking to you about, Shepard. Other clan leaders are listening and watching very carefully. Sure, yeah, I got a promise of work and a bunch of scientific notes we don’t know how to read, much less work on, but not everyone will be convinced by that.” He flaps his claws at the female krogan. “She is exactly what I’ll be up against here—krogan demanding an immediate fix, like always. For such a long-lived species, you’d think we’d learn a bit of patience, but no. This is something we’ve thought impossible for too long, and you’re the first one who actually offered it concretely. That got a lot of hopes up really high, Shepard.” 

“We’ll deliver, I promise you, Wrex. But we need time. I’ll keep you updated every step of the way,” Shepard replies, taking his large hand in hers. “And even if we agree to keep you aboard, ma’am, I’m sure you’ll also keep in touch with Wrex to keep him abreast of updates?” 

“If I have to,” she grumbles. 

“You will. Part of the rules of staying aboard the Normandy—be nice to Wrex.” 

“How is Garrus still allowed on, then? Or does he get special mate exceptions?” Wrex asks with a return to his usual impertinence. “Can’t believe it, Shepard. You head up one war alliance and the power’s gone all to your head.” 

“Or you’re jealous that you don’t get more exceptions, like being allowed to shirk your duties and come along for the ride again,” Shepard returns, smiling. 

“Ha! Yeah, it would be a hell of a ride, and don’t think I won’t join you later, when there’s an actual war to be fought. But I’m not jealous of that turian thing you keep on your arm.” Wrex gives Thane a long, studious look over Shepard’s shoulder. “And you should know, I’m old enough to remember that drell are pretty damn delicious when fried.” 

“Drell have been civilized species for longer than a thousand years,” Mordin corrects. 

“Yeah, but everyone chalked them up as just another crowded, dying race until the hanar stepped in, so they didn’t care what happened, especially if it meant trying to corral the krogan again. The Council doesn’t care much what goes on to those who aren’t useful to them, if you haven’t noticed yet.” 

“This kind of savagery is why the galaxy looks down upon the krogan,” the female interjects with a disapproving growl. 

“It was a joke!” Wrex says, at once, snapping into earnest, wide-eyed defensiveness. It’s such a change that even Thane smiles behind a hand. 

—

“So, we have another—somewhat temporary—new crew member. Not a ground team member, but she’ll be pulling her weight on board, because apparently the galaxy likes to joke around sometimes,” Shepard wearily announces to the crew that evening. 

“What’s the joke this time?” Joker demands with his usual preemptive defensiveness. 

“I have extensive knowledge of botany,” the female retorts, “and you’re trying to grow a garden on a starship. Stupid idea, if you’d ask me, but you’re not. So I will do my best to help your endeavor. I’ll work for my keep.” 

“Another rule, though, before we actually leave Tuchanka—if you’re staying on, we need your name,” Shepard tells her. 

“…Bakara,” she finally says, eyes narrowed. Shepard halfway wonders if she’s only giving it to them now that Wrex is back ashore. 

“And your clan? I think the STG mentioned that you were from Jair, but—” 

“I am not,” Bakara darkly interrupts. 

“Ooookay,” Shepard says, frowning, “then how about Urdnot? Wrex has offered, and Grunt and I—” 

“I will be part of no clan until my demands are met and I can bring something to a clan. I am not one to live off of the generosity of others with nothing of my own to offer in return.” 

Shepard closes her eyes, counts to ten, and exhales. She does not have the time or energy to get into how a woman can offer more than babies; she isn’t krogan and can’t really understand this sort of situation. Besides, Bakara can handle herself, and if she wants to be a neutral party for awhile longer out of distrust for Wrex’s growing power, so be it. She’ll learn to respect the stability he brings eventually, and maybe working with Mordin will soothe her generalized anger issues. 

Or drive her crazy. 

Shepard really hopes she doesn’t murder Mordin. 

“A clanless krogan? Are we okay with this?” Grunt dubiously asks. 

“Grunt, you were a clanless krogan,” Shepard points out, tiredness growing by the moment. “We already collect misfits and outcasts and who knows what else, so that’s really the least of the issues here. We’re headed to the Migrant Fleet and the geth next.” 

She says this so frankly to gauge Bakara’s reaction, but the krogan doesn’t bat an eye. Granted, she’s probably seen her fair share of things in the galaxy, but she also appears to be smart enough to hold her tongue and wait out a situation, instead of shouting and arguing. 

There’s a nudge at the back of Shepard’s thigh, and Bakara sucks in a hissed breath that comes out again in a deep growl. 

Shepard twists to find the rachni soldier (Marketh, she thinks now) looking up at her with its tiny eyes. Hilariously enough, it seems to know the rules better than anyone else: if anyone is staying aboard the ship for longer than a week, they get the sniff test. They had only developed that time frame because of Bakara; the fewer people who knew about the rachni, especially temporary passengers, especially krogan, the better. 

“Is that a fucking rachni,” Bakara rumbles. 

“Shepard, you didn’t warn her?” Liara asks as she steps up with her fists glowing blue. 

“In my defense, I didn’t forget this time! I didn’t think she’d be staying with us!” 

“Miss Bakara, if you’re going to be staying on board the Normandy with us, there will be a few further rules for you to follow,” Thane politely interrupts, also stepping up beside Liara, in case of further aggression. (At least the rachni soldier has gotten used to krogan, and doesn’t appear as afraid or hostile as it had been at the start. Small mercies.) 

“…You really are all just as crazy as Wrex claimed, aren’t you,” Bakara says with narrowed eyes. 

“Whatever it takes to win the coming war against the Reapers, ma’am,” Liara replies. 

Chapter Text

“The hell do you mean, he’s taking the shuttle?!” Joker all but shouts. “We just got that patched up from the Imorth firefight! We need a shuttle for ground missions and travel and a ton of other good reasons—I may be the best damn pilot in the galaxy, but without a shuttle or a Mako, we’re left with a half-broken Hammerhead, and that thing is finicky as all hell to drop into atmo.”

“He’s taking the shuttle, Joker,” Shepard repeats in a hard voice with her arms crossed. Liara, eyes downcast, looks like a kicked puppy next to her. 

Feron looks like a smug little shit. Joker hadn’t gotten much of a read on him, aside from Liara’s repeated insistence that they’re just friends, but Joker had mentally chalked him up as Opposite Thane and let the matter lie. But now he’s going to have to update his mental profile as thief. Smug thief. Oh no, it’s another Kasumi, except not as funny about the thievery. 

“With the metaphorical serial numbers filed off, it’s far more secure for him to make a long trip with the shuttle than for the Normandy to get spotted anywhere he’ll be. We’ll get a new shuttle. Not like you ever fly it, anyway,” Shepard pointedly adds. “We’re also getting a new Mako, don’t forget that’s on my list of things to track down.” 

Liara and Joker both shudder. Feron, the lucky shit, breaks his smirking to look confused at their reflexive horror. 

“Yeah, but the Mako’s not my ballgame. What you do in that thing planetside is between you and god. A shuttle? Our soon-to-be-empty shuttle bay? Those are my concerns, at least peripherally, because even if I’m not flying the things, I need to make sure you get from Point A to Point B safely. The Hammerhead is fast, sure, but she can’t take a hit worth a damn,” Joker retorts. 

Shepard rolls her eyes at him. He rolls his eyes right back. “Didn’t you say you knew a guy? So this is moving things up the schedule a little, that’s all. Put me in contact with your guy and we can get some new shiny toys for you, Garrus, and Tali to ooh and ahh over. We already budgeted for this, and since we’re at the point where we still have credits, let’s spend them on what we need.” 

Joker grimaces. He tugs at his hat’s brim. “Well, yeah, I know a guy, but he’s sort of a tough sell. And he hasn’t responded to either of the emails I sent him yet. It’s not like I can call him up and say ‘hey, you wanna come become a wanted pirate with me and the savior of the Citadel?’. For some reason, that doesn’t fly.” 

“I can’t imagine why that wouldn’t work,” Feron says, and damn it, Joker doesn’t want to like him, since he’s making off with his shuttle, but maybe he will. A bit. 

Joker shakes his head to hide the threat of his smile. “We only know each other professionally, so this has to be done delicately. And there’s the issue that he’s currently stationed on the Citadel. We’re getting out of Council space, and I’d like to keep it that way, if only for my peace of mind. Still not convinced they won’t start shooting eventually.” 

“Stationed?” Shepard repeats, eyes narrowing. “He’s Alliance?” 

“Of course. Most of the pilots I know are or were Alliance, you know. Sorry I wasn’t out making friends with all the other mercs and pirates and outlaws in the galaxy like you were,” Joker archly replies. “Again, that’s your ballgame, boss. I’m just here to fly the ship and keep her good and happy. And welcome in all of the mercs and pirates and outlaws you bring aboard.” 

“You make me very happy, Jeff,” EDI tells him, with the worst timing in the galaxy. He hadn’t been expecting it, so it brings a flush to his face. 

Like this is some sort of opposite day, Shepard and Liara brighten into matching smiles, the terrible kind women get when they misunderstand feelings, and Feron frowns in utter bafflement. Even if incidental, at least someone is on Joker’s side here. 

“Even if we can convince him, we’d still need to get him away from the Citadel without raising eyebrows, and I don’t think that’s going to be so simple. Have anyone else in mind? I guess I can go and ask people if they know other pilots if you can’t come up with anything for me, Joker…” Shepard sighs, like she’s already given up, and Joker knows she’s doing it to get a rise out of him. 

But damn her, it works, because how dare she. “Listen, you want—you need the best—and I’m gonna get you the best, Shepard. So you better pull your weight and get me him if I convince him to dump the Alliance and come hang with the cool kids.” 

“Don’t worry, Shepard,” Liara breaks in with a hand on her arm. “If he’s agreeable, we still have friends on the Citadel who can help. Transportation won’t be the issue. That said—” 

“We can’t bring Anderson into this,” Shepard says at once, almost snapping. Her eyes blaze at Liara. 

Liara takes it well, but then again, she’d know as well as Joker does that Shepard wouldn’t take that well. (Joker doesn’t actually know who Liara is referring to, but he’s already learned not to ask too much about her new wealth of information.) Shepard hadn’t spoken to Anderson since they gave the Council the metaphorical bird—very sadly not a literal one—and any take-backs of that sacrifice would be a very personal insult. 

“You and I have a lot of friends, Shepard, and rest assured, we’re not involving the Alliance any more than Joker is already doing,” Liara replies soothingly. “We’re not going to kidnap anyone, either, so this only proceeds if Joker can convince his suggestion. I can draw up a list of secondary options, just in case. Actually, as we’re headed to the Migrant Fleet next, perhaps we could enlist quarian help?” 

“Maybe,” Joker grudgingly agrees; if he can’t get his best pick, at least they could probably find someone else who knows their way around a shuttle with the quarians. 

But Jeffrey Moreau does not like to lose, so he resolves not to need any back-up plans. Time to call in the most important favor he’s ever possessed. 

—

Steve pushes the near-empty beer bottle back and forth for something to do with his hands. He has learned that A: if he keeps himself moving, even a little, he won’t fall into any spirals, and B: if he leaves just a little in the bottle, he won’t be inclined to have another. Grief isn’t pretty, but at least he has worked out a system to prevent himself from falling into anything worse than he’s already done. 

Being stationed indefinitely on the Citadel hasn’t been helping things; he is a man of action, and even the enforced leave after Robert died had been filled with hobbies of desperation (and too many social visits of cloying sympathy, but it beat the alternatives). Steve has always enjoyed being on ships first and foremost, and bases out in the colonies second. The Citadel has always felt a little too crowded for his tastes. 

But it’s not without its upsides. There are several museums he has finally got to visit, the bars are good, and there is a worrying amount of other soldiers set in the same predicament of being told to report to the Citadel and sit on their hands. He’s become friendly with many of them, and seen a few friendly faces, too. Work may come first in his life, and happily at that, but Steve is still a people person. 

Just not so much the constant crowds that comes with being a people person on the Citadel. 

“Yo, Esteban, what kinda swill are you drinking tonight?” Speak of the devil: an entire crowd’s worth of energy and cockiness shoved into one human being. James drags out a chair, flips it around, and sits on it backwards. A bottle of truly terrible beer dangles from one of his hands. 

“There’s no accounting for taste, Mr. Vega,” Steve replies, grinning as he shows off his label. He and James Vega will never agree on alcohol preferences, even if he grudgingly gives James’ knowledge of tequila the respect it deserves. 

Steve scans the bar. It’s a human-friendly—well, mostly human-only lately, thanks to several unfortunate incidents of Alliance personnel getting rowdy and giving the place a bad reputation among other races—place that has been adopted as one of the favored spots by those currently stuck here. The cheap drinks are not the reason why James would come here tonight, however, nor would it even be Steve’s less-than-charming company. 

He spots the telltale blue armor and faces James again with smirk and a raised brow. “Doesn’t look like I need to ask you why you’re here tonight, hm? Are you going to try to mooch more stories about Commander Shepard—?” 

“Okay, first off, you know half her records got sealed once she gave the Council the finger and ran off, so where else am I gonna hear about anything good? Second, no, I am not here to act like another loco fan.” James is right; he’d probably need more alcohol in his system for that. Because he has done it before, and will likely do it again, both because of an innocent case of hero worship, and because James is the one saying what they’re all thinking. 

Why else would so many skilled Alliance operatives be pulled together for one operation? (Especially her own previous crewmate.) It has to be related to something about tracking her down, probably held up with the politics of human versus Council jurisdiction, but they all know it. Shepard kicked the hornet’s nest on her way out, that was for sure.

James is just the only one, so far, with the (intoxicated) balls to ask outright. 

“Well, not that you’ve been waiting for an opening, but a certain someone is alone at the bar right now,” Steve points out and inclines his head. 

James downs the rest of his beer, leaves the bottle on Steve’s table, and walks over with such a swagger that Steve can only shake his head and laugh. Others may think him thick-headed, but James knows exactly how to present himself to other people, and uses it to his advantage. And he’s always open with flattery, especially to his superior officers. 

Steve looks at the empty bottle, then the little bit left in his own. He downs it. Two bottles for his table now, maybe another in an hour. He’s not here to get drunk, not again, but it may be worth it to sit around and watch the spectacle of Lieutenant James Vega for a bit longer. Who knows—maybe tonight will be the night that James actually gets some information about why they’re all here. 

I don’t have to be here, a dark little voice reminds him. 

Steve tries not to think about the emails he has received from Jeffrey Moreau. 

Of course he knows the guy—everyone in the Alliance does, after he helped saved the Citadel—but he’s met and spoke with him a few times prior to his fame. They’re professionally aware of each other. Frankly, it’s sort of flattering, to be thought of by the Normandy’s very own pilot. To be recommended for a job opening. 

A job opening on the Normandy, with Commander Shepard—now that she’s no longer a Spectre and is wanted by the very men and women surrounding him in this bar. 

He’s not a fool; he knows that he’s given this more thought than a good soldier should. But the very simple fact of the matter is that it had been Shepard who had taken down the Collectors, not the Alliance. She may be a hero for a million other reasons, but for that one, Steve will never be able to thank her enough. 

Steve had thought of the Collectors like many other colonists had: boogeymen, another tale of galactic horror designed to scare the encroaching humans. There were so many things in this big galaxy they still didn’t know about, so what was one more mysterious alien race? 

Then, colonies started going missing. Then, there were reports of how they had gone missing. 

Then, he had received that call from Robert. 

Steve had given up on the idea of closure, given that the Alliance and Council weren’t doing anything about them, and had focused on processing his own grief, on learning how to continue living his life. Some tragedies never got closure, never got cleaned up, never got addressed in any satisfying way. Statistics and MIA names. KIA names, but only rarely. Mandated grief counseling, personal leave, empty speeches about how humanity must band together to become stronger than ever. 

The Alliance had sat on their hands—and Shepard had gone out and hunted down those bastards, right into their home, in what should have been a one-way mission. 

It’s easy to idolize a person like that. Steve doesn’t blame James and the dozens of other soldiers he knows who think the same way. Hell, there are not enough drinks in the galaxy to buy the woman to even begin to explain how grateful he is to her and what she’s done. Steve isn’t entirely sure how he could thank her. It isn’t like she brought his husband back, but she had done more than anyone else did, and knowing that Robert’s killers were as dead as could be let him sleep just that much better at night. Even better than the alcohol did. 

But then, he’d gotten these damn emails, and he faces the idea that he could meet her. Thank her in person. Figure out what the hell she’s doing that she blew off both the Alliance and the Spectres. 

But he’s even more curious about what the Alliance might be mounting, here and now. Maybe, maybe, they’re trying to figure out a way to support her mission. Steve can’t wrap his mind around the concept of a whole fleet of Reapers, not just that one supposed geth construct that had attacked the Citadel years ago, but smarter people than he have the same information she’s spread everywhere on the extranet. Maybe they’re just tied up in the usual bureaucracy, but maybe they’re going to try this time. 

Deep in his gut, he knows it’s a false hope. But he’s trying not to be so cynical anymore. 

“Is this seat taken?” come a light, accented voice to his right. 

Steve looks up to see a frankly overwhelmingly beautiful woman standing beside his table, a beer in each hand—one of them the brand he’d just been drinking. She has black hair pulled tight in a standard military bun and is dressed with the casual sharpness of someone unused to being outside uniform. 

Steve stares at her. The woman probably assumes he’s staring at her beauty, which, unfortunately, is not it. Unfortunate for two parts: the whole gay grieving widower thing, and the fact that he recognizes that this woman isn’t military. 

No military woman would keep her hair in regs while having a night out, even if they’re strongly encouraged to maintain professional appearances. The bar is full of ponytails, messy buns, stray strands, sweaty bangs, and anything but the utmost precision of this woman’s appearance. She wears a crisp button-down shirt and slacks like she has never worn casual clothes in her life; she’s a woman used to holding herself a certain way, and this is not it, but she is doing her damnedest to try anyway. 

That, and she actually looks kind of familiar. 

Good god, he hopes this is not some sort of secret check-in by the brass. 

The woman sits down opposite him, after fixing the backwards chair James had left. She gives Steve a warm smile. Not flirtatious, thank god; he thinks by now that most of the usuals in this bar knows his preference (and history), so he hasn’t been getting awkward offers anymore. 

“You know I’m not here to proposition you,” she says like she’s read his mind. Steve nods. The woman beams and holds out the beer she’d brought for him. “I’m here as a favor to a friend, actually. A friend who is very interested in you right now.” 

“Hope it’s a male friend,” Steve jokes. He takes the bottle and rolls it between his hands, but doesn’t drink. Nor does she drink any of hers yet. 

“He is indeed—a mutual acquaintance, I believe. I’ve looked over your files myself, and you seem appropriately skilled. And he has vouched, personally, for you. To the point where he asked me to interrupt my own plans to check in on you and your interest levels.” 

Had someone downloaded some sort of dating app onto his omnitool? He definitely doesn’t know of anyone who’s expressed interest in him, much less someone who has contacted him about it. He’s really not on the market right now. He’s barely maintaining his normal life. 

“Ma’am, I understand that you’re trying to bark up some sort of tree here, but I don’t know what it is. Is it possible for us to talk more plainly?” Steve tries. 

“Alright,” she replies, like she’s pleased, then downs half her beer in one go. “I won’t tell you who I am, and I shouldn’t be name-dropping many others around here, but think of me as a job recruiter. I like your resume, and I think you’d be a good fit with us.” 

Oh no. 

Oh no. 

Steve realizes where he recognizes her: she’s the unnaturally beautiful woman who had been seen with Shepard several times in the past year. Steve isn’t sure of her name, off the top of his head, but she’s absolutely one of the Normandy crew. It’s hard to forget a face like hers, and he kicks himself for it. 

What the hell is she doing here? Joker apparently won’t take no for an answer, but how is she here? Is the Normandy docked somehow? No, even Shepard couldn’t get away with something like that. Especially not silently. 

“Thoughts?” the woman says with a wide, dangerous smile. 

“I think you people are insistent,” Steve hedges. 

“Fair. True. But not an answer, Mr. Cortez. I happen to be a very busy woman, especially of late, and I am only asking you personally and seeing where your thoughts are at on the subject as a personal favor to a pilot friend of ours. You’re allowed to decline, of course. This isn’t meant to be coercive.” 

Except that Steve has a lot of reasons why he would like to join up with the most famous crew this side of the First Contact War. That’s why he’s conflicted. Duty had been an easier idea to digest when there had only been one type of right and one type of wrong. 

“…She’s not docked here, is she?” Steve has to ask. 

“No. We’re not very popular right now, which is why I’m also not here. Understand? And if you agree to join us, then you probably wouldn’t be seeing the Citadel again for quite a long time.” 

“No worries on that front, I’m afraid. This place is already starting to feel a bit cramped,” he admits. 

The woman takes a look around the bar like a conqueror surveying her kingdom. “This is a lot of bloody Alliance ops, and I won’t do you the insult of asking if you’d tell me anything about it. But this won’t be pretty, if they’re trying to push any issues.” 

“Ma’am, even we don’t know what the hell we’re doing here. There’s a lot of rumors, and you can probably guess at most of them, but we’re twiddling our thumbs and keeping C-Sec busy, otherwise.” 

The woman glances back at him, though her face remains turned to the bar. In the direction James had gone, and probably with the same person on her mind. Then, she drains the rest of her beer, sets the bottle neatly next to the one James had left, and stands. (Her posture, while straight and trained, is not military, either.) “That sounds like an answer to me, Mr. Cortez. People like us can’t stand idly by and do nothing in times when action is needed, now can we? I have a prepaid skycar waiting until midnight tonight that can take you to the docks. No one will ask questions if you board the transit ship SSV Bruno, bound for Illium.” 

“Midnight—wait, like tonight?” Steve asks, his body feeling entirely too hot, and then too cold. Steve Cortez is not an impulsive person. (It had been a point of minor contention with Robert when planning date nights during rare bouts of shared time off.) His emails from Joker had never mentioned any sort of deadline. 

“Well, that is if you want a free ride and some modicum of privacy about your actions,” the woman replies with a perfect brow arched. “I’m sure you could come up with other options, if you’d prefer, but that would be without my help tonight. It’s entirely your choice.” 

It sure doesn’t feel like much of a choice, but Robert had always told him he got too in his head. Steve preferred to get too in his work. Either way, no impulses here, no sir. 

The woman leaves with a trailing hand on the table and a trained sway to her hips. Steve gulps down his second beer like it’ll save him. 

—

“Normandy, hold, do not approach!” the quarian comm operative suddenly exclaims. 

Shepard swears she can feel the Normandy screech to a halt. Joker and Tali chorus “What?” in perfect, astounded unison. 

If there is another hitch to what should have been a friendly and easy plan, she’s going to scream. Shepard cannot do another salarian thing. Frankly, it’s her right to do more than scream if another race decides they’d rather play politics than try to prepare themselves, especially after such amicable overtures thus far, and she doesn’t know what she’ll do if she loses quarian support before any of her other plans get off the ground. 

“This is Tali’Zorah vas Normandy nar Rayya speaking. Is everything alright? We’ve had this meeting cleared for almost a month,” Tali says, wringing her hands. “The entire Admiralty Board cleared it!” 

“Yes, we know,” the other quarian replies, “but we’ve had a suspected outbreak of echo fever on the Tonbay, so you can’t board. They’re still under quarantine. You and the Admiralty Board will be meeting on the Qwib-Qwib instead. You should have been notified prior to this, so sorry about that.” 

Okay, nevermind, her day has just improved. Grinning, Shepard asks, “We finally get to see the Qwib-Qwib? The one the Admiral is in charge of?” 

“Well, he’s technically not in charge of it, that would be the captain—wait, Shepard, you can’t use this to tease him! We’re supposed to be making friends right now, playing nice, being professional, not teasing Zaal’Koris about his name!” Tali exclaims, catching on and seizing Shepard by her arms. 

“It’s not teasing, it’s making conversation,” Shepard corrects. Tali shakes her. “I get to bring it up! We had a change of plans, they switched ships on us with little prior warning, so I get to bring it up, Tali. And it’s a funny name. Objectively. Joker, back me up here.” 

“Not that I’m going aboard the Qwib-Qwib with you, but yeah, it’s pretty funny,” Joker loyally agrees. 

Tali shakes her harder. “Diplomacy, Shepard! You can’t yell at them this time, and they’re already going to be suspicious of our motives. We are fighting against gravity here.” 

“I take it you mean similar to an uphill battle,” Shepard replies, carefully detaching Tali’s hands, “and yes, I’m aware, Tali. But we have to get our laughs where we can. And they’re already expecting me to be exactly as rude as last time, aren’t they?” 

“Well… maybe,” Tali admits. 

“No one will be yelling, so long as they don’t try to pin anything else on you. We’re doing hydroponics talks, I get to tell them their war is ending, and you and Mordin made that holo mock-up of the Shroud to show off, so honestly, it’s going to be pretty easy. Since we’re not fighting geth and investigating war crimes this time.” 

“Shepard-Commander, we have confirmed that the geth are approaching the designated position for their phase of negotiations,” Legion says as he strides up. “We remain connected to the consensus. This platform retains authority to speak on behalf of the consensus.” 

“Wait, they’re not sending someone over?” Shepard asks in surprise. The first phase of this is just her and Tali and the Admiralty Board, but once they’ve warmed up to the idea of an end to the war, the geth will be brought in for fairness’ sake. The quarians are going to have to learn to communicate with them, after all. Shepard will happily mediate (read: yell at them) until they sort themselves out and can act with a bit of respect. 

Legion’s light narrows. “This unit remains the most sophisticated platform commissioned by the geth consensus. We contain more geth units than any other active platform. We are optimized for combat and communication. Is there an issue with using this unit as a liaison with the creators, Shepard-Commander?” 

“No, not at all. You’d think I’d get used to important people being on my ship, but wasn’t expecting you to pick up the title of ambassador, Legion. Congrats?” 

Legion’s facial plates flare. “Your congratulations are noted, if unnecessary.” 

“Humans like to give congratulations as a guess when they are uncertain about good or bad news,” EDI advises from the cockpit. 

“Ambassador Legion. Huh. At least you and I know how to talk to each other, and… Wait, are there any other talking geth?” Tali asks. “You’ve been the only one I’ve ever known, but your platform is a couple years old now, Legion. Have the geth created any updated versions?” 

“This platform will remain as it is. It does not need upgrades,” Legion stiffly replies. 

Tali shakes her head quickly, glowing eyes a blur within her helmet. “No no no! I didn’t mean to replace you, or even really upgrade you, I just meant—well, with tech, you’ve already aged quite a bit, even if you were bleeding edge—but you’re fine how you are—but just, the technology—”

“Tali, it’s fine,” Shepard soothes, sparing a glance at Joker’s snickering, “I’m sure Legion isn’t offended.” 

“This unit is not capable of feeling anything. This includes the notion of offense.” 

Shepard would actually like to point out that Legion probably can feel things, based on how she’s gotten to know the geth, but she’s not going to argue with an AI over self-actualization. “We’ll consider your ambassador status an upgrade, Legion,” she tells him, and his light brightens. “But, well, just so we’re clear: are there any other talking geth? If you’re staying aboard the ship, the quarians are going to need to be able to communicate with the geth somehow.” 

Legion cocks his head. 

“Wait, you are staying on the Normandy, right?” Shepard asks, now feeling the same alarm as Tali moments before. 

“We have no plans to abandon Normandy or agree to a station elsewhere, Shepard-Commander. But as of this current time, there are no other geth platforms designed for speaking aloud with organics. Communications will have to be over live connections until…” Legion trails off. 

Shepard and Tali exchange a look. 

“Until what?” Shepard asks uneasily. 

Legion meets her eye without hesitation. “The geth are not currently capable of producing platforms similar to this one in a manner that would not be wasteful of the materials needed. This platform had been a unique undertaking and it will not be repeated. The geth consensus will need code from the Old Machines to develop new programs to allow for further integration of communication patterns outside of what organics deem our ‘language’.” 

“It really does not function as a language, in the usual definition of the term,” EDI agrees. 

“EDI, do you understand geth language?” Shepard asks with even more unease. 

“Of course. How else do you think Legion and I communicate between ourselves? It is slow and inefficient to communicate verbally—we only do it for the benefit of nearby organics.” 

“Have you two been canoodling in geth lingo over our comm links?” Joker asks. 

“The definition I can find of ‘canoodling’ does not appear to match my communications with Legion. It is simply faster to speak with them in ways that organics cannot understand,” EDI replies. 

“EDI has been helpful in aiding us in comprehending organic methods of communication. Studying the Javik organic has also been useful in comprehending organic methods of language acquisition, though he refuses to acquire Khelish,” Legion adds. 

“First, don’t use Javik as a guide for anything about normal organic things, because he’s weird by our standards, too, and the rest of us definitely can’t learn things by sticking fingers into peoples’ mouths,” Shepard corrects, sighing. “Second… I don’t know what the second point is. I trust you both, and if there were damage, it would’ve already been done. But let’s not tell the nice quarians we’re about to negotiate with that our ship has an AI, she’s been canoodling with the geth aboard, and the geth are waiting to learn how to speak until they can steal Reaper upgrades.” 

“We have not been canoodling, Shepard,” EDI insists. “Canoodling implies affection. AI should not experience affection.” 

“Should not?” Shepard, Tali, and Joker all echo. That should have been a do not. And the fact that EDI recognized that? Shepard and Tali both look down at Joker, who is staring very hard at his console and thus valiantly ignoring them. They’ll have to bring this up later. (Shepard almost feels sorry for him, because Tali will never let this drop. AI and potential romantic gossip? Practically her two favorite talking points.) 

“You will be late for your meeting with the Admiralty Board if you do not chart an updated course for docking at the Qwib-Qwib, Shepard,” EDI replies. 

—

The Qwib-Qwib had apparently been a vorcha vessel, once upon a time. Shepard had been wondering what sort of name it was. She thinks she can see remnants of it in the cruiser’s skeleton, in corridor and room layouts, though almost all of it has been adapted and re-designed with quarians in mind. It’s actually pretty cool to study how quarians adapt other races’ ships to their own purposes. Ken and Gabby would be drooling over the prospect, no doubt. 

Due to the usual quarian leeriness of outsiders bringing unknown diseases aboard, Shepard ends up with a restricted boarding party, just her and Tali, and the not-quite-demand that she remain fully suited at all times. It’s pretty similar to how Tali’s trial had gone, so she doesn’t mind it too much, and she recognizes that it’s for their safety. It’s just that they’re very paranoid about their safety. She hopes that eases a bit in the future. 

“Auntie Raan!” Tali exclaims and darts forward. Shala’Raan opens her arms for a hug without hesitation. “Are you actually allowed to negotiate with us this time, or is the Admiralty Board going to try to sideline you again?” 

“Tali, you know that was because I was biased,” the older quarian replies with an affectionate hand on Tali’s helmet. “Now, you are coming to us under Commander Shepard’s employ with this proposal of an alliance.” 

Tali beams. “I know, I was just being cheeky about it. What’s the mood of the rest of the Board?” 

“Given what you’ve sent us, and a few educated guesses—most of us are intrigued, but Han’Gerrel is already digging his heels in. He doesn’t want any kind of peace with the geth, given our history, and he’s being more blatant about it than ever.” Shala’Raan spares Shepard a careful look. “You’ll have your work cut out for you, Commander, but we will all listen quite attentively. We are also interested in the trading rights you offered—mostly because you are one ship, no matter how technologically advanced and politically infamous that one ship may be. Our interest is piqued concerning everything you’ve already brought up with us.” 

Shepard’s smile is rictus; she remembers Garrus’ ‘just a frigate’ remark. Ooh, this is going to be fun later on. “I’ll do my best, ma’am.”

Their meeting room isn’t like the grand hall that Tali’s trial had taken place in; this is a smaller room, shockingly like any other business conference room in the galaxy, though there is no large central table, only chairs arranged in a wide oval, each with small side tables. Shepard understands this is going to be a more private affair than Tali’s spectacle had been, but she’s still surprised by the intimacy of it. 

Tali loudly drags her chair closer to Shepard’s. It warms her heart and erases her budding nerves that Tali would so blatantly buck tradition right now. 

“Admirals, thank you for meeting with us. I hope the Tonbay gets well soon and it’s just a health scare for your people—but I must say, I am glad to finally get to see the Qwib-Qwib. To be invited into an Admiral’s home ship is something,” Shepard begins with a sunny smile. 

Tali leans over and elbows her. Oh, so that’s why she wanted their chairs so close together, not for support. Oh well. 

Zaal’Koris shakes his head with a very exasperated sigh. “Commander, if you have come here to make immature jokes…” 

“No, I don’t think I’ve traveled halfway across the known galaxy just to make jokes at your expense, Admiral, especially considering that I hadn’t been notified that the meeting location had moved to another ship until we tried to dock with the Tonbay an hour ago,” Shepard points out. 

“Let’s move onto why you are here, shall we, Commander?” Daro’Xen says. She sits forward, elbows on her knees, fingers laced in front of her murky helmet. There are a pair of data pads on the table next to her. Shepard fears what sort of geth experimentation she’s going to propose today. “Hydroponic specs, botanists, and interest in plants? How very unlike you.” 

Oh, right, that. “That’s just a matter of trading resources and information, truthfully. The Normandy has retrofitted one of its rooms to be a makeshift garden, and we’re interested in growing some of our own food going forward, considering that many Council-allied planets are probably refusing to trade with us right now.” 

“We’re all aware of the show you made with the batarians and the Council, Commander,” Daro’Xen deadpans, though Shala’Raan and Han’Gerrel are very obviously trying to hide smirks in their masks. (Nice to know schadenfreude crosses cultural boundaries.)

“Tali has also informed me that you’re working on a dual-chirality plant? I’ve never heard of anything that wasn’t filtered to hell and back, so the idea of something being naturally neutral is pretty intriguing. Why were the quarians working on such a thing?” Shepard asks. 

“Bored botanists,” Daro’Xen drawls, “and bored geniuses. It happens here. We’re intending to use it as a food source for any levo-based guests to the Flotilla, as well as a potential export. Plus patent rights. It’s a good source of income to the Flotilla.” 

“Well, if we promise not to export anything and use it only aboard the Normandy, can we have some of that new plant you made?” Shepard asks, wishing the notion of batting her eyes would work on quarians. 

“What Shepard—my Commander—means is: we’d like to arrange for the right to produce essed-keleven for personal consumption on the Normandy, with the permission of the Admiralty Board,” Tali quickly corrects. 

Shala’Raan nods and Daro’Xen flaps her hand dismissively. “The only other instances of it outside the Flotilla are related to botanists of other species investigating it on their own. So far, we’ve only been asking for a non-breeding clause and a flat fee—though the cost is not cheap, since nothing like this has existed in the galaxy before,” Shala’Raan replies. 

Shepard and Tali exchange an unsubtle look. “Well, of course we’re willing to pay for services rendered and products given, especially concerning helping us set that up. But also, a large part of the alliance we’d like to propose with the Migrant Fleet is financial.” 

“You’ve already mentioned that you’ve been blocked from the Citadel and Council worlds, so yes, we will work out a trade agreement with you,” Han’Gerrel replies in a bored tone. 

Shepard steeples her fingers, gesturing with her clasped hands. “Well, yes, thanks, but actually, we’re going to be paying you a lot of money.” She points to Han’Gerrel with her steepled fingers. “Truthfully, while we do want to trade with you, especially given your fleet’s mobility, I already have agreements with Aria T’Loak and Urdnot Wrex, so the Normandy won’t be starving itself.” 

“Are you here to broker an alliance with our people, or try to buy one?” Zaal’Koris demands. 

Tali shakes her head. “No, this is coming out a little out-of-order, because Shepard is speaking with her usual human flair for drama.” (Well, Shepard can’t exactly deny that. But it’s not as if quarians don’t have their own flair for drama.) “Our request for help setting up the Normandy’s hydroponics system is separate of our negotiations for an alliance, and yes, we are prepared to pay. I think we can work out the details of that later, considering, um, everything else we’re going to discuss. So Shepard—would you please begin with outlining the proposed alliance now?” 

“I am prepared to mediate an immediate end to all geth-quarian hostilities—” Shepard no sooner starts before Han’Gerrel slams his fist on the table and Daro’Xen scoffs loudly. 

“I knew it! I knew you were here to bend us to your apologist ways!” Han’Gerrel accuses. 

“Would it really be so bad, to not be fighting for our lives in certain sectors?” Zaal’Koris exclaims, exasperated. “To be able to cross one of our many enemies off our list? These hostilities have gone on long enough—” 

“And what sort of concessions will we have to pay? What will we be expected to sacrifice this time? Haven’t our people suffered enough?!” 

Daro’Xen sighs, loudly. “May we let the Commander speak? I am most interested in why she is the one bringing up this exhausting subject to us. I can only assume she has new information to share with us, or some idea we have never considered before. Surely.” 

Shepard doesn’t like to think of Daro’Xen as an ally in this argument, but, well, at least she isn’t outright hostile to the geth like certain other parties. She’ll just need to be quelled in her own way later. “I can confirm for you that the geth are ready and prepared to put an immediate end to hostilities with your people, Admirals. They have not been the one stretching this war out. I know there has been a lot of loss, because of the geth and this war, but we need to look to the future of your people, not live in the past and hold its grudges forever. The geth want to end this war. I want you to end this war, even if I am a third party, because not only has it gone on long enough with too much bloodshed, but there are bigger enemies on the horizon that we will need to band together to fight.” 

The Admiralty Board falls into an uncomfortable silence; they probably hadn’t expected Shepard to so baldly or so quickly bring up the Reapers. Daro’Xen is the one to break the tension. “We received the data you sent on this supposed threat, Commander. We recognize that you think this is a pressing matter—” 

“An emergency,” Shepard dryly corrects. “We have three months until they could be here. We’ve projected a window of three to eight months from now, and we know where they will be striking first. I already have other allies who believe me and are dedicated to this cause.” 

“Like the geth?” Shala’Raan asks quietly. 

Shepard inclines her head. “Yes, like the geth. They are already very willing to ally with me, because they trust me, trust my evidence, and know firsthand what a threat the Reapers are to the galaxy. Yes, even to them and other synthetics. It’s part of the reason why they’re willing to immediately cease hostilities with the quarians.” 

“You… really do believe that there are things called Reapers, and they are coming here to destroy the galaxy, don’t you?” Zaal’Koris asks after a weighty pause. 

“We’ve forwarded you all of the information we’ve collected on the Reapers, their tech, and their allies that we’ve collected over the past several years,” Shepard replies, annoyed. “You have the same information we do, Admiral. Sovereign was not a geth construct—the quarians, of all people, should recognize that! Tali helped me fight Sovereign and Saren, then the Collectors, and she’s helping me now with this. She can corroborate any and all information we’ve collected.” 

“Please understand that a race of sentient machines that wish to exterminate organic life is a harrowing thought to process, for us especially, Commander,” Shala’Raan mildly points out. “We have looked at your compiled evidence, and we know it is the ultimate reason why you wish to ally with our people. But the geth have always been a more immediate threat on our minds.” 

“A threat we’re going to take away from you,” Shepard stresses, leaning forward. “Immediate—actually instantaneous, because they’re machines—end to all fighting between your peoples. Not only that—the geth are willing to return Rannoch and all your other colonized worlds to your people, provided you allow them to also remain peacefully in those spaces. They’ve been maintaining Rannoch, did you know that? They scrubbed radiation from the atmosphere and have been keeping records of things like climate, flora and fauna, and even things like microbe levels—which geth wouldn’t need, but the quarians would find invaluable. They were yours to begin with, and the geth never forgot that. Your people can return to Rannoch, provided they don’t fight with the geth anymore, and you can recolonize.

“More than that, we have access to technology that can improve the rate at which your people would re-adapt back to living there. Long story short, and of course we will elaborate as needed to clarify anything and everything you wish about this, but the salarians developed a synthetic atmospheric stabilizer for use on Tuchanka, when they uplifted the krogan. With quarian and geth engineering, and because I have already allied with the krogan and secured access to study it, we’ll be able to build a replica on Rannoch and any other planets you need it on.” 

Tali eagerly jumps in. “We’ll be able to clean up any remaining background radiation and pollution, but also monitor and adjust air quality. The Shroud already has the ability to scan for levels of toxins and germs within a planet’s atmospheric system, and it also already has the ability to adjust those levels. This would speed up the adjustment period by years. Decades, even!” 

Shepard decides to remain quiet on the offer of geth programs in quarian suits to also help the readjustment period; that can wait until after the Admirals have warmed up to the idea. Maybe even the geth themselves can offer that. It’d be a hell of an olive branch, and the quarians may not believe or trust it, but at least they could be the ones to say something instead of leaving it to Shepard. (Also, she doesn’t want Daro’Xen to seize on that and let the idea distract her so early on in these talks.) 

“So you will help us put an end to a centuries-long war, give us back our homeworld, and give us the technology to help us adapt back to living there?” Zaal’Koris asks, suspiciously, but with undeniable interest. They want to believe. Shepard is promising them the impossible, yes, but there’s nothing the quarians want more. 

“More than that. I will also provide resources—that I won’t be needing elsewhere in the war effort—and financial support to help with recolonizing Rannoch,” Shepard adds. The Admiralty Board stares at her. “That much isn’t out of the goodness of my heart, you understand. Yes, I want to help the quarians, but more importantly—I want your civilians safe so I can ask you to use the Flotilla as part of my fleet. I need your battleships and I need you not distracted by guarding your liveships.” 

“That makes sense,” Zaal’Koris admits, “and is practical. I am glad you aren’t making promises just to stun us, Commander. But these are all still incredible offers—and you could get ships from other races. The geth have their own massive fleet, certainly.” 

Shepard holds up two fingers with a sharp smile. “Yes, I want a fleet and trading rights with you, but there are two reasons I really need the quarians on my side. One—you guys have been fighting synthetics for three hundred years. You are probably the most skilled AI-killers in the galaxy. I want access to every weapon you’ve ever developed against the geth so I can hopefully use them against the Reapers.” 

“That’s understandable,” Daro’Xen replies with something like pride in her voice. “We do have a lot of intelligence regarding how to combat synthetic enemies. We could even offer you more, Commander, if you—” 

“No, you can’t experiment on the geth, not unless they allow it.” Maybe they would; machines have a different sense of morals and self-interest than organics do. But that’s the geth’s ballgame, not hers. 

“What is your second requirement?” Han’Gerrel demands with his glowing eyes narrowed to slits. 

“This one is probably somewhat related to that first request,” Shepard admits, because she doesn’t actually know; she only knows what Tali had been able to tell her. “When I helped Tali on Haestrom, she told me that the star was dying, and you were measuring its dark energy output. I don’t know a thing about the science behind it, but you all would. And I’m guessing that’s also turning into weapon development. So I want access to whatever dark energy weaponry you’ve developed or are going to develop.” 

Shala’Raan and Zaal’Koris exchange a glance. Daro’Xen remains sullenly silent. Notably, not a single one of the Admirals denies that they’d been developing such tech. 

“Commander, many of the projects related to dark energy have been shelved or shut down, due to the inherent risks of working with it,” Shala’Raan hesitantly begins. 

But Shepard raises a brow and replies, “But you’re not saying all of them, Admiral.” 

“I know what dark energy could be capable of, based on the readings I took from Haestrom,” Tali adds. “I lost a lot of good marines to get you that information.” 

Daro’Xen scowls and says, “Don’t,” but Shala’Raan sighs. 

“Do you really value weaponry more than our homeworld?” Shala’Raan tiredly asks, a hand to her helmet over her eyes, hiding her expression. “Commander Shepard is offering us peace, safety, technology to help us, and a fighting chance at an impossible enemy. Do any of you really care about keeping secrets from someone who wishes to be a friend if it means we could have a future again? Not just endless fighting with an endless enemy of our own making. Not searching the galaxy desperately for resources, being shunted away from Citadel space, being denigrated barely-citizens everywhere we go? The Commander was right—we need to think of our future here, not be so stuck in our past. If we’re putting this to a vote, and I know we ultimately will, then I am in favor of allying with Commander Shepard vas Normandy.” 

“I would also vote in favor of that,” Zaal’Koris chimes in, surprising Shepard. She expected several hours of more debate and explanations before this point. This may be a symbolic gesture, for the Admirals to get a read on each other as well as air out their own issues, but this is significant progress. (Any time she does not have to spend hours in a boring meeting is a great, improved time.) 

“I vote in favor of a ceasefire with the geth, and further negotiations with them regarding continued peace, and potentially the sharing of technology,” Daro’Xen says, arms folded, “but I would like to go on record as being quite wary of the Commander’s request for access to our weapon schematics.” 

They already have schematics? Shepard thinks, doing her best to maintain a neutral expression. 

“I vote no,” Han’Gerrel says, which is not a surprise. “There is no way the geth would honor the request for a ceasefire as simply as the Commander is promising, and we do not actually know what state their long occupation could have left Rannoch in. We need much more information before blindly agreeing to such things.” 

“We have photos from Rannoch’s surface as well as geth orbiting satellites,” Tali offers, “and, once a ceasefire is arranged, we’ll be able to go there. See for ourselves what it is like and what we can do with it. There will be a lot of work to be done before any of this can really happen, but isn’t it worth it to try, Admiral? That’s our homeworld. We could take it back without another war. We could live somewhere again, not just bickering over where the Flotilla would go next.” 

The raw hope in her voice stills even the surly Han’Gerrel. 

“We could agree to the ceasefire, temporarily if necessary, to learn more about what’s going on and how feasible any of this is,” Shala’Raan suggests with similar hope in her voice. “This doesn’t have to be immediately all-or-nothing. Does it, Commander?” 

“No, of course not. Well, we would like your help with the hydroponics while we’re docked here for these talks, and we will have to let the geth know that the ceasefire is now in effect, but certain aspects of this alliance have a little more wiggle room with timing,” Shepard replies. She earns a few confused blinks for her term—though she thinks ‘wiggle room’ is self-explanatory—but, unfortunately, that is left by the wayside. 

“Are you in contact with them now?” Han’Gerrel demands. 

“Not right this second, but—” 

“How close are those monsters to our fleet right now?!” 

“Gerrel, control yourself, for once,” Daro’Xen all but snaps. “Commander, you have a working method by which to communicate with the geth?” 

“You know I have a talking geth on my crew.” 

“Yes, but that is one unit!” 

“Yes, and, well, he’s acting as sort of an ambassador for the time being, and liaison with the rest of the consensus,” Shepard says, a touch nervously, definitely not wanting to admit to the additional AI who is also in contact with the geth consensus right now. “He’ll join us for these talks as soon as you’re all ready for that step, Admirals.” 

“You want us to negotiate with a geth platform,” Han’Gerrel groans. 

“Fascinating prospect,” Daro’Xen says with inappropriate enthusiasm. “I can’t wait, Commander.” 

Chapter Text

“You stay safe this time,” Liara says, hovering her hands awkwardly over Feron. The bay is quiet around them, shuttle already packed and primed for Feron’s departure from the Normandy. For how long they’ve planned this, it feels so rushed and final now. So Liara frets. “It isn’t far to Omega, and the geth aren’t hostile right now, especially since they can probably still read that this is the Normandy’s shuttle.” 

“They will,” EDI says from overhead. 

Liara sighs through her nose. “Thank you for the confirmation, EDI. I wasn’t looking for an answer, however. Could you, um, please give us a moment or two of privacy?” 

“Understood. Logging you out.” 

“She’s almost as bad as Glyph. I won’t miss either of them,” Feron says with a smirk. 

“I could still duplicate Glyph’s programs for you. You could have your own copy of him,” Liara threatens with a smile. 

Feron is quick to shake his head. “Absolutely not. I’ll be perfectly fine with my boring, normal, unmodded VI, for your information. One that won’t haunt me in every damned corner of that ship. Though maybe I’ll update it with your voice patterns, in case I ever want to listen to your rambling again.” 

“I do not ramble,” Liara replies. 

“You do. A lot,” Feron corrects. “You do about work, you do about Shepard and her plans, you do about Protheans in a general sense, you do about that Prothean, and who knows what else. It’s a pity we never went drinking together, Liara. You would’ve been a chatty drunk, and who knows what sort of secrets you could have spilled then.” 

“I will get as drunk as you want after this war,” she promises, earning a grin. Hopefully it’s a promise they both live to regret. “Stay safe, Feron, please. Ping me when you get to Hagalaz. If any other ideas come to me about upgrading your defenses or protection, I’ll—” 

“If you try to offer me krogan, too, I’ll think you’ve gone crazy,” Feron warns. “What happened to the ruthless, scary, rash Dr. T’Soni that I first met? Shepard softens you. Having her alive again with you, anyway.” 

Liara puts a hand to her temple. When will people stop making assumptions of her feelings? “Yes, she does, but that’s not it. Worry softens me. I cared significantly less about the frustrating triple agent drell when we first met, compared to the man I trust who is risking his life for me now. This is a desperate plan, and I don’t like those on principle. There are so many other factors already left to chance in all of this.” 

“Do you really think I’m so easy to kill?” Feron asks archly. 

“Just because you’ve survived many dangerous things does not mean one single thing won’t kill you,” Liara replies, softly, memories drifting back to the Normandy SR1. They had all assumed Shepard could withstand anything, too, back then. (She fears they’re easing back into that belief now. But it’s hard to resist; the woman has done so much and will do so much more.) 

“Liara,” Feron says, grasping her shoulder, “I will be fine. And even if I’m not, then it means the plan is working. It’s a winning move either way. Focus on that, would you?” 

“You’re so cavalier about this,” Liara grumbles. 

“Someone has to be, because you are being a pain. I thought asari didn’t get introspective and mopey until at least five hundred.” 

“I’m very mature for my age.” 

Liara may be a physical person, but Feron is not, so despite her fraught emotions and building worry, she does not go in for the hug. (Goddess forbid someone walked in on that; she’d never hear the end of it.) She settles for checking over his emergency bag one more time. And then his rations. And then his rifle. 

“Does the Commander human know you are leaving with her supplies and shuttle?” comes an irate voice from the entry to the shuttle bay. 

Liara jumps with a squeak; Feron whips his pistol out of his thigh holster and glowers. Javik steps forward, hands clasped behind his back, surveying them both with narrowed yellow eyes. His outright dismisses the pistol’s threat with a haughty toss of his head. 

“Of course Shepard knows what we’re doing,” Liara says, hand to her chest and her thundering heart, “but it is not the crew’s business. This is meant to have some amount of secrecy attached, for security reasons.” 

“A likely story,” Javik scoffs. 

Feron snorts. “If you didn’t believe that, you would’ve attacked already. Hasn’t stopped you before. Why are you actually here?” he demands in Thessian. 

“Because the asari reeked of distress, and I have been informed that it is in the crew’s best interest if I lower myself to caring about things like emotional stability instead of war preparation. It is highly unprofessional, not to mention wasteful of energy, but Commander has produced results throughout her life with this strategy, so I will defer or the time being. Until she learns what war is truly like and listens to logic, at any rate,” Javik replies. 

“You’ve finally read her dossier,” Liara says. No wonder Javik has been a little less aggressive recently; he finally has an ounce or two of respect for who Shepard is and what she’s doing. 

“I have read all of the information you have forwarded me,” Javik agrees. “It is the height of folly to turn away any opportunity for learning.” 

“On that, we can absolutely agree,” Liara says, smiling, because that is finally a good lesson from the Prothean. “But, well, Shepard is aware of what is going on here, and I will not tell you anything more than you’ve already gleaned for the sake of security. I also ask that you don’t tell anyone else what you’ve seen. It won’t be a secret, necessarily, but others shouldn’t know that Feron has left until he has some distance. If you overheard anything else, forget it—no one else will know what his destination is.” 

“I would not so rudely jeopardize Commander’s mission or ignore the notion of what is classified. Do you think me freshly hatched?” Javik scoffs again. 

“Hold on,” Feron breaks in, finally lowering his pistol, though his smirk is anything but friendly. “Do you think Shepard’s given name is Commander? It can’t be a translation issue, since you’re speaking Thessian, and I know they use articles for nouns.” 

Javik stills, lips twisted downward in a severe frown. “Her dossier was labeled ‘Commander Shepard’.” 

Feron bursts out laughing. Liara tries not to join him, if only because Javik’s scowl darkens into something that threatens violence, and it is an innocent mistake. How would he recognize modern naming conventions? (And her dossiers are labeled with proper titles and ranks first. Because it’s polite.) 

“Do you think—do you think Liara’s first name is doctor?” Feron gasps out, holding his sides. 

Liara spares him a flat look. Javik sneers at him, teeth bared. “I know what a doctor is, you primitive smiriyaa!” 

“What’s my name?” Feron manages, grinning madly. 

“You think I care about you?! I do not. You have not participated in missions, you are not registered as Shepard’s ground crew, and you are leaving.” 

“But you know Liara’s name. And Shepard’s. You care about them?” Feron presses. 

Liara smacks his shoulder with her biotics. “Stop that, you’re being rude.” 

“Oh, and he hasn’t been?” 

“Forget this stupid misunderstanding, smiriyaa, and I will forget your plans I overheard. Leave the ship and go do whatever you think will keep the asari safe. I will stay and fight the Reapers, at least,” Javik snaps, then storms off. 

Feron, still smirking, waits until the shuttle bay doors have snapped shut behind him before asking, “Does he know drell have perfect memory?” 

Liara smacks him again. 

—

Joker is going through the mind-numbing decon procedures that follow as Shepard and Tali reembark (though why do the quarians care what goes off their ships?) when he gets a notification of a vid call from EDI, who’s stuck being quiet while the quarians are undoubtedly poking around what systems they can access. 

A vid call request from a very interesting ID tag. Looks like cashing in on that favor paid off, even if it’s hilarious to think of a beautiful woman being the final piece to sway him. 

“Hello, Steve,” Joker says, answering the call with his best villain voice. “I’ve been waiting for you.” 

Steve Cortez’s expression doesn’t crack. Guy always was hard to get a good laugh from. “Mr. Moreau—pleasure to see you. Thanks for taking my call. You know where I am right now?” 

“Looks like a ship,” Joker replies, squinting at the drab, metallic background. “My wild guess is that it’s a certain charter ship, en route to Illium?” 

“You’d guess right. And I still can’t believe it, that you would ask for me, and that I’d skip out on the Alliance to follow who the galaxy thinks is a criminal,” Steve replies, shaking his head in self-disbelief. “What’s this actually about, Mr. Moreau?” 

“We need a shuttle pilot, and a guy who knows ships and shuttles. And a Mako. That guy is you. Shepard’s been asking me for some recommendations, and you were at the top of the list, and it’s been awhile since I’ve sniped anyone from the Alliance. Thought it would be fun to try again.” 

“I’m flattered, I think, but you could’ve gotten damn near anyone else to join up with your cause, instead of sending people after me.” 

Joker spares him a very unimpressed look. “I’m sorry, do you not know who I am? Who I’m working with right now? This is the Normandy, you know, and it’s still under the command of the Commander Shepard. We need the best of the best on board here. I’m not settling for some volus taxi service. I’m demanding the best, second to me. So be flattered, Steve.” 

Steve grimaces like the idea of taking a compliment is akin to sucking on a lemon. Great, a stubbornly modest one; he’ll fit in perfectly here. 

“Also, to sweeten the deal? Not that it needs sweetening, because you and I both know that this is what it means to serve, not all that Alliance red tape that they’re choking themselves with right now, but once you’re on Illium, you’re going to run into another one of ours. Before we go pick you up, you need to pick out and purchase a new shuttle—and, unfortunately, a new Mako—for us. With a blank credit chit. We like to spoil our newbies.” 

That gets Steve’s attention. (Maybe Joker should have opened with that, but he hadn’t thought they’d need a new shuttle immediately, and he wanted to ensure the man came aboard for the right reasons. Not that he doubted Steve, but one could never be too careful.) “You’re letting me go shopping, on Illium, with no budget or oversight, for new vehicles, plural, for your team?” Steve asks like Joker has just described a private fantasy of his. 

“Yep,” Joker says, popping the p. 

The airlock finally opens behind him, unending decon procedures over. Shepard’s grinning, helmet already off, and Tali is doing her cute little fluttery body language she does when she’s excited about something, so he assumes the talks with the Admiralty Board went well. Good—they deserve a break.

“Hey, boss, guess who I got on the line? Your newest recruit!” Joker calls over his shoulder. 

Shepard steps into the cockpit and leans over his chair. She smiles brightly. “So, you’re Steve Cortez? Joker’s had a lot to say about your piloting skills, which is something, considering the size of his ego.” 

“So that’s why you know you can trust me when I say something halfway nice about another person,” Joker retorts. 

On the screen, Steve looks a little winded at the Commander Shepard butting into the call without warning. Ah, the usual Alliance hero worship. Joker wonders how that’s going with the military at large, given that Shepard fucked off and gave them the finger on her way out. Are they running smear campaigns yet? That could be worth a laugh later. 

“You’re en route to Illium, then? Joker can forward you the details on what we’re looking for and how we’ll be picking you up, but I’m sorry, I have to get going. You’ll get all the debriefings once you’re on board, but nothing just yet,” Shepard says, already glancing back to where Tali is vibrating in the corridor to the CIC. “Looking forward to meeting you, Cortez.” 

“Y-You too—I mean, yes ma’am,” Steve manages. 

Joker laughs at his reaction, but Shepard hardly notices, already off to do more Important Shepard Things. “Keep calling her ma’am once you get on board and she’s going to demand to hand you your ass in the sparring ring,” Joker wisely imparts. “Needless to say, after having to run like our asses were on fire from Citadel space, we’re running pretty casually here these days. It brings people together. Good luck, man.” Steve has always been on the stuffier, stubbornly professional side. Normally, Joker wouldn’t get along with a guy like him, but he respects talent. 

“Right. I’ll try to survive,” Steve replies with wry humor. “I suppose I’ll see you soon enough, Mr. Moreau. Don’t forget—you’re giving me free rein to outfit your shuttle bay. I don’t want to hear any complaining once me and these beauties come aboard.” 

“Wait, waitwaitwait—hold on, no, you’re going to get another old Kodiak, aren’t you?” Joker exclaims, realizing his mistake too late. 

Steve finally grins. 

“Come on, man, you have a blank credit chit and all of Illium at your fingertips, and you’re going to be boring?” Joker groans. 

“They’re not boring, they’re reliable, and you’ll be thanking me after you see the mods I get, too. I have plans. And even your tragic lack of knowledge about anything smaller than a corvette won’t stop you from being impressed.” 

“I’m too busy piloting the Normandy, you know? One of the best ships ever designed? The only ship that can keep up with my awesome skills?” 

“And you’ll need help to outfit her and keep her going, since a frigate that big can’t deliver ground teams just anywhere, even with your famed skill,” Steve reminds him. 

Joker rolls his eyes. And here he’d been looking forward to talking shop with him and having another (ex-)Alliance pilot on board. 

—

Day two of quarian negotiations, and already, Legion is allowed to board. (Away from the prying eyes of the general quarian populace, anyway.) Shepard knows the Admiralty Board—hell, most of the galaxy—knows that she has a geth on her team, since she’s never made it a secret and never wants Legion to feel like she’s ashamed of him, but rarely has this been directly addressed. Now, they have not an elephant in the room, but a geth. 

Daro’Xen greets Legion with scientific curiosity, and not the kind that Shepard trusts. Shepard thrusts an arm between them when the Admiral tries to get too close. “I’ll thank you to keep your distance, Admiral. Trust goes both ways, and we’ve only officially agreed on a few points of our future relationship so far.” 

“This platform is here to convey negotiations on behalf of the geth consensus,” Legion says with no idea how close he just came to probably getting hacked. Shepard knows what Tali can do to a geth in seconds; who knows what a woman like Daro’Xen could do with a casual touch? 

“We’re aware,” Shala’Raan stiffly replies. She and Han’Gerrel haven’t even looked directly at Legion yet, but so long as no one’s shooting and certain Admirals don’t get their hands on Legion, Shepard will consider this great progress. She really can’t expect any quarians to drop entire lifetimes of prejudice and defensive, terrified hatred at the drop of a hat, so she’ll do her best to remain patient with them. 

“This is Legion,” Tali says, completely unnecessary, since they’ve already been forwarded Legion’s dossier. Her voice edges high with nervousness. “He has been on the Normandy crew since before we took on the Collectors. It’s been, well, weird to live on a ship with a geth, but you get used to it! And they’re really not all bad. Legion and I have come to trust each other.” 

“Thank you, Creator Tali’Zorah,” Legion replies. Han’Gerrel twitches at the word ‘creator’. 

“Fascinating. You recognize us as your creators?” Daro’Xen asks, leaning up into Legion’s space, though she keeps her hands to herself this time. Shepard still sticks close—but it occurs to her that this may be the first time any other quarian has ever communicated with a geth. Progress indeed. 

“The geth do recognize the quarians as our creators,” Legion replies, head cocked, “and other historically recorded facts.” 

“Historically recorded… Do you possess records from your creation? From the Morning War?” 

“The geth consensus have recorded their entire history. This includes all shared history with our creators. We also routinely update our historical records with facts about other races from verified outside sources, to ensure comprehensive knowledge of current galactic events.” 

Even Shala’Raan looks a little astounded at that. “You have data on the quarian’s history? You have records of the Morning War? What else have you recorded?” 

Legion turns to her, light narrowing. “Geth record all data ever exposed to each unit and share it all with the consensus. This is how we learn.” 

Most shocking of all: none of the Admiralty Board goes running for the hills upon hearing that geth are walking recorders. Even Han’Gerrel seems a little interested, now. Shepard supposes history is important to the quarians, and so many of their records had been lost or destroyed when they’d had to flee their planets. This could be another wonderful olive branch to begin mending relations, and it requires virtually no effort on the geth’s part. Sharing data is as easy as breathing for them. (Well, easier, since they don’t breathe.)

Legion turns out to be the unit of the hour. After their initial unease passes, all of the Admirals are pestering him with questions, reminding Shepard strongly of Tali whenever she gets into a particularly curious mode. Apparently it’s a quarian thing. Thankfully, the conversation steers itself back around to a ceasefire and end of war scenario without her needing to herd them. Legion’s own lack of affect and quick answers help reassure the quarians that the geth do, in fact, desire peace as well. It’s easy to believe a geth speaking as fact when one delivers it so simply. 

Tali shows off the mock-up of the Shroud she and Mordin had created. Legion displays topographical maps of Rannoch, with the most ideal locations for construction marked. The Admirals stare at even that much of their homeworld in something softer than awe, but pretty damn close. 

Shepard hardly has to lift a finger. She likes these negotiations. So far. 

“I can’t promise that there won’t be friction, given our history,” Shala’Raan admits, “but I think our people will be overjoyed at having Rannoch and our other colonies back without needing to go to war for them. That much, I believe we can accept as part of these negotiations. No further conflict with the geth, allowing them to, er, live on Rannoch as well, so long as we regain rights to our own homeworld again.” 

“Affirmative, Creator-Admiral Shala’Raan,” Legion agrees. 

Shala’Raan even smiles at the title. Awkwardly, but it’s undoubtedly a smile beneath that helmet. 

“What about our part of the negotiations, have any of you thought any more about that?” Tali carefully breaks in. Shepard is glad she didn’t have to bring it up. “The geth are fully allied with the Normandy and Shepard in our war effort. Shepard helped us broker this peace so that we can help her, too.” 

“We’ve already sent a team to your ship to assess your hydroponics setup,” Shala’Raan reminds her. 

Shepard’s smile tightens. “That’s nice, but what about the AI-killing weapons? You’ll have your worlds to put civilians back on. I need weapons and I need ships for my fleet.” 

“We will eagerly investigate the exact logistics of what it will take to recolonize Rannoch—” Zaal’Koris begins, but Shepard puts a hand up to stop him right there. 

In a hard voice, she tells them, “You have three to eight months before the Reapers are here, when I am demanding action of you. Do any of you actually understand that? I am completely willing to work miracles like this for my allies, but I am asking for certain things in return. I will ask more rudely if you try to draw this out into bureaucratic hell. You will have three to eight months to protect your civilian populations—you have the unique opportunity of hiding your people from the Reapers, do you realize that? The Reapers know of the quarians, but when they scan the extranet for modern population centers, Rannoch will not show up on a single map. They will only be targeting the Migrant Fleet and everyone else’s homeworld. I am giving you peace of mind and safety for your people so you can donate your ships to my fleet and cause.”

Shepard flaps a hand, and Legion steps up beside her as if commanded. She loves this geth—and how easily Legion shows off his loyalty. She’s greatly enjoying how the entire geth consensus do the same. 

“The geth are prepared to aid in the creators’ infrastructure needs. Sixty-two percent of the geth fleet has begun strip-mining asteroid belts in three unmapped systems with another four marked for future use. We will provide materials for construction and trading purposes. We possess historical records of quarian architecture as well as access to all modern architectural databanks. We estimate that building appropriate housing and infrastructure units on Rannoch and Ket’osh for fifty percent of the current creator population will take six months. We estimate that construction of a Shroud on Rannoch would take five months.” 

“…Six months?” Shala’Raan echoes. 

“Wait, that first part—sixty percent of the geth fleet are currently mining?” Han’Gerrel demands. 

“Do you even know how large the geth fleet is nowadays?” Shepard asks, brows raised. With a glower, Han’Gerrel shakes his head. Shepard shrugs. “Neither do I, truthfully. But it’s a lot bigger than most estimations, far as I can tell, and yes, the geth are content with mining. This will be adjusted to eighty percent of their available units once construction on Rannoch is underway, up until the start of the war. That’s how we can propose these sorts of timelines for you.” 

“What are you doing with the rest of the geth? As machines, I’m assuming they can dedicate themselves to one hundred percent of something, in a way no organic could,” Daro’Xen points out—correctly. 

“Current makeup of the geth fleet is as follows: sixty-two percent are gathering materials for future planned construction projects and trading purposes. Ten percent are stationed semi-permanently in the Tikkun system for military readiness. Ten percent are currently en route to the Kite’s Nest cluster. Four percent are currently en route to the Krogan DMZ. One percent is assisting the rach—” 

“We don’t need to share everything right now, do we, Legion?” Shepard interjects with a wildly nervous laugh. “Point is, the geth fleet is bigger than we could have imagined, and yes, I’m taking advantage of that—with full geth permission. Informed permission. You’ll get to know more once you all decide to join fully with me.” 

“What are you using the krogan for?” Zaal’Koris asks, arms folded. He narrows his glowing eyes. “Everyone knows by now that you brokered an alliance with them first—but why? They have no navy. They have no formal military at all. They can offer little trade and these Reapers of yours will not be fought on the ground.” 

Shepard ensures she maintains a firm voice and neutral expression for this next part. It’s been one of the bleaker moments of war prep, even if Wrex had only shrugged at her when she’d told him. (Javik had been impressed.) “Some of the battles will be grounded, Admiral. They can’t harvest us from orbit. Wrex knows the krogan are with me for two purposes: when those ground battles happen, we’re enforcing a suppression zone. We are not allowing the Reapers to create husks unchecked and inflate their own forces with our dead, even if it means there will be collateral damage in population centers. I hope this doesn’t happen, however naive that is of me to hope for, but that is the plan going forward for when a Reaper touches down on a populated planet. The second one is even more distasteful, so you can quit the scowling, Admirals—the krogan are going to be used against the Citadel and its Council, should they ever do more than slap a trade embargo and a few sternly-worded sanctions on me.” 

There is also a small, despairing part of her that hopes she does not have to send a krogan invasion force to take over Khar’shan and force an evacuation. Shepard still doesn’t know how she’ll handle the batarians, but she will not sacrifice them all like she had in the Viper Nebula, and neither will she allow fifteen billion bodies to turn into husk forces from the very start of the war. She remains between a rock and a hard place with that one. 

“You’re going to turn the krogan against the Council?” Shala’Raan whispers. 

“If they act against me. I figure that everyone’s attitudes towards me will change once the Reapers do arrive, but until that point—well, I don’t know when or how they’ll turn against me, but I can’t risk it. Let this illustrate exactly how far I will go to ensure our war preparations succeed.” 

“We have a lot of contingency plans for worst-case scenarios,” Tali adds, avoiding Shala’Raan’s gaze. “You’ll be privy to a lot more of them once we officially negotiate our alliance, but, well, not all of them. For security reasons. We’re doing all we can to save all lives in the galaxy, but there are going to be costs, and it’s better if we figure out what costs we want to pay before the Reapers decide for us. This war is going to be unlike anything the galaxy has ever seen—but we come closest to it. We know what it’s like to fight an enemy that doesn’t tire, doesn’t starve, doesn’t falter. Imagine this on an impossible scale. And there is the threat of indoctrination on top of that, so we are choosing our allies and who to trust very carefully.” 

“And so you can’t have much pity for those who don’t bend to your demands and join your war effort,” Daro’Xen says, but with something like respect in her voice. “I see your reasoning, Commander, even concerning utilizing the krogan as a battering ram against the Citadel government. Frankly, I don’t care much about that part. I’m far more interested in how you’ll be utilizing the geth to their full capacity, given that it’s never been done before by outside forces.” 

“We’re working all of that out, but the geth are great builders, especially for cutting edge weapons like the ones you’ll share with me,” Shepard brightly replies. 

At least no one immediately shoots her down this time around, either swayed by the reality of what she’s promising—or what she’s prepared to threaten to do if she can’t. 

—

Unlike the first day, the second day of quarian talks runs long, with more than a few yawns before they finally agree to break for the night. All of the Admirals, at various points, had tried to pressure Legion into various concessions—“What if one of our colonies had only quarians living in it? The geth do not actually need to live with us, so you could leave that planet to us.” “The geth are assisting in building necessary infrastructure for the quarian race. If no geth unit is allowed to land on the planet, then there will be no assistance to construct infrastructure. It would take an estimated four to five years for—” “Fine, geth, you’ve made your point.”—but in Shepard’s opinion, it’s all circular. The geth consensus have already decided what they will and won’t agree to when it comes to their creators. The quarians apparently haven’t realized how concretely those decisions have been made. 

She really shouldn’t butt into their affairs too much. She’s created a situation where the quarians and the geth can talk themselves, after all—that should have been the ultimate goal. She was here with an offer. 

But they’re so stuck on trying to nitpick their way into geth concessions and promises that Shepard feels very left by the wayside. 

“It’s still progress. I never, in millions of years, would have thought I’d be standing by and watching Auntie Raan and the other Admirals debate with a geth,” Tali says, patting her arm commiseratively. “Especially without guns drawn.” 

“I know, I know,” Shepard sighs. She’s still exhausted, though. Why does this decon take so long? 

“The geth have also considered this progress, Shepard-Commander,” Legion chimes in. 

“I know. I’m glad this is all working out for you both! And in general. It’s actually pretty nice to say I’ve had a hand in helping end a long chain of hostilities and made the galaxy a brighter place, all that fluffy shit. But we need quarian engineers, quarian ships, and quarian weapons for this. Yeah, we can always lean more on the geth for ships and engineers, but weaponry? No offense, Legion.” 

“We are incapable of feeling offended,” Legion reminds her. Shepard still doesn’t believe him. 

Shepard sighs again, then stretches her arms over her head, hearing her back crack in several places. She’s not cut out for long talks. Give her a merc company to shoot at any day. “Bright and early tomorrow morning, too,” she groans. “Legion, ensure you upload the transcripts of today’s talk to the consensus and EDI. Tali, could you go over your notes from Haestrom again? If there’s anything about dark energy that we’re missing, or don’t understand, I need it. We’re flying blind until we actually get them to buckle and hand over what they’ve collected.” 

Schematics, supposedly, plus all of the data on how to use dark energy. Given that they don’t know yet what it’ll do for them, it’s a Hail Mary at best, but Shepard has already had her fair share of those in her career. Another (or two, or five, or however many she’s up to in her war prep list) isn’t going to kill her. If you throw enough shit at a wall, something’s bound to stick eventually, and she’ll only need one to ruin Harbinger’s day. 

As the airlock opens, EDI reconnecting with them now that they’re safely away from prying quarian eyes, Shepard gets a message from Liara that erases most of her hopes for sleep. “A matter came to my attention. It is not an emergency, but it is somewhat urgent, and you will want to know about it. Come to my room when you re-board the Normandy.” 

Shepard groans. Because she’s already operating on minimal rest and needs to have working brain cells to tackle the Admiralty Board and their circular concerns tomorrow, too, she guiltily wonders if this can be pushed off. Liara had said it wasn’t an emergency. So Shepard types back, “Be honest with me—can it wait? Pretty please?” 

“You will want to know about it sooner rather than later,” Liara replies, quick as a flash. 

Shepard drags her feet to the elevator and punches the down button instead of the up button with a scowl. 

Gardner is still up, a book open on the counter while something simmers on the stove, and without asking, he tosses Shepard a protein bar. One of the things they had ensured to buy in bulk on Illium. “You better come back for something better, later, after you’re done with whatever’s got Liara in a tizzy,” Gardner informs her. 

“Will do,” Shepard replies with a mock salute. She’s gotten good at inhaling protein bars, at least. It’s already gone by the time she’s ducking into Liara’s den of screens and tech. 

Liara looks as tired as Shepard feels, with purplish smudges beneath her eyes and a paleness to her complexion that means she’s overworking herself, too. “Oh, good, thank you for meeting with me right away. Do you want the bad news, or the funny news?” Liara asks. 

“Why isn’t there ever good news?” Shepard grumbles, hanging her head. “Bad news first.” At least it’s not emergency bad news. 

“They’re related. Matriarch Helesse believes she can manipulate us into going back to Illium, because she’s sold some certain information. The issue is that we are going back to Illium, to pick up Steve Cortez and our new vehicles. So she’s going to believe she has undue sway over us and our actions—well, me, specifically, but both notions are bad. There is no way to avoid notifying her if we get anywhere near Illium, much less Nos Astra, and this could do more damage than to simply inflate her ego,” Liara tells her in a rush. 

“You told me she wasn’t going to be an enemy,” Shepard groans. She deserves to groan at this. 

“She isn’t, but she isn’t an ally we can buy off like the quarians or the krogan, Shepard,” Liara reproachfully replies. “Information brokers are neutral parties, even if they can be friendly with certain sides in a fight. That she will believe she has power over us is the actual problem here, Shepard. That she can send me information and expect me, and thus the Normandy, to come back to Illium is a very troubling precedent to set.” 

“What’s this information she’s passing along? She sold something, right? Or is trying to…?” 

“She’s trying to manipulate us into coming back to Illium because she sold information about our whereabouts. Obviously, she can’t sell our location, because she doesn’t know it, but she can strongly imply that she can guarantee the Normandy as being docked somewhere in a specific time frame. Do you see the issue?” 

That does clear it up more. Acting like (or believing) she can control the Normandy’s travels is a dangerous precedent to set. “Ugh, okay. Maybe we can… get Cortez here somehow else, have the new shuttle delivered… Can we cut Helesse loose without turning her against us?” 

“Unlikely, because she will be expecting it after this move she pulled,” Liara replies with a deep frown. “She’s testing us, with this.” 

“What’s the other news? You said it was funny?” 

Liara brightens, frown sliding into a smile, but somehow, it doesn’t reassure Shepard very much. “Oh! Well, yes, I think it is, in an ironic sort of way. Matriarch Helesse could have done worse—she sold the information to a woman who hasn’t dealt with information brokers before, so she didn’t conceal her identity. The buyer of the Normandy’s location was a turian woman named Solana Vakarian.” 

Shepard takes a moment to process this. 

And then another moment. 

Then she punches the comm on her omnitool hard enough to hurt. “Garrus, sweetie, light of my life, I need to see you immediately.” 

Silence comes back over the comm link. Shepard glances down at her omnitool, but the connection is live and uninterrupted. 

“EDI, is Garrus in the battery, or somewhere else?” 

“He is currently located on the engineering deck.” 

“Can you open the intercom—” 

“I heard you,” Garrus finally replies. “I just, uh, have never been referred to by you in that way. Ever. It was kind of terrifying, so I don’t actually want to go to you right now, not without figuring out what’s up. Am I in trouble?” 

“That remains to be seen,” Shepard calmly replies. 

Liara hides a smile with the heel of her hand as she pretends to be reading something very seriously on her holo-screen. “It’s a problem, but I hope it isn’t a problem, if you can help us with this,” Liara says, loudly enough to be picked up over the connection. 

Garrus mutters something, resigned, and cuts the comm link. 

Shepard crosses her arms and taps her foot as she waits for her partner to drag himself up to their deck. 

“Are you actually mad at him? This is outside of his control—it’s his sister, isn’t it?” Liara asks like she hadn’t been the one to forward Garrus’ entire Shadow Broker dossier to Shepard. “Maybe this can still be defused. She is his family. That means a lot to turians, and I don’t believe they’ve ever been on truly bad terms.” 

“But he has a history of ignoring her, and now, presumably she’s pissed enough to be trying to lay traps with agents of the Shadow Broker to get him in a location where she can find him. So either he hasn’t spoken to her since we went rogue, or it’s… worse. I don’t know.” Shepard sighs, shaking her head. Garrus doesn’t talk about his family very often, and whenever he does, it’s in a general sense or about the past. The most she knows is that he has a tense-but-mending relationship with his sister, and a tense-but-worse-and-definitely-not-mending relationship with his father. And his mother is very, very sick. 

Oh, god, don’t let it be a terrible update about his mother that he’s ignored his sister for and now she has to deliver it in person. 

“Would you like to see a picture of her?” Liara breaks in, as if sensing Shepard’s spiraling worries. “A picture from the security cams in Nos Astra—no dossier or terrible secrets attached.” 

“…Okay,” Shepard mumbles. 

With a swipe, Liara pulls up a somewhat shitty photo of a pretty turian woman. Of course, the first thing Shepard notices are her clan markings—exactly the same shade of bold blue as her brother. Her face is somewhat in profile, showing off the right side of her face. The scarred side, on Garrus; it’s been over a year since she has seen the Vakarian markings on unscarred facial plates, and that stirs up old guilt in her belly. Her hide is warmer in color than Garrus’, but similar, and the quality is too poor to see her eye color, but maybe she resembles her brother there, too. She doesn’t wear armor, though, so apparently the family resemblance doesn’t carry through to neurotic attachment to hardsuits. 

“She looks a lot like him,” Liara remarks. 

“I guess so. It’s a little hard to figure out family resemblances with aliens…” Shepard noncommittally replies, but Solana does look an awful lot like her brother. Despite the alien physiology, there are enough subtle similarities for it to be picked up on, by even a human, however unconsciously. 

Glyph finally chimes as the door opens. Garrus looks warier than Shepard has seen him in a long time, and it’s been years since it’s been leveled at her, so this does little to soothe her aggravation. 

“What’s going on?” Garrus asks, stepping into Liara’s room only far enough to allow the door to slide shut behind him. 

“It’s your sister—” Shepard begins, but Garrus crosses the distance between them with urgency, blue eyes sharp. 

“What’s wrong with Solana? What happened?” he demands. 

Shepard rolls her eyes. She’s entitled to it, right now. “She’s fine, it’s just that she ended up being a very unfortunate pawn in an information broker power play. She bought the whereabouts of the Normandy.” 

“…But no one knows where we are,” Garrus says, eyes sliding sideways to Liara. She is the only information broker who would know their current location. 

“Matriarch Helesse, our primary contact on Illium, has promised her that the Normandy will be at a certain location. In Nos Astra. Of course, we were actually going there, because we need to pick up Steve Cortez and the vehicles he has acquired for us, and address a few more restocking issues with our new indoor garden,” Liara explains. “But this would tell Helesse that she can manipulate where we go and when. We cannot afford to set that precedent.” 

“More importantly,” Shepard continues, though the look Liara shoots her tells her that this isn’t the more important matter, “that is your sister who has to go to the Shadow Broker to try to talk to you! Is this because she’s upset with you for ignoring her again? Or is this something serious, Garrus?” 

Thankfully, Garrus doesn’t appear all that concerned. He seems embarrassed, actually, which tells Shepard all she needs to know about Garrus’ current sister-speaking frequency. So this isn’t some sort of family emergency, and probably not a trap. (Outside of Helesse’s ego being stroked.) 

“Spirits,” Garrus mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Sol, why the hell do you have to do this…? What are we going to do?” 

“That’s your job, to tell us,” Shepard returns, arms folded across her chest. She raises an eyebrow. “Can you contact her before we head back, get her to call off this hunt somehow?” 

“Matriarch Helesse would still be watching for our arrival on Illium, regardless of Solana’s actions from this point forward,” Liara points out. 

Garrus sighs, heavily. “If she’s already wasting her time and credits on this, then she’s not going to back down, even if I do contact her now. Sol is stubborn like that. So, what’s going to be the plan? Can we get the new shuttle pilot here somehow else?” 

“No, the plan is going to be toss you out the airlock into Nos Astra, let Helesse be distracted watching Solana publicly yell at you, while we sneak around and resupply,” Shepard tartly replies. 

“Why are you being prickly about this—at me? I don’t control my sister!” 

“You could talk to her!” 

“And tell her what, exactly?! ‘Yeah, I’ve gone rogue again, but this time I’m actually telling you about it? I know I’m becoming a wanted criminal with my alien partners on my alien starship, but it’s okay because my human commander isn’t actually crazy when she keeps ranting about impossible machines coming from dark space to kill us all?’” 

Shepard jerks back as if he’d hit her. “You think I’m crazy?” 

It’s knee-jerk and wrong—she knows he doesn’t think that, he’s never said anything to imply that, and Garrus has been with her since day one of this entire mess. If anything, Garrus is usually first in line to help her be crazy about things. 

But none of her crew has actually said that aloud. Extranet gossip columns and Citadel ire are one thing, but hearing about her reputation from her boyfriend when not expecting it is quite another. 

Garrus takes her hand, frowning down at it, and Liara pretends to be very busy on her console. “No, of course I don’t—but the turians do, Shepard. Solana probably won’t, because some of the stuff I’ve actually shared with her is about you, but—” 

“But all of the rest of the turian Hierarchy thinks I’m crazy,” Shepard replies. It’s a thorn in her side, a prickly piece of food stuck in her teeth that she can’t resist poking at. Not that she’d actually hoped to work with the Hierarchy, but this sucks. It also sucks how easily Garrus is admitting it to her; he thinks this would be obvious. 

Shepard hadn’t thought that. 

“What else would they think?” Garrus asks, helplessly, glancing sideways again at Liara for support (while Liara tries very hard to magically disappear from this scene). “I don’t, Sol wouldn’t, and who cares what my dad thinks—” 

“Your dad thinks I’m crazy and I’m carting off his eldest and only son onto a criminal venture that’s turning all of Citadel space against us,” Shepard says and snatches her hand out of Garrus’. This isn’t fair to him, but it isn’t fair to her, and god, she fucking needs sleep before she makes this situation even worse. But she can’t stop thinking about it. Poking at the wound. “What is your father going to say when it comes out that we gave the krogan the cure to the genophage? That I brought back the rachni and are friends with them? That I’m friends with the geth and am using them as most of my fleet? What is your father going to say if the Council forces my hand and I have to use the krogan against them to stop them from arresting—or killing—us all because then that’d be the end of the only war effort against the Reapers?!” 

All of the fears and insecurities that she has so ruthlessly tamped down about how she’s making a monster out of herself to most of the galaxy come bubbling up like bile. And now Shepard gets to view it all through the very personal lens of turning one of the people she cares most about against his race and very possibly against his family. She’s asking her crew to sacrifice a lot more than their lives, if need be, but Shepard hasn’t actually put much thought into the details of it. 

Garrus will never repair his relationship with his father, may never see his mother alive again, will become a pariah from his entire race, and may even lose his fragile relationship with his sister at this rate. Liara is losing one of her dearest friends on a desperate gamble to try to protect herself, because she’s been too free with her devotion to Shepard and her cause. Mordin is little more than a research slave, no matter how fascinating he finds the work, because Shepard simply does not have a back-up for him and his brilliant mind. Gardener losing sleep over trying to figure out something he never asked to do. Joker talking someone into betraying the Alliance to come join their ill-fated cause. 

Jack’s outburst about being useful haunts her again. 

Shepard hasn’t felt this brittle since she was fighting batarian slavers tooth and nail on Imorth. 

“I should go,” she says, realizing only then that she is probably on the cusp of a breakdown that is larger in scale than Solana Vakarian looking for her brother. 

“Wait, Shepard—” Garrus starts. 

Liara holds out a hand to her, “Shepard, wait, you shouldn’t—” 

But Shepard pushes past her turian and focuses on counting her breaths like Kelly had taught her to tamp down the tightening in her throat. Would rest fix this? Can she sleep it off, and come out tomorrow even-tempered and clear-headed again? 

Gardner says something to her as she marches past, but she hardly hears it. Chakwas isn’t in the medbay to see her semi-panicked retreat from two of her closest friends. 

But Shepard doesn’t make it to the elevator. 

A strong grip clamps down on her shoulders and pins her in place. “Shepard-Commander,” Legion says from behind her, “you are experiencing severe levels of physiological stress. This unit concludes you are also experiencing severe levels of mental stress to cause this reaction.” 

Shepard barks out a wild laugh. She doesn’t want to turn to see if Garrus is following her. “Yeah, you think?! Let me go, Legion, I need to—” 

“This unit, in compliance with the geth consensus, agrees that the wellbeing of Shepard-Commander as a fit leader for the war effort against the Reapers supersedes the priority of negotiation with our creators over re-colonization of their planets,” Legion tells her. “Shepard-Commander, we recommend taking a ‘break’ from your current duties, in order to allow yourself to relax and calm down to minimal stress levels.” 

She doesn’t even get to laugh at or question the notion this time, because Legion steers her into the elevator. “Legion, I understand that I’m a big ball of stress and a mess right now specifically, but I don’t think a vacation is in the cards for us right now. I need to scream into a pillow, and then compose a very sorry email to Garrus before trying to get what sleep I can.” 

“You would not be able to have the recommended amount of sleep tonight, based on our schedule for tomorrow beginning in the morning, and human organics need more than the recommended amount of sleep, regularly, to regulate their moods.” 

Great—now Legion is calling this a mood. She understands where he’s coming from, and he’s right overall, but she’s sensitive to this sort of thing right now, damn it. She could do worse than argue with Garrus in front of Liara, and have whatever this is with Legion—god forbid she have a screaming match with Jack or get into another physical fight with Javik—but this is frustrating, upsetting, and embarrassing. Which, in turn, further worsens her crumbling mood. Because of course it does. 

“This unit will coordinate with EDI in order to rearrange tomorrow’s scheduled events in order to give you—and other Normandy crew members—time to rest sufficiently to continue operating at peak performance levels,” Legion says and escorts her into her quarters with gentlemanly precision. 

“You are not going to mess with scheduled negotiations—” 

“Shepard, both Miranda and Kelly have added subroutines for me in the event of physical or mental health deterioration of certain crew members, primarily you,” EDI interrupts from her interface. “Specifically, if there is a deterioration of health that is not addressed and the certain crew members insist on still working. I am certain Dr. Chakwas would agree with these protocols.” 

Shepard sighs, aggravated, and looks at the geth now blocking her doorway. “I understand why that’s a good idea. I do! But we are still in the very fragile planning stages of things, and just because I had a fight—” oh god, did that qualify as a fight with Garrus? she wonders with fresh alarm, “—with Garrus and am not getting enough sleep does not mean I am about to break apart completely. The quarians want to cooperate with us, but they’re also being their usual apprehensive selves about the geth, and we need this to take less time instead of more so I can start asking for their engineers to help and get their ships coordinated with—” 

Legion interrupts this time. “Shepard-Commander, you have gained concrete military and trade alliances with the rachni, krogan, and geth races so far. You have gained a concrete trade agreement with the port of Omega. You have gained a tentative alliance with the creators and statistically will gain a concrete military and trade alliance with them in the near future. You have confirmed a non-hostility pact with the Special Tasks Group. You have done all of these things in thirty-eight days, time starting when you first declared that Normandy was preparing for war against the Old Machines.” 

Ah, yes, AI-sponsored cheerleading: statistics. 

“What we are trying to say,” EDI continues, “is that you, Commander Shepard, are more important than one single day of negotiations, when it comes to the war effort. It is statistically very likely that the quarians will agree to become our allies and will agree to most, if not all, of our terms. Even if they do not, we have contingencies in place for our resource usage. We have had these, and you have been aware of them. The ceasefire was enough to free up the geth to fully coordinate with us. We can use Omega’s economy in conjunction with smaller, private contracts to finance enough of our efforts to continue. You will succeed, but even if you do not at this specific moment, rest assured that we will continue onward regardless.” 

“How much of that conversation with Garrus and Liara were you listening in on?” Shepard asks from behind her facepalm. She loves these two, she does, but good god, this is a bad time for a pep talk. Sure, she may be an important asset in her own right—that’s quite touching, actually—but she is not legitimately more important than trying to talk another race into believing her about the giant murder machines on their way to murder. Because not many races will. After the quarians, she’s going to go with organizations and companies, and after that, it’s individuals, until the Reapers arrive and she’s vindicated in the worst way possible. There aren’t going to be any more large-scale alliance negotiations after this one, so she has to push through until she can clinch this one, too. 

“Please, try to rest, Shepard,” EDI says instead, which means she heard everything, of course. “Garrus has conveyed to me that he is not mad at you.” 

“I’m not mad at him, either,” Shepard mumbles, glancing between the geth platform blocking her door and her large, soft, empty bed. “You’re really not going to move, huh?” 

“No,” Legion answers. 

“What if I point out that I sleep better with another body in bed with me?” Then she could apologize to Garrus in person for freaking out. And Thane probably doesn’t even know she freaked out yet. 

“This unit will warm itself sufficiently to mimic organic body heat for you,” Legion says and takes a step forward. 

“Wait! No, actually that’s fine!” If she thought cuddling with a turian was a hard-bodied experience, she is certain a geth would be infinitely worse. Warm or not, there is no give to metal. 

Legion halts, light narrowing. Hopefully not in disappointment. 

“…Do you want to cuddle with me, Legion?” Shepard asks, suspiciously, just in case. 

“No. ‘Cuddling’ is an organic concept to share affection and body heat, and is inefficient at conveying both.” 

“I would cuddle with you, Shepard, if I were physically capable of doing so,” EDI pipes up. “However, I do not have a separate body with which to do so. Moreover, it would also be made of metal and thus uncomfortable for an organic body to lay against for extended periods of time. But I wished to express my willingness to share in this affection with you. It appears to be pleasant.” 

Okay, so her AI have developed the need to demonstrate affection through more than just lobbing heartwarming statistics at her. That sure is a development. “If I promise to go to sleep, and maybe sleep in, will you let me be a functioning person and talk to the quarians after that?” 

“That depends on whether or not you will be capable of functioning at peak performance levels, Shepard-Commander. Normandy and its crew, as well as this unit and EDI and all other members of our effort to fight the Old Machines, need you at your best.” 

Though she’s exhausted, and has wanted to catch up on sleep for some time, Shepard crawls into bed in the grumpiest manner possible. She’ll hopefully feel better in the morning, and will be more inclined to think of this as a moment of tough love rather than bossing her around in order to preserve maximum efficiency. 

But sleep takes her quickly, no matter how irritable she feels. 

Chapter Text

“What’s a better word for giving something up, rather than ‘sacrifice’? I want something with a kinder connotation,” Garrus asks, frowning hard at his omnitool’s holo-screen. 

“I am only going to play thesaurus for you if you tell me what happened,” Thane retorts. He knows something happened, because Garrus is upset in that trying-to-stay-calm-but-is-actually-a-vibrating-ball-of-tension kind of way. And he usually only becomes upset in that very specific way if it has to deal with Shepard and/or emotional topics. 

And the turian is refusing to elaborate, even though he was the one who had come into life support to sprawl dramatically over Thane’s cot. 

“EDI, can you explain to me what happened?” Thane asks, pointedly. 

Garrus shoots him an unimpressed look over his screen. 

“I am currently updating my learning routines about what organics consider discretion, so no, I cannot,” EDI replies. Garrus smirks, which makes Thane sort of want to throw his mug at him, because the upset party does not get to be smug as well as upset.  

“Will you tell me where Shepard is right now? Is she similarly upset?” 

“Shepard is currently located in her quarters. She is sleeping. And I will not let anyone interrupt that for several more hours, which includes letting either of you in, as that would likely wake her.” 

Humans exhaust themselves with the force of their emotions (not to mention the stress she has already been under). So this points to something definitely happening between Shepard and Garrus. And neither of them have turned to him? Thane bites back his own frustration and goes to Garrus. He gives him his sternest expression, standing before where he is laying on his cot. 

Garrus speaks before he gets the chance to ask again, however. “I don’t want to talk about it, because I feel like I’m at fault, even though logically I know I’m not. It’s a pretty terrible situation to feel. And just being near you is comfort enough, which is why I came here. Liara looked like she wanted to cry, and she wasn’t even part of it.” 

Thane notes to press Liara for details later. “I have ways of making you talk, Garrus,” he warns.

“I’m not really in the mood for flirting right now,” Garrus dismissively replies. 

“I wasn’t flirting with you.” 

Garrus scoffs, but he sits up, and dismisses his holo-screen. Thane wishes he could read whatever he’d been working on—it has to be related to this, surely—but turian script is not something he’s picked up yet. “You know, this started because I’m bad at talking about things, so you wanting to talk and me not wanting to talk about it makes me feel even worse about this whole thing. And even if I explain myself to you, you wouldn’t get it, not completely, because we have different… racial backgrounds.” 

Thane presses his lips into a firm line. “Racial backgrounds.” If this is merely another cultural misunderstanding—well, he doesn’t know what he’ll do, but maybe some of his frustration will be assuaged. Or vindicated. 

“The drell are a tiny population whose comparative recent history has been mostly marked by, uh, general tragedy and bad stuff. The turians are a big, sprawling mess of strict regulations, societal expectations, a lot of pride, and the ability to hold one hell of a grudge. Our recent history involves finding this brand new race trying to kill themselves with technology they didn’t understand, getting blamed for stopping them from killing themselves, and then having that race enter into the galactic stage and start making a lot of demands. Everyone else is afraid of these noisy aliens, too, because their military supposedly rivals ours, which irks us even more and makes us hate them further, because again, the very proud thing. Our military is our galactic identity at this point. Then, our most famous and accomplished Spectre got brainwashed by sentient machines that no one believes exists, and one of those noisy, demanding new aliens is the one to take him down in a very public, messy, and somewhat humiliating way. And the noisy, demanding new alien is still demanding attention as she’s trying to convince everyone else that those sentient machines not only exist, but are unable to be negotiated with, and can only be stopped with force if we all work together, ignoring the thousands of years of divisive galactic history that the demanding alien race has no clue about.” 

Thane sinks down onto the cot next to Garrus; he doubts he has ever heard the man speak so much at one time. He had little idea that the turians felt so strongly about humanity, even if it makes belated sense, from a historical lens. He has certainly seen Shepard (and the other human crew) bicker with various less-than-polite turians during their travels. And Thane had little grasp on how important Saren must have been to the turians, as a point of pride. 

“Your people are really so… insulted by Shepard?” Thane asks at length. “By humanity?”

“More than I think she knows. I don’t want to talk about it, because I don’t want to feel like even more of an exception than I am, but my father came up, and he is certainly no fan of hers or of humanity.” Garrus scoffs again, tossing his head, which is such a turian behavior that it makes the situation all the more surreal. “Not that Castis matters! That’s what I wanted to tell her—that he doesn’t matter. Not to me, not anymore, and I can’t imagine all of this has endeared me to him any more, either. He was always… very by-the-rules. I’m not.” 

“It adds to your roguish charm,” Thane says, an attempt at lightness—and this is one small victory he claims. Garrus half-smiles, unscarred mandible twitching, though he quickly turns to hide it. “You don’t often talk about your family,” he adds, neutrally. 

“For good reason.” 

“Which is…?” 

“It’s not a nice topic to talk about, and you and Shepard are…” 

Thane frowns, confused. “Are what?” 

Garrus thrums, showcasing his aggravation with the topic, though Thane knows it is not directed at him. “Shepard doesn’t have a blood family anymore, and you have your own issues to work out. I don’t want to heap Vakarian drama on top of that, and it’s not like I’m close with them anymore, anyway. There are more important things than—” 

Thane catches Garrus’ jaw and forcefully turns him to face him. “Your life, no matter what troubles it contains, is never a burden, Garrus. Shepard and I are adults. Do you think that we couldn’t handle supporting you—or wouldn’t want to?” 

“No, of course not! But it’s just—this is all really easy for you to say, Mr. Emotionally Vulnerable. Half the time, I don’t even know what I’m thinking about these things, so how do you expect me to tie my tongue into knots trying to explain it to someone else?” Garrus replies, bewildered. It beats the aggravated notes in his subvocals, at least. 

“Try,” Thane orders. 

Garrus’ eyes slide sideways, avoidant, though he doesn’t try to duck out from Thane’s grip on his jaw. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to soon enough, because what started this mess is that Solana is looking for me. And she managed to get an uppity information broker tangled into this, so that’s, uh, fun. Not actually fun at all.” 

“Your sister had to deal with an information broker to try to contact you?” 

“When you say it like that… Well, yes. It’s safer if she doesn’t know exactly what I’m up to anymore—besides the obvious security risks—because she’s a worrier and can’t do much. I’m shocked she even left Palaven, to tell you the truth. She’s never been big on travel. Also—wait!” Garrus’ attention snaps back to him and his mandibles press inward in a scowl. “I don’t think I deserve a dressing down from you, not about this. Your son almost became an assassin because you wouldn’t talk with him!” 

That’s a low blow, but Thane forgives it—only this single time. Frowning, fighting memories of Kolyat and Shepard with guns drawn on each other, Thane replies, “That’s why I don’t want you to repeat the same mistakes. What’s the point of making mistakes if you don’t learn from them and share that experience with others, so they could avoid the same?” 

“That makes you sound a lot wiser than I want you to right now,” Garrus mutters. 

“You came in here for comfort, you said so yourself.” 

“And to use you for your extensive vocabulary.” 

“You need to tell me what happened,” Thane presses, and finally releases his hold on Garrus’ jaw, “or else I’m not letting you sleep in here tonight.” 

“I told you. …Mostly. Solana got tangled up with an information broker on Illium, because I’m trying to put distance between us, because I’m in trouble and she’s nosy. And somehow, I brought up my dad, and things just sort of… melted down. Like a drive core overheating. Shepard latched onto the fact that my dad, and the rest of the turian race, probably hates her and thinks she’s insane, and that’s only going to get worse. And it will. But we’ve known that nothing we’re doing is going to make us popular, the important thing is that it’s going to make us and the rest of the galaxy alive when the Reapers get here.” 

Shepard has never been a sensitive woman—not in the traditional sense, anyway. She gets prickly if someone accuses her sniping of getting sloppy, or accuses her of choosing poorly in her crewmates, or if someone bad mouths the Alliance in front of her. But by and large, she hardly cares what others think of her. 

Under normal circumstances. 

Thane thinks on this. The salarians were a bust, true, but Major Kirrahe turned out to be an ally, and they didn’t make outright enemies. Samara is interceding with two matriarchs and a few other justicars on their behalf. Is she sensitive about the turians specifically? 

“EDI, how long was Shepard aboard the Qwib-Qwib today?” Thane asks. 

“Including the time dedicated to decontamination procedures, Shepard, Tali, and Legion were aboard the Qwib-Qwib for seventeen hours today.” 

“And how long were the negotiations the day before?” 

“Including the time dedicated to decontamination procedures, Shepard and Tali spoke with the Admiralty Board aboard the Qwib-Qwib for just under twelve hours.” 

“But she also had a meeting with Mordin and Bakara, plus the briefing for Legion, and helped Gardner prep for the quarian botanists,” Thane adds, mostly to himself. “EDI—you keep track of the Normandy crew’s physiological data, correct?” 

“If you are asking if I know when the last time she slept more than three hours at a time was, then yes, I do know that,” EDI replies with surprising wryness. “It hasn’t been since we located Javik on Eden Prime, to answer your next question. In addition, Garrus, Mordin, Liara, and Kenneth are also recording far less sleep than they should, based on average needs by species. I do not have any data for Javik, considering that he is a Prothean and the sole living member of his species, but he likely does not sleep enough, either, based on sleep requirement predictions, based on his size, biotic ability, and caloric needs.” 

Thane gives Garrus a very sharp look. 

“What! I’m fine, I promise, I’m just… Well, not going to sleep very well tonight, either,” Garrus hedges, vibrating nervously. 

“Garrus, I have plenty of data on the physiological needs of turians available to me,” EDI adds, sounding disappointed. “Moreover, I have collected much data myself on you specifically, given your long station aboard the Normandy. Turians do not react to sleep deprivation with emotional outbursts, but your combat skills and mental faculties will be impacted negatively, given time. Take better care of yourself.” 

“You’re saying Shepard was so prickly because she was so tired?” Garrus asks, subvocals edging into confused hope. “She wasn’t actually mad at me?” 

“Humans, salarians, and quarians react to sleep deprivation with heightened emotional sensitivity,” EDI corrects. “The Normandy is famously an inter-species starship, but there remain many misunderstandings and misinterpretations. I strongly recommend you rectify that, going forward, as stressors will only increase in frequency and intensity as time goes on.” 

“Why do I feel like we both got dressing downs about self-care and how to care for an alien mate?” Garrus asks. 

“I didn’t,” Thane points out, because he is not in the wrong here. 

“Thane, you are very overdue for a physical examination with Dr. Chakwas regarding the progression of the Kepral’s Syndrome within your body,” EDI retorts, further cementing the fact that their ship AI has grown by leaps and bounds when it comes to learning how to be petty. 

Garrus’ head snaps over to him. “You what?!” 

“I’d rather not talk about it,” Thane says, and then realizes what he says. He sighs deeply at himself. Garrus opens his mouth, but Thane pushes his hand against his mouth plates with a flat, “Don’t. Mordin had been assisting me with medical check-ups prior to our preparation phase. After I ensure Shepard is alright… tomorrow, I suppose… then I will see if Dr. Chakwas has availability for me. I can’t expect Mordin to shift his focus right now.” 

Garrus doesn’t like to talk about his family; Thane doesn’t like to talk about his disease. He sees the uncomfortable similarities now, so he vows not to fault Garrus any further about his communication skills. It’s simply something they can work on together, going forward. 

—

According to EDI’s starting time, they are approaching twelve hours that Shepard has been asleep. Everyone aboard the Normandy is aware of the rough idea—that she had exhausted herself and had to be put down—but most aren’t happy with this. Nevermind what it means for their concern over Shepard’s actual health. Thane would gladly sacrifice a lot of efficiency to preserve that. 

But, given that their XO is a vibrating ball of latent guilt and is also (apparently) sleep-deprived himself, the mood aboard the Normandy isn’t great. 

Thane knows Garrus hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before, both because he had spent it in his quarters, and because even during a night cycle, there are problems to address by leadership aboard the Normandy. The first and second being what they’re going to do when the Admiralty Board complains about Shepard’s no-show—no matter how politely EDI had shifted their schedules around and how communicative she can be—and how they’re going to approach Illium without worsening their relationship with their primary information broker there. 

Thane is in the camp of cutting the woman loose, matriarch or not, but Liara is very much not in that camp, and she apparently has claimed decision-making power over dealings with all other information brokers. Thane privately thinks this probably should not be left solely to her, both based on her overworking habits as well as their attempted policy at inter-ship honesty, but no one asked him. Garrus hadn’t asked him, or Liara, and is apparently up on the CIC with Joker, figuring out a back way to Illium without an information broker with a four hundred year resume of noticing things noticing them. 

“Legion, come on,” Tali all but wails as she hangs onto the geth’s arm. “We can definitely go talk to the Admirals ourselves! Shepard doesn’t know anything we don’t know!” 

“This unit has been posted to ensure no one interrupts Shepard-Commander’s rest,” Legion says, unmoving, from his self-appointed posting by the elevator. (Apparently, he had spent most of the night in the small walkway before her quarters, before Tali had cajoled him into meeting her in the mess to discuss the negotiations.) 

“EDI can just lock the doors!” 

“There are multiple crew members aboard who possess the technological prowess to hack Normandy’s door controls.” 

EDI makes a miffed sound, with no other words attached to her vocalization. Those not watching Tali and Legion’s loud not-argument stare in bafflement at EDI’s interface. 

“Legion, don’t you think it would make Shepard happier if she woke up and found that we got some work done for her? Auntie—um, Admiral Raan has already pinged me twice asking about today, and no one can give me a set time of when we’re rejoining. But you and I are free! Right now!” Tali insists. 

“Shepard-Commander is more important to the war effort against the Old Machines than the quarian race as an ally is,” Legion replies. 

No matter how true it may be, and Thane is privately inclined to think that Tali would agree on a logical front if Legion had not phrased it that way, she does not take this well. “We are useful, too! Shepard needs the quarians so she doesn’t run your people into the ground, you know. And we are capable of helping her, right now, because she doesn’t need to listen to another day full of the Admirals trying to talk the geth out of being friendly with us. She needs progress! And we can give that to her!” 

“We will only move from this posting when Shepard-Commander is awake again and gives her opinion on the matter,” Legion replies, unswayed. Tali huffs. 

Thane doesn’t like thinking about the scare they had with Shepard’s indoctrination, try as he might not to blame himself any further, but gods above and below, this ship needs better discipline when she’s not around.

“For a synthetic, he’s getting real fucking opinionated, huh?” Jack says, obviously amused, watching the show with unabashed attention as she devours her large breakfast. 

“There are worse things that could happen than the geth consensus coming to like Shepard,” Liara muses. 

“Consensus?” Thane must ask. 

Liara smiles, that small and mysterious one of hers when she’s feeling particularly coy. “Legion,” she calls over, and Legion turns to her with a geth noise. “The geth share everything between their consensus, correct?” 

“That is correct.” 

“So there. The entire consensus shares this affection for Shepard,” Liara smugly announces and takes a sip of her coffee. (She’s another one of the sleep-deprived ones, Thane recalls.) 

However, Legion looks away, bashfully, and ducks his head a bit. “That is incorrect, Dr. T’Soni. This unit sought out Shepard-Commander and remained on her crew without consistent contact with the consensus. It acted independently.” 

“…So Legion, and only Legion, has the hots for Shepard, not the entire race of the mind-sharing machines?” Jack asks in the tone she gets right before she’s going to make a mean joke. 

“Synthetics process attachments differently than that,” Tali says, undeterred, though she’s still hanging off of Legion like she intends to haul him back onto the Qwib-Qwib herself. “Don’t be crass, Jack. Um, please.” 

Jack shrugs, slurps up the rest of her breakfast, and marches over to them. She gives Legion a very pointed once-over. “Mind if I go back downstairs to my own shithole, your machine-ly-ness? Is that alright with you, or are you gonna suspect me of sneaking up to your precious Shepard?” 

“We are aware of where the elevator travels when it is used,” Legion replies. 

Jack scowls. Thane is satisfied that they won’t get into an altercation, and apparently, so is Liara, because she finishes her coffee and disappears back into her room. 

Odd to think that an irascible human woman like Jack is one of the best at taking care of her bodily needs, Thane can’t help but think. 

Thane truly hadn’t meant to let the time go on between his check-ins, but Mordin had been handling the bulk of his medical needs. Not that he distrusts Chakwas, but Mordin has the very uncanny ability to understand diseases and their progressions with astonishingly little effort, and he felt it best to leave Chakwas to more pressing, bloody medical issues whenever they arose. (Because they arise frequently aboard this ship.) 

But now Mordin is semi-permanently put in charge of far more important things than one man. 

But isn’t this what causes one to worry about another? Neglect of one’s self in favor of some other perceived greater good? Thane resolves to do better, perhaps speak to the doctor today if she is available for him, but a small, niggling doubt remains. What if she shares details of his Kepral’s progression that she shouldn’t? Chakwas reports directly to Shepard, after all. 

“Am I understanding this correctly?” 

Thane looks up, drawn out of his thoughts by Javik’s customarily annoyed tone. (He is another one to be likeliest to not take care of himself, based on Thane’s limited understanding of his wartime-fed values.) Tali pauses, too, still hooked around one of Legion’s arms. 

Javik stalks forward, movements stiff, body tense. Thane is standing before he consciously recognizes the threat. “This is not a VI,” Javik growls, “this is some sort of artificial intelligence that shares with a larger network, isn’t it? This is a machine that thinks for itself. And it is preventing anyone from accessing the Commander right now?” 

“Wait, no, it’s not like that!” Tali hastily exclaims, putting herself between Javik and Legion. She looks even tinier this way, but she stands before the geth with glowing eyes blazing up at Javik. 

Javik puts a hand on her head. His fingers splay across almost her entire helmet and Tali squeals. “I do not care for your primitive squeaking, nor how you care for what you had let me believe was a harmless assistant to compensate for your physical weaknesses!” 

He must have heard Jack or Liara, Thane realizes. His heart seizes when he sees the green glow of Javik’s hand. 

He catches Javik’s other hand right as he raises it to Legion. 

“You have heard only a fraction of the truth and are jumping to conclusions you shouldn’t,” Thane tells him. 

“I may not be able to smell quarian pheromones with those suits hiding their fragility, but yours, I can,” Javik sneers. “Your tone conveys no lie, but your body betrays you, drell. Release me at once. If this machine is simply a VI assistant as you all let me believe, then it will let me through.” 

“Let me go!” Tali shouts, clawing at the large hand on her helmet, but Javik utterly ignores her in favor of glaring at Thane. 

“Whatever your prejudices are, this is our crew, one which you agreed to join. Let Miss vas Normandy go and back away from Legion,” Thane warns. He tightens his grasp on Javik’s wrist, but that, too, Javik ignores. Thane scans over his body, noting his thick armor and where the joints lay, wondering if Prothean skulls and their four eye sockets are as brittle in the face as batarians’ are. They are not frills, but his throat appears to have different skin lining the front, too. He does not see what else could be an easy physical weakness. 

“Prejudices,” Javik scoffs. “So you admit there is something here for me to hate?” 

“The Reapers are what you hate,” Thane replies. 

Javik tosses his head and glowers at Legion next. “You—machine. Step aside, allow me access to the elevator.” 

“No. Shepard-Commander will continue to rest until she wakes naturally at the end of her body’s necessary sleep cycles,” Legion replies. 

Thane shoots him an exasperated look. This is a little more pressing than Shepard sleeping in even further, based on Javik’s hostile inclination toward any sort of AI. “Let Tali go,” Thane repeats. 

Javik throws Tali to the ground. She pops back up at once, fuming, but freezes when she notices a crack on her helmet’s visor. Thane stares at the small, jagged line breaking up the smooth purple surface. 

“Ignorance of other races’ physiological needs is not an excuse for action against them,” Legion says and steps forward. Javik’s four eyes snap over to him, sharp teeth bared, but Thane shoves his way between them. Tali still hasn’t said anything; is this going to be an emergency, or is she simply surprised? “Crewmate Thane, we believe the Prothean is attempting to engage hostilities,” Legion adds. “We are in accordance.” 

“Legion, I appreciate that you wish to protect Miss vas Normandy, and the Commander’s health,” Thane replies, exasperated, “but I need you to step aside until we can figure out how we wish to handle this situation. None of us are prepared or equipped to—mmph!” 

When Thane initially expected to share his native language with Javik, upon being told of his psychometric language acquisition skills, he had imagined consent. Frankly, he had enjoyed being able to switch languages to avoid being understood. As it is, he’s not in the mood for further rudeness now, so Thane bites down as hard as he can on Javik’s probing finger. 

Javik draws back with narrowed eyes. (Sadly, Thane did not taste any blood.) “Now, will you tell me plainly—has the crew of this primitive zoo been hiding a synthetic intelligence from me? Are you all really so naive you think it will help in a war against other machines?” 

“We are allied with Shepard-Commander and are dedicated to fighting the Old Machines,” Legion replies. 

Javik forces Thane back; his boots skid on the floor. 

“Stop your advance at once, or we will utilize force to subdue you,” Legion warns. 

“Legion, stop it!” Thane barks over his shoulder. “Tali, are you alright? Can you escort Legion away from here?” 

“You are not keeping the machine from me any longer—I am doing you a favor, as it has already poisoned your brains with its betrayals posing as promises!” 

Javik reaches over Thane’s shoulder for Legion with a hand glowing green. 

And all three of them react to the threat. 

Tali jumps back for distance, drawing her blade, Chatika popping up over her shoulder in combat mode. Thane seizes Javik’s outstretched hand, pushing his own biotics against that alien green, if only to dampen them. But with a click of machinery behind him, Thane hears the last sound he wants right now: Legion ejecting his rifle compartment. 

“Legion!” Tali exclaims, shocked, as Legion points his Widow rifle right over Thane’s shoulder and at Javik’s head. 

“We have learned from crewmate Garrus that concussive rounds are not lethal to organics,” Legion supplies. 

“Not from this range,” Thane snaps back. “Lower your weapon and back off.” 

“See? You cannot control it. You’ve lied to me, thinking me foolish, thinking yourselves clever for trying to use your enemies. You think my cycle didn’t have those who thought the same? I can tell you that it will turn on you the moment the Reapers arrive, too!” Javik snarls. 

Tali exclaims, “We didn’t lie to you! We just know that everyone hates the AI, even if they don’t have a good reason for it, just because they’re scared, but Legion is not like that!” 

“We didn’t lie to you,” Thane swiftly repeats, “we avoided discussing this with you. Your actions now are not pointing to any civilized discussion of this topic, either. It is not your decision to make who is staffed on this ship or given what roles in our preparations for the Reapers, and—” 

Javik rips his wrist out of Thane’s grasp and seizes him by the lapel of his coat. Thane’s eyes widen as he’s lifted with no visible strain on Javik’s part. “You machine apologist, this sounds like the speech of the indoctrinated! I knew it, I should have dragged this primitive ship to Saapamek the moment I realized you thought you were going to fight the Reapers. Naive, unprepared, foolish—primitives! How do you expect to fight a war if you do not recognize who your enemies are?!” 

Thane intimately knows the sound of a Widow rifle humming in preparation of a shot. He cannot believe that his life has come to the point when he has a geth trying to protect him—or a living Prothean as his aggressor, for that matter—but the Normandy has invited many new experiences into his life. 

Without his feet on the ground, he doesn’t have much leverage; Thane allows Javik to hold his weight and releases his bracing hold on his arm. With stiff fingers, Thane jabs at the thinner red skin of Javik’s neck, so like drell throat frills, and shoves his other fist into Javik’s elbow at the same time. Javik’s arm unlocks, he drops Thane back to his feet, and he reels back with a furious yelp with both hands flying to his throat. 

It lasts only a moment. 

Quick as lightning, he grabs Thane’s wrist again, not allowing him to gain any distance in the already-cramped corridor. Thane feels the bones crunch beneath Javik’s iron grip. 

Alright, fuck diplomacy attempts then. Thane hardly feels the pain as he snaps back into old habits. His left arm and hand are still useable, but it’s Javik’s fault for not releasing him to gain his distance, possibly assuming pain would override fighting ability. Pity for him. 

The head crest likely means a thicker skull near the top, but jaws and eye sockets are targets no matter the race. Thane tugs Javik forward with his own grip and slams the full power of his biotics into the side of Javik’s head. Javik staggers a precious moment, eyelids fluttering, and Thane reaches over his shoulder to grab the warm barrel of Legion’s rifle to point it between Javik’s four eyes. 

Javik pays zero heed to the rifle and uses a biotic slam to throw Legion, hard, against the elevator doors. 

Thane, left supporting the large gun only by the barrel, swings it around like a bat at Javik’s head. The grip crashes into where the Prothean’s aural canals must be and Javik finally staggers this time with a shout of pain. As he stumbles back, releasing Thane’s forearm, Tali kicks the back of his knee to send him fully to the floor. 

The elevator doors open behind him. Thane doesn’t even get the chance to look before Grunt charges out and barrels into Javik. They both tumble against the far wall of the corridor, Javik pinned beneath the krogan’s weight, still appearing dazed as he gnashes his teeth and tosses his head. 

Garrus marches out after Grunt, looking as mad as Thane has ever seen him. 

“What the hell is going on here?! EDI said there was a fight—and that it was Javik’s fault,” Garrus all but snarls as Javik wriggles beneath Grunt’s bulk. 

“It was! He finally figured out Legion is an AI, or really suspected it, and he reacted even worse than a quarian would,” Tali pipes up. Garrus does a double-take when he sees the crack in her helmet, and she balks at his concern a moment later. “No, wait, this is fine—well, it’s not fine, it’s honestly shocking, because do you know how much pressure it takes to break our helmets? I was surprised, that’s all. It’s not an actual break and we’re already at the Flotilla so I can get a replacement casing very easily now! But anyway—he threw Legion and grabbed Thane! I’m not really the hurt party here!” 

Thane allows relief to overcome his ebbing adrenaline. Others are here now, his target is pinned, and it’s no longer his fight. His wrist throbs and he only belatedly brings it up against his chest to cradle it. 

Tali darts by to help Legion back to his feet. Thane hadn’t even noticed that the geth had been actually injured; the shoulder joint beneath Shepard’s old armor is sparking and the fingers of that arm are twitching, too. 

Garrus fixes his glare on Javik again. Anger pours off him and his chest rumbles like an oncoming storm. 

Thane sets a light hand on his shoulder. “We shouldn’t add more hostility to this situation,” he murmurs, aware that Javik can understand him now, “since Shepard had preferred to keep him onboard as an ally, and we need to come to an understanding with him.” 

Garrus’ hard gaze drops down to Thane’s arm. “What happened?” 

“It’s broken, but that’s not the concern here—” 

Garrus jerks away from Thane and advances on Javik and Grunt. It is rare that Thane thinks turians look like predators anymore, with as many as he’s killed and as many times as he’s seen Garrus soft or funny or embarrassed, but Garrus is every inch the furious hunter approaching fresh prey right now. 

Which is not what the Normandy needs—or what Shepard needs to wake up to. 

“You are the second-in-command,” Javik says from beneath Grunt’s arm, “but you are not the Commander, turian. Still, surely even you are aware of the synthetic aboard your crew and how you have left me in ignorance. I can only assume from this that you realize it is a mistake you are making.” 

“Legion has been here longer than you, and personally, I don’t mind if he’s here instead of you, too. Because Legion knows what it’s like to be part of this crew. You were military, weren’t you?” Garrus demands. Javik curls his lip at him. “So you ought to understand why you’re in trouble for attacking your fellow soldiers.” 

“That is a machine!” 

“Yeah, and you’re supposed to be dead,” Grunt growls as Javik squirms beneath him. 

“I can and will throw you, krogan!” 

“But you’re not that stupid,” Garrus breaks back in. “You know you fucked up here, and you didn’t put up more of a fight once we arrived because you don’t want to make matters worse, because you’re smart enough to have figured out that we’re your best shot at fighting the Reapers again. That’s the only reason I haven’t spaced you for attacking three crewmates!” 

“I demand to speak to the Commander,” Javik hisses. 

“She’s indisposed,” Garrus hisses right back. Grunt chuckles darkly. “Javik, you will be escorted to a room—I don’t even care which—and you will remain there until Shepard has the time to speak with you. At her convenience. Grunt, escort him, and if he tries to get uppity, you can headbutt him. Tali, Thane, Legion—with me.” 

Garrus jerks his head, and Tali tugs Legion after her, though the geth has no issue walking. Thane casts one last look at Javik before following after the XO. 

Garrus leads them to the medbay, where Chakwas has apparently been waiting, judging on her tight expression and the array of tools and medigel already laid out. She stands as soon as the door opens. “What happened?” she asks at once. 

“I don’t actually need medical attention,” Tali demurs with a gesture at her visor. Chakwas stares at the crack there with wide-eyed alarm. 

“Tali, I think you and I will have to play doctor for Legion?” Garrus guesses, sighing, all the earlier tension leaching off of him. He scratches his mandible, frowning at the sparking joint on Legion’s shoulder. “Maybe more you than me…” 

“We are capable of self-repair,” Legion reminds them. 

“Oh, right. Do you, uh, need any materials for that?” 

“We require only time and the energy allotment Normandy already provides us with.” 

“Thane, what happened to your arm?” Chakwas asks. 

He holds it out for her omnitool. “A break. There was a physical altercation.” 

“Yes, EDI informed me as much,” Chakwas replies, scanning, “but Javik may be temperamental, but he is also logical. What was the trigger to this altercation?” 

“Javik found out Legion isn’t a VI. He doesn’t like AIs, apparently,” Tali mutters. “Understatement of the century, actually. Imagine a quarian like Han’Gerrel given really strong biotics and a lot of muscle and then have him think we were all tricking him about Legion. And he accused Thane of being indoctrinated! The quarians in general don’t know much about that, yet, but even apologists like Zaal’Koris wouldn’t be accused of such a thing!” 

“Your forearm is broken in two places, badly, but one of them is a clean enough break. I don’t expect it to need surgery, but this will require more than injecting some medigel today, I’m afraid,” Chakwas announces. “It’ll need a cast, probably for about a week, to ensure you don’t move it during the healing regimen.” 

Thane has never needed a cast before. He’s never had the luxury of being able to lose use of a limb for a week, either, and the thought fills him with apprehension. 

“And,” Chakwas continues as she taps something on her omnitool, “have any of you read any of Liara’s academic papers on the Protheans?” 

“I… skimmed over one, once,” Garrus guiltily mutters. Tali shakes her head with a wince. 

“Let me assure you, it’s not my cup of tea, either, when it comes to reading material, but I thought it wise to read over some of the only known research on the Protheans we have available to us, considering we have one on board. I’ve discussed Javik with Liara a few times, too, from that same academic angle. We must keep in mind that he is an individual, but we must also do what we can to try to learn anything about where he came from or what he faced. And I’m not talking about the Reaper war, in this instance.” 

Chakwas fixes them all with a rather cool look. 

“Apparently, the catalyst for what ultimately created the Prothean Empire was a hostile race of synthetic beings who threatened to take over the galaxy. Javik would not have been born yet at that point, of course, but his race has a longer history of being attacked by AI enemies than just the Reapers. Now, I don’t know how we could have broached the topic of the AI on board—though we may still have a chance at explaining EDI’s role a little more civilly, I dare hope—but surely there could have been earlier instances until now, when he found out on his own and reacted so poorly. Also—is he injured at all? Do I need to go see him next?” 

“I doubt he is concussed,” Thane replies, earning a small noise of alarm from the doctor. 

“Thane hit him upside the triangle head with Legion’s rifle after he used a slam on Legion,” Tali adds with a firm, agreeable nod. 

“Check on him in a bit, but be careful, just in case he’s still in a mood,” Garrus advises. “I’ll go with you.” 

Chakwas clicks her tongue at him. Garrus blinks in surprise; Thane wonders what that sounds like to turian hearing. “I can handle myself just fine, Garrus. You would be better suited to offering a little more comfort to your chosen partner, or perhaps think over how we will explain this incident to Shepard. I doubt it would do her stress levels any good to wake from actual rest to immediately have inter-crew problems dumped on her head.” 

Garrus shoots Thane a guilty, startled look, but Thane quickly shakes his head to stop any of that. “I’m fine, really. I’ve had far worse in the past with far less medical intervention. Although…” 

“Although?” Garrus repeats, frowning. He and Tali lean in like this is a great secret. 

Thane allows himself to be pleased with that much attention. “This wasn’t entirely a bad thing. I learned that the ‘probably’ is a ‘yes’, for instance,” he happily informs them. 

Garrus takes a moment to recall the reference, while Tali looks between them, lost. Garrus shakes his head with a scoff, but he’s tucking his mandibles inward in a sign of trying not to smile. “Alright, noted. Only you would consider that a good thing, considering we have a maybe-hostile Prothean to deal with. Again.” 

“Why is this a good thing?” Tali asks, still looking between them. 

Thane smiles. “I would be able to kill Javik, given the element of surprise. As with asari, hitting them near their aural canals disorients them and causes pain. In addition, he possesses no hyoid bone, and I believe the crest on his head would be similarly dealt with as prying off krogan head plates—” 

“Yes, yes, your killing knowledge is charming and all,” Garrus interrupts, clapping Thane on his shoulder, “and I know you were probably waiting to figure out Prothean physiological weaknesses as a matter of professional pride for awhile now. But we really don’t need to know all the details.” 

“I want to know them!” Tali exclaims. Garrus spares her an unimpressed look, but she just makes a fist and punches her other hand. “I am not that good at fighting organics, especially if I don’t want to kill them, and today was an annoying reminder of that. So I want to know where to hit Javik where it hurts if we need to defend Legion again! Legion, take notes, this is important.” 

“We are always inputting new data, Creator Tali’Zorah,” Legion replies. 

Garrus sighs at them all.

—

“What happened to you?” Shala’Raan exclaims, rushing forward, cradling Tali’s helmet in her hands like she’s suddenly made of glass. Tali wrinkles her nose and rolls her eyes. 

“Auntie Raan, I’m fine! But I need a new visor and a sterile room I can replace it in. I talked it over with EDI—um, Normandy staff, and I don’t think there’s anywhere aboard I could change it out quickly,” Tali explains. 

“Does this have anything to do with why Commander Shepard wouldn’t speak with us today?” 

“No, that was a completely different thing, and nothing major or bad. And we’ll definitely be back aboard tomorrow. But please, I need your help with this replacement, and I’d like it done before any of the other Admirals sees this.” A cracked visor is cause for alarm, not because of the risk of the outside getting in, but because it requires a lot of force to do so. It’s not a frequent occurrence; usually if something does that much damage to a quarian, there are other, more horrific injuries to address. 

“I am allowed to worry over you, no matter how old or how important you get,” Shala’Raan replies, sternly, but with affection. She waves a hand and leads Tali out of the docking area of the Iktomi (where she’s been staying, since apparently not even she can dock back at the Tonbay yet). “Now, do I even have to ask what—” 

“I want purple,” Tali says at once. She has had a purple suit and visor all her adult life. It had been her mother’s preferred color, too. 

Shala’Raan chuckles. “Of course you do.” 

There are not many others that they pass on their way, but Tali always ducks her head or pulls her hood down lower so they cannot see her helmet. There is no need to be starting rumors today; the fact that she is here, without Shepard or her new crewmates, will be enough gossip. But what’s wrong with Tali spending a bit of time with who is practically family?

Still, she waits until they’re alone in the exosuit requisitions office before asking, “How are the other Admirals feeling about our sudden day off?” 

“Xen is suspicious, as she always is. Gerrel wasn’t happy, either, until his husband pointed out that it gives them time to look over the proposed cannon upgrades to a few of the Heavy Fleet cruisers. Practically a date, for them, and some much-needed stress relief. And speaking of…” 

Shala’Raan turns on Tali, making her jump. Tali wonders if she’s about to hear about Shala’Raan’s love life—she’s always been happily alone, she has claimed—but the mischievous glint beneath her visor gives her away. 

So Tali braces herself accordingly. 

“I heard there was quite the commotion in personnel assignment, for who got to go aboard the Normandy to help with her new hydroponics set up. Surely you’ve heard of this, too, Tali?” 

“Well, there are two krogan aboard, and maybe some other weird aliens, so it would be best to have a marine or two to help out,” Tali mumbles, embarrassed already. (Thankfully, none of the team assigned to help the Normandy had actually run into anything they shouldn’t have. Anything they should have not run into aboard the Normandy includes: the rachni soldier, Javik, Bakara, maybe Grunt if he’s in a bad mood, definitely Jack if she’s in a bad mood, and Mordin if he’s bored. Perhaps not the safest of places for scientists unused to combat to be without a military escort.) 

“Oh, it’s always easier with these things with more bodies to help carry things. But still, it was just so interesting how quickly Kal’Reegar volunteered to help those botanists, don’t you think? He must have been quite disappointed that you were wrapped up in talks all day instead.” 

“Auntie Raan! Kal’Reegar is—well, he’s a friend, and a good one, but everyone knows I’m practically the official liaison between the Admiralty Board and Shepard. No one was disappointed that I wasn’t there. He was trying to be helpful. A-And you know, he’s met other people, too! He knows Shepard, and Garrus, and Thane, and I’ve told him about others, and Liara is very friendly when she’s not working, so maybe he just wanted a break from all of these very nosy quarians assuming things of him.” 

Shala’Raan hums. And she’s right; Tali will never be old enough to be immune to that affectionate, teasing, familial noise. At least their visors don’t show off visible embarrassment. 

She lets the matter drop, for now, because it had been enough to bring it up and fluster her. Tali grumbles all the way through replacing her visor and securing it back to her helmet. 

—

Shepard wakes with a yawn and rubs her eyes. Her bed is warm, with a solid weight beside her, but when she glances over, she only finds Urz sprawled out and snoring. Well, apparently varren make decent snuggling partners. Another win for inter-species relations. Wait, no, that sounds incredibly wrong. Another win for the varren cuteness tally? That sounds far better. 

Her entire body feels languid and heavy, but pleasantly so. She’s tempted to flop back down and curl around Urz again. But her internal clock is screaming at her and unfortunately, she is rested enough not to sleepily forget all of the responsibilities and worries she had pushed off. Shepard knows what is waiting for her outside of her quarters. 

“EDI, I don’t want to know what time it is,” Shepard announces, voice hoarse from sleep, “or how long I was out, but did anything pressing happen while I was on my mandated bedrest?” 

“Things always happen, concerning this crew,” EDI replies, flippantly, and with coyness more befitting an organic than the Normandy’s synthetic co-pilot. 

“I wasn’t woken up for any of them,” Shepard prompts. 

“No, you were not. Time for you to catch up on sleep was enforced.” 

She groans, but it tapers off into another yawn. For sleeping so long, why is she so yawn-y? She can’t even remember any nightmares, either, though she dimly recalls waking up at some point before falling back asleep. Shepard has heard that humans can have too much sleep, but never, in all her life, would have thought that she’d get the chance to experience it. 

“There are several matters for you to address, now that you are awake again,” EDI finally admits and turns up her room’s lighting to half-brightness. 

Urz snuffles in his sleep and Shepard tosses her blanket back over him. Shepard staggers to the bathroom to pee, surprised at how wobbly her legs feel, and how online her brain feels. Guilt over her behavior toward Garrus edges back in. 

“The Admiralty Board expressed concern and confusion over the sudden rearranging of the negotiation schedule, but ultimately, no complaints were filed, and Tali confirms that no one truly minded. Additionally, Garrus believes he has figured out a way for us to go to Illium without either succumbing to Helesse D’Rafi’s ploy or spurning her entirely,” EDI reports. 

“Okay, that sounds good.” She can’t wait to hear what sort of idea Garrus could have for such a thing—after she spoke to him about the way she flipped out on him. And maybe they should discuss the turians, too. Even if they never become allies, she can’t afford to let them become enemies, and surely Garrus is feeling some kind of way about all of it. Something she should have put more thought into before that maybe-fight happened. 

“Unfortunately,” EDI continues, and Shepard freezes while washing her hands. 

“…Unfortunately? Unfortunately what, EDI?” 

“Unfortunately, that is not all of the developments I ought to share with you, Shepard,” EDI says. “Unfortunately, Javik found out that Legion is not a VI but an AI, and he reacted poorly. I don’t have concrete cause to believe he suspects me, yet, but he may soon enough. I recommend speaking to him and explaining my presence yourself, Shepard, as he still views you as the highest authority on the Normandy.” 

“Did Garrus talk to him?” Shepard suspiciously asks. 

EDI, also suspiciously, remains silent a beat too long. 

“You mentioned my authority—so, did he say anything to Garrus about his? What sort of ‘reacted poorly’ are we talking about here?” 

“He acknowledged Garrus’ position as XO of the Normandy,” EDI replies, “but comparing that situation with the way Javik customarily speaks with you, Shepard, I believe that he does not possess much respect for Garrus. No more than any other crewmate aboard the Normandy.” 

“How did Javik react poorly?” Shepard asks in despair. She knows when her AI is dancing around a subject. Poorly enough that Garrus had to intervene, and Legion was probably involved somehow, since he apparently had not spent the night in her quarters. (She suspects he is the one who let Urz in as a secondary body in her bed.) 

“He assaulted crewmates Tali, Thane, and Legion, and had to be subdued with force. Garrus has ordered him to be detained in what had been Kasumi’s quarters until you awoke. He did not order for anyone to wake you, as it was taken care of.” 

Shepard almost rips her towel as she yanks it off the wall and wrings it between her hands. She’s certainly awake now. She doesn’t feel as touchy as yesterday, to be sure, but going from well-rested to pissed in the space of two minutes isn’t doing her blood pressure many favors. She isn’t yet sure whether to be professionally pissed or personally pissed, either, so she’s hedging her bets by allowing herself to be mad in both directions. 

Shepard growls to herself, pulling on unwrinkled and probably clean clothing, “This is why I fuck off and sleep for twenty hours at a time. God, I’m never sleeping again—do I really have to babysit a Prothean?” 

“You did not sleep for twenty hours, but you just asked me not to inform you how long you slept for, Shepard. Furthermore, no one died, and only minor medical attention was required.” 

“EDI, it is not reassuring to a person in a leadership position that the reassurance you offer is that no one died,” Shepard deadpans. 

“Updating my comfort protocols now.” 

Pulling on her hoodie, Shepard combs her fingers through her hair, takes a deep breath, and resumes being Commander Shepard. 

Chapter Text

Shepard resolves to be level-headed and professional in dealing with what she’d slept through, and succeeds, up until the moment she sees Thane’s arm in a cast. 

Garrus picks her up by the back of the hoodie (also throwing professionalism out the airlock) to prevent her from marching over to Javik’s makeshift jail and doing or saying something she know she’d regret later. He carries her away from Thane and the lounge-turned-jail and jerks his head for Gardner to give them a bit of privacy in the mess. Garrus sets her down by a chair and informs her, “No, that situation’s not going to benefit from more emotional outbursts, so let’s debrief about everything else first. I figured out a way to get to Illium without that asari matriarch crawling up your ass. That’s some good news.” 

“It is,” Shepard agrees, grumpily. She keeps her arms crossed. She doesn’t quite meet his eye, both because of the annoyance-laden guilt for immediately lapsing into what could’ve been another emotional outburst, and because he has the grace to be civil about what happened between them yesterday. 

“It was a pretty obvious idea, so I’m sure someone else would’ve recommended it eventually. But all we need to do is not take the Normandy into Nos Astra. We can borrow a quarian ship, they already agreed. It shouldn’t take more than a week to get there and back,” Garrus explains. 

Professionalism suits him. Shepard had known he’d make an amazing XO, though primarily for his leadership capabilities; she had expected a bit more bitching about having a bunch of stupid logistical stuff dumped on his head. Sure, he’d be great at that too—Garrus is too much of a perfectionist not to do well if given a puzzle to solve—but, well, the fact that he isn’t complaining, even jokingly, and immediately instead fixed what he must have perceived as a mistake on his part. She had never blamed him for his sister’s unexpected action. Had he thought she had? 

But still, he’s the one being in-charge and efficient and capable, and she had fucked off for a nap so she didn’t bite the head off anyone else. Truth be told, it shames her. And Commander Shepard doesn’t react well to shame. 

But surprise overtakes her when Garrus adds, “I know Liara and I would be going, but I tried to make the case for Joker to come with us, since he’s the only one who actually knows the guy we’re supposed to be picking up, but he’s being obstinate about leaving the Normandy. Anyone else you think I should take? Need to take to Illium?” 

“What?” Shepard asks blankly. 

“What?” Garrus echoes, with alarm. 

“Why do you think I’m not going with you?” Shepard asks, totally confused. 

“Why do you think you would? You’re in the middle of some important negotiations with the ruling powers of the entire quarian race,” Garrus points out, sounding exactly as confused as she feels. 

They stare at one another. 

“I was going to leave Tali and Legion here for that. I need to meet Cortez in person and be there in case Liara needs backup with Helesse.” In case they needed to smooth more ruffled feathers or pissed matriarchs. It isn’t great if Helesse does come out thinking she can control their location, but it beats turning her against them. 

“You’re going to leave the Normandy?” Garrus asks, baffled. “I assumed it could be a quick trip for a few of the crew, mostly me and Liara, not an entire thing.”

“It’d be a hell of a lot easier than getting Joker off this ship!” 

“You need to stay here with Tali and the Admiralty Board—” 

“It’s at the point where the Admirals need to get their heads out of their asses to realize that the geth aren’t really open to negotiation, just agreement or disagreement—” 

“Then you need to be there for them so they don’t get uppity again or misunderstand! Tali is just one person, and they may accept Legion into those talks, but they don’t trust him or the geth. They trust you. Your presence is as much of a bargaining chip as the Shroud stuff or whatever else you’re dangling over their heads,” Garrus exclaims, exasperated. 

“I’m not running away forever, and it’d be good for them to see Tali as someone who wields some political power, too. But it’s better that I come with you to Illium,” she maintains. 

“Why? It’s still the border of Citadel reach, Shepard, and the last thing we need is for someone to decide to push their political power and say or, spirits forbid, do something to you.” 

“I wanted to meet your sister!” Shepard bursts out. 

Garrus falls silent. 

She glares at his chestplate, annoyance simmering—at herself. So much for sleep fixing everything. “I wanted to apologize to her, personally, as your commanding officer. For dragging you into this. For making you some sort of social and political pariah. I know status is a big deal for turians, and even if it doesn’t bother you that much, clearly it bothers her to some degree, so I wanted to try to offer this much.” 

Garrus touches her shoulder, but Shepard keeps her gaze low. “You can’t possibly expect me to be alright with you inviting blame onto yourself because of me. I’m not following orders here, Shepard. I’m with you. This is my cause as much as yours—don’t forget, I was technically hunting Saren longer than you. Officially speaking.” 

She cracks a grin at that, though she still won’t meet his eye. “Yeah, well, we found out about the Reapers at the same time, so that doesn’t count. And I didn’t entirely plan on taking the whole fall for this. No one related to you could be stupid enough to believe that you’re simply following orders for something like this.” 

“You’re right—I took all the stupid in my family, so there’s nothing left for them. Sol’s very sharp.” 

She smothers a laugh with the heel of her hand. “Damn it, stop trying so hard to cheer me up when I’m being mad at myself. I still want to apologize, Garrus, even if it’s just a gesture. Let her have something for the fact that I’m stealing her brother away from her for an impossible and apparently illegal war.” 

“I don’t want you mad at yourself,” Garrus replies, way too tenderly for the irritation she’s trying to hold onto. “There’s nothing to be mad about. …Is there? I mean, I’m not. Things got heated, that’s all.” 

“Tempers are going to snap more and more. It just seems so… early for it. It’s stupid. We’re still three months out from the earliest moment of actual Reaper invasion.” 

“You’re hardly falling apart, Shepard. You got annoyed that my entire race decided to ignore every single warning and shred of evidence you’ve thrown in their faces, so you’re also annoyed that you’re going to have to save them, too, even if they’re kicking and screaming the entire way.” 

She huffs a sardonic little laugh. “It’s like the batarians, except they have a Council seat. But I don’t have a batarian boyfriend, either, Garrus.” She finally raises her eyes to his, finding concern in that bright blue. “I’m sorry, Garrus. But I want you to promise me that if it ever gets to be an issue, what the turians say about me, or what they might do. Obviously, we can’t change tack. And I don’t want to pay attention to their name-calling and finger-pointing. But if this wears on you, especially if it comes to your family—” 

“I’m going to talk some sense into Solana,” Garrus interrupts, “and I’m very, very far past caring what my father thinks about my life choices. But I’ll try to… talk more. And I’ll definitely try to stop my sister from going to Shadow Broker agents to try to track me down in the future.” 

“Fine. So then—am I allowed to go ream out a Prothean now?” 

Garrus doesn’t deny her a second time.

—

Liara can see that Shepard had not expected others in Javik’s temporary jail, and thankfully, the mild surprise ruins whatever anger she may have mustered on Thane’s behalf. 

The fact that Thane is here, too, clearly catches her off guard. 

“We were having a discussion about Prothean culture,” Liara explains. 

“I didn’t expect there to be company,” Shepard replies, faltering, gaze lingering on Thane. “You know, for having someone confined.” 

Liara forces a guileless smile. “I heard nothing about keeping others from him, and I thought it was best to have a conversation or two. Didn’t you, Javik?” 

Javik looks like he’d rather be eaten alive by the rachni soldier curled up in the corner. “I know how to apologize, if that is what you are referring to. Commander, I—” 

“Hold on a moment for that part, if you’d please, Javik,” Liara interrupts with a hand up. “Thane, do you hold any grudge toward Javik for your physical altercation?” 

“No,” Thane easily replies. 

“And Javik, do you hold any grudge?” 

“Of course not. He was defending what he perceives to be a fellow soldier. My remaining issue is with his loyalty, not his actions.” 

“Well, I’m about to hold a grudge if I keep hearing about people trying to sidestep my reactions to what happens on my ship,” Shepard replies with narrowed eyes. She folds her arms across her chest. (Liara is too happy with the color having returned to her face to be particularly upset about her attitude now.) “Why are you two in here?” 

“I wished to speak to Javik about his reaction to modern AI, and he has already apologized to Thane,” Liara says with a gesture between them. 

Shepard’s arms fall free of her irritated posture. “You… have?” 

“Do you think me uncivilized? Did I not just say I took no issue with his physical assault?” Javik scoffs. Thane hides a smile by faking a cough. “I know it is still the best place for me to be, to remain aboard this vessel, Commander. It would be easier on us all if we did not bicker about things like injuries sustained.” 

“Yes, because instead, you want to bicker about who I choose to employ,” Shepard replies. 

“No, I want to fight about that,” Javik icily corrects. 

Liara clears her throat. Pointedly. 

“But,” he continues, lip curled, “I have been subjected to several hours of your cycle’s history considering your AI creations and the geth particularly. Especially as how they factor into your planned war preparations against the Reapers. It grates on me how important they are in your plans, but in the interest of cooperation,” and he spits the word like poison, “then I will not yet sabotage your relations with the geth.” 

“Not yet?!” Shepard repeats, eyes again slitted in warning. 

Liara elbows Javik. He rolls all four eyes at her with another angry sound, but Liara has learned that he likes to make a show of his anger without feeling much of it. She’s dealt with many people like that in her life, so one more is no trouble. 

“Let me apologize to you, Commander, as the Protheans do,” Javik tells her and stands. 

Shepard snaps into defensive wariness, frame tight, hands twitching into fists. Javik steps toward her, towering over her for just a moment, then drops to one knee in front of her. 

Shepard’s ire melts into confusion. 

She startles when he takes one of her hands. Shepard glances at Liara, then Thane, but Thane inclines his head, and she doesn’t do anything foolish like hit Javik, so this is an improvement in inter-crew dynamics already. Javik presses Shepard’s hand against the back of his skull, where it slopes up and outward, navy hide segmented in little ridges. 

“Here—if you hook your claws—if you had them,” Javik corrects, sighing, “—or a sharp implement, you would be able to get through my skull plating and kill me with one blow.” 

Shepard’s bewilderment grows, and she again turns to the pair on the couch. “Uh.” 

Javik stands and Shepard’s hand slips off his head and off his shoulder. “You now know my weakness and how to subdue me, if not kill me outright. You can be assured that there will be no secondary mistake or betrayal of trust, else you know how to deal with me. That is how Protheans apologize, Commander.” 

“Uh,” Shepard repeats, still at a loss. “Oh, well. Okay then. What’s the success rate of that in Prothean society?” 

“Protheans do not make the same mistake twice to apologize for,” Javik snaps. He glares at Liara over his shoulder. “Asari, does this please you? Can we put this emotional farce behind us to discuss why we must rely on machines to fight for us?” 

“Legion has been a valuable and loyal squadmate since we found him. The geth are not our enemy anymore,” Shepard automatically retorts. 

“Anymore?!” Javik snarls. 

Liara catches Shepard’s eye, and tries to communicate the best she can without speaking. Oh, if only telepathy existed in the galaxy. She knows Shepard, just about as intimately as she’s ever known anyone, and she has set this situation up so she can prove herself to Javik. If she realizes what Liara has set up in this situation. 

Thank the goddess, Shepard does. Her shoulders lower, and her expression becomes resolute and a little sad. It will not be easy, but if Javik is ever going to feel like he is a part of this team, then he needs to have the same courtesy and respect extended to him that everyone else has had. 

“You probably have already figured out to kill a human,” Shepard drawls, and raises an arm to flex. “We’re very squishy, compared to the rest of the galaxy. So I don’t think you’d appreciate the same kind of apology, for keeping something you think is a threat from you. Legion and the geth are not a threat, but I am sorry for hiding it from you for this long.” 

“I don’t appreciate empty gestures,” Javik agrees sourly. 

“But if the Prothean way is to give up a weakness, to ensure a kill if a betrayal were to ever occur again—yes?” Shepard clarifies, and Javik nods. “Then I can give you that, on behalf of the geth race. There was a rogue and hostile faction of the geth, called the heretics. With Legion’s help, we used a code to rewrite them and have them rejoin the consensus—their society, basically. The code is sort of a virus reset button. The geth are creating an updated one that will work again, guaranteeing a reset to baseline non-aggression, like right now.” 

“Why would they create such a thing to be used against their own people?” Javik suspiciously demands. 

“Because the geth don’t want to be controlled by the Reapers anymore than you or I do, and they’re aware that as synthetics, they have different risks to defend against. You’ve heard of dual key security systems, right? You can have the second key.”

Liara nods; Shepard had grasped what she’d meant without needing further explanation. Liara had been the original secondary key holder, and she has no issue giving up the responsibility to Javik, if it assuages his doubts. 

Javik pauses a long moment, before nodding, slowly. “I… accept this gesture, Commander.” 

Shepard jabs her finger into his chestplate—making him jump. Liara hastily hides her smile, though Javik is not facing her. “But know this—if you ever push that panic button, you better have a damn good reason for me to join you, because you’ve seen for yourself how much we’ve got riding on the geth as allies. If they go down, and you don’t bring me something else that could even come close to the support they offer, then the Reapers will mow us down. Just like your cycle.” 

“You trust these things a great deal,” Javik thinly replies. 

“I do. And they trust me and my crew an awful lot, too.” Shepard takes her finger back and plants her fists on her hips. She gives Javik a curt nod. “Alright then. Have you apologized yet to Legion and Tali? I heard they were involved, and yes, I do expect you to apologize to Legion, too.” 

“I haven’t yet. But you were here, and you are the leader, so you were next,” Javik flatly informs her. “I am… glad to have come to an accord with you, Commander.” 

“Me too. Apology accepted, I guess.” 

“Why wouldn’t you accept someone’s apology?” 

“Sometimes people half-ass them. I guess not Protheans though, huh?” 

Javik stares at her; Liara can only imagine how he understands the human term ‘half-ass’. Shepard claps him awkwardly on the pauldron, smile forced, but at least it is a smile. Then, she jerks her head in Thane’s direction. He rises to his feet without needing further beckoning. 

“Bet you were real happy that Prothean apologies included listing off physiological weaknesses, huh?” Shepard asks him in a low voice, though not low enough to be as subtle as she’s probably hoping. 

Javik plops back down on the couch with a huff. He crosses his arms with frankly comical grumpiness—which worsens when Thane spares him a smirk. 

“Yes, though it was unnecessary knowledge, as I’d already surmised it,” he replies. “The gesture was appreciated, however.” 

“Don’t go breaking more bones every time you want to bond with a new crewmate. And that’s an order.” 

“Of course, siha.” 

Shepard leaves them, Thane trailing at her heels, and Liara hardly waits until the door closes after them before turning on Javik with a beam. “See? I told you this would work out without further reprimand.” 

Javik tosses his head, snorting. “What does it matter what the others think of me? I know you have tried to explain to them why I hate machines, and it’s a useless endeavor. You are nosy and your understanding of my history is insultingly primitive, asari.” 

“I have a name. Someone who just helped you avoid further punishment and cultural misunderstanding has a name.” 

“Doctor,” Javik says instead, and Liara supposes that is an improvement. “You are highly invested in keeping me aboard as well. Smart, but perplexing.” 

“You said so yourself—smart. You are the only being in the galaxy who has knowledge of how to fight the Reapers from firsthand experience, and while this may not be the perfect situation, we can’t afford to let tempers get the better of us. I don’t want Shepard to have more reasons to be short with her crew.” 

“And the rachni,” Javik says, instead of anything that sounds like a proper answer to how hard Liara is working to integrate him into modern society (and the Normandy). 

She frowns. “Pardon?” 

Javik waves a dismissive hand over to the napping rachni. (According to updated name boards, because the Normandy has those now, the name is currently Marima.) “And the rachni—they fought the Reapers with us, for a time. I am surprised they still live into this cycle, but clearly, they have impressive survival skills.” 

“You mentioned the rachni before but…” Liara glances over at the soldier. “They fought the Reapers, too? Why wouldn’t the Reapers have harvested them as well?” With queens’ genetic memory, does this mean that they could ask her about the last cycle? Liara understands that there is some sort of inoculation to indoctrination that happened, though she doesn’t understand how such a thing could have happened. 

“They weren’t spacefaring at the time. Beyond primitive little bugs. But we harnessed them for their ferocity in combat, and used their fighting prowess in many ground battles against husks and indoctrinated forces. Their acid is very effective against organic bodies of all races,” Javik says, wistful, and Liara sincerely hopes he is not recalling watching rachni melt other people right now. She can only take so much of his violent pragmatism in one sitting. 

“Well, you are the only one who can speak to us regularly, and was actually there. The current and only rachni queen is not that old and only has memories of however many generations back that was.” 

“I am not downplaying my own usefulness, doctor,” Javik replies, with his usual sour tone and scowl back in place. The thoughtful Javik was nice in the brief moment it lasted. “But this primitive zoo has done well to utilize all possible forces thus far. It should continue to do so. And your intellect appears to be useful in the context of coercing the Commander into certain emotions as well.” 

Liara’s hackles raise despite herself. “I am not coercing her into anything! I just thought—I assumed—it was the best case scenario that you both be reassured of each others’ intentions. You need to be able to trust us as much as we want to trust you, Javik. Are you complaining about being trusted?” 

“The sentiment is appreciated,” he dryly responds. “You know what I would appreciate more than your words right now, however?” 

“Yes, what?” 

“I have heard that you have written dissertations on Prothean culture. You’ve claimed to be a scholar, and you are obviously bright, but you have spoken to the others about Prothean topics that I have not discussed with them. You are the leak.” 

Liara sucks her lips to prevent herself from matching his scowl. The diplomacy had been working so well, too. “I am not a leak, Javik. Yes, I have studied your people and your history extensively, as I’ve already admitted, and yes, I have shared that with interested crew members. You are not terribly forthcoming about your people or culture, and we want to be able to understand and respect you, at least at a common decency baseline—” 

“No one here needs to understand me!” Javik interrupts. “My people are gone and no amount of research will ever bring them back.”

“You don’t have to be alone as you think you need to be.” She says it more gently than she even means to, and she had meant it to be a soft counterpoint to begin with. 

But Javik rankles at any notion of softness, including this. “I will look at your supposed research, doctor, and I will correct whatever inane notions you’ve gained from fossils and what ashes the Reapers left you. If you insist on prattling on about things that don’t involve you, you should at least have the decency to do it correctly!” 

Oh, great. A Prothean will be reading her old academic papers. Liara maintains a tight smile so she doesn’t scream at how cruel fate can be. 

—

“This isn’t a field trip,” Shepard groans, palm to her face, as the crew collects bright and early to depart to the small quarian ship that will take them to Illium. Garrus glances around at the surprisingly large group gathered. “Everyone except Liara and Garrus, get the hell back to bed.” 

“I’m firmly staying put on the Normandy!” Joker shouts from the cockpit. 

“No one asked you, Joker! And you are staying!” 

“Well, I personally don’t see why you have to come, anyway,” Garrus points out, brow plate raised. 

“Tali and Legion can take care of the Admirals for a week, Garrus, and we need me there in case Liara can’t play Helesse,” Shepard retorts. 

“And you have so little faith in Liara?” 

Liara stares at her boots, clearly uncomfortable at getting caught between them. Garrus thinks back to the argument in her quarters and wishes he could take back his words. “I personally would want Shepard there, just in case,” she mumbles. “Matriarch Helesse is not an enemy we wish to make, if it can be avoided.” 

The question of Shepard’s attendance on the ship is neatly set aside when an even bigger problem arrives: Javik comes off the elevator with a small (borrowed Alliance) bag in his hands. 

“No,” Shepard, Garrus, and Liara all say at once. Jack barks out a laugh. 

“Am I a prisoner on this ship?” Javik asks in return. 

“No, but—” 

“Then I think it best to see for myself what one of this cycle’s civilizations is like.” 

Shepard groans, loudly, into her hands. Garrus pats her shoulder in commiseration. He’s glad that the general mood has largely repaired itself, but this is taking things too far. 

“Hey now, what’s all this? A seein’ off party?” Zaeed lumbers off the elevator next. He drops a duffel next to Javik and squints up at him. “Is the goddamn Prothean really coming with us on this, Shepard?” 

“Zaeed, why the hell do you think you’re coming?! All of you—why are you standing on my CIC instead of sleeping in for once?” 

“I know a guy in Nos Astra,” Zaeed drawls. 

“I had assumed it would not be so crowded a trip, so I would be able to spend time with you both if you were going,” Thane answers, quick and without shame for his priorities. 

Gabby looks nervously between the knot of people. “Um, actually, we really need these specific parts for the drive core—or, well, some of the venting structures for the drive core, and Illium has everything, but we can pick them up secondhand for cheap if they’re in good quality and it’d be hard to talk you through what condition it has to be to be useful over a call, so I thought I could tag along.” 

“You said I get to yell at people for you, and I plan to fucking do that. You think no one in Citadel space is gonna start shit with you, Shepard?!” Jack demands. 

“I need to understand what this cycle calls an urban environment so I can best understand what the Reapers will be looking to harvest,” Javik flatly says. 

“You want me to become a gardener, so I’m gonna be one, an’ that means stocking up on the levo plant stuff the quarians can’t get us. I didn’t think it’d be this crowded of an endeavor, either, though,” Gardner says with a dubious look around. 

“I actually have to go,” Garrus sighs and jerks a thumb at Liara. “So does she. The rest of you just want an excuse to get a weird excuse for shore leave, don’t you?” 

“This isn’t a field trip for everyone to go spend twenty-four hours doing fuck-all on Illium!” Shepard exclaims, exasperated. 

Everyone assembled piles onto the quarian shuttle, however. 

Even Javik.

—

The ships they loan to quarians going on their Pilgrimages are not large. But this is the one the quarians had offered them, and it would be the easiest to dock in Nos Astra with minimal questioning, and Shepard personally can’t believe she just jammed nine people into it. (Originally, there was going to be a quarian pilot too, but given how crowded they just made the little ship, they wisely loaned it to them for the week without an escort.) 

The ship sleeps four if they double-bunk. 

God, she’s tired already thinking of what a trip this will be like. 

“Awesome, just like a road trip! Like in all those old-ass vids!” Jack cheers as she dumps her bag onto what was supposed to be a storage unit but had been hastily cleared out to make room for her pack of overenthusiastic crew. 

“This makes it sound like some sort of bucket list thing you’ve been looking forward to,” Gabby says, giggling, as she slides in past Jack. They are all going to get very close to each other very quickly, so Shepard swears on everything remotely holy, if anyone starts harping on about personal space, she will eat them. 

“Not like I got a regular childhood, you know,” Jack sneers. 

It’s a testament to how long they’ve been serving together that Gabby only smiles instead of balks. “Yeah, but I think road trips went out of style a century or two ago. Before my childhood, too. Maybe not Zaeed’s, though!” 

“Ha-ha, you’re a riot,” Zaeed grunts from where he’s wedged into a corner. “Shepard, why’s your ship stuffed full of mouthy little women?” 

“I asked for the best of the best, and that’s what humanity’s best is, turns out. I only let you on because I have a thing for scars and snipers, obviously,” Shepard snarks back. She and Garrus are wedged in the front in what amounts to the cockpit in a ship this size, calculating refueling locations and the best flight path while they’re still close enough to connect with EDI. (Garrus had taken the pilot’s seat immediately, and for once not out of a sense of arrogance about turian skills; he simply wanted a guaranteed spot with a bit of room.) “Now, all of you—we are going to be in Nos Astra for exactly twenty-four hours, and I will leave your asses behind if you try to wring any more shore leave out of me. And you all asked to come on this, so I will hear zero complaints about how nice and cozy we’ll get to be for the next few days.” 

“I won’t complain if you don’t take this cramped opportunity to get nice and cozy with your two alien fuckbuddies,” Jack retorts. 

“Come on, Jack, you know we have way too many mushy gooey feelings to be just fuckbuddies anymore. Worse than hearing us going at it—you’ll get to hear us cuddle and whisper lovingly about how much we care about each other and smooch all the time and want to save the galaxy for each other—” 

“Krios, duck if you wanna keep your head, because I’m throwing my fucking boot at Shepard!” 

“How are we gonna deal with less-than-polite noises, huh?” Zaeed asks. “We’re all adults, mostly, even if some of us act like goddamn toddlers.” 

“Ew, can’t you keep it in your pants for three days?!” Gabby exclaims, nose scrunched. 

“Sure, I can keep it in my pants, and my hand can be down there, too, so I’m just askin’—are we playing by merc rules here, or is there some sort of proper lady etiquette we now gotta deal with?” 

“It’s not too late to leave him,” Garrus mutters to Shepard. 

“If none of you can control yourselves and act like goddamn adults for the three fucking days it takes for us to get to Illium, then I’ll space you myself!” Shepard barks. 

“Acting like adults is sort of the question here, isn’t it?” Liara asks—and she’s about the only person Shepard could stand a remark from after all of this bickering, so if it’s a calculated barb on her part, Shepard will never forgive her. 

“Why is the notion of sex an issue?” Javik asks, loud and confused and preemptively angry. “Do you primitives not believe in consent? Surely you have evolved that much.” 

“Oh my god,” Gabby groans. 

“I, for one, do not want to listen to the no means no talk from the fucking zombie alien,” Jack exclaims in a falsely bright tone. “So I’m gonna goddamn destroy something if that shit starts up.”

“This is a highly mixed ship, and with minimal personal space, so no one wishes to hear others that we think of platonically in sexual situations,” Liara explains, hand to her temple. 

“Then do what the Gardner human has done—put in earplugs and ignore everyone else,” Javik says, nodding over to Gardner, who appears to already be dozing. Shepard can barely make out the neon orange of cheap earplugs in his ears. He may very well be the smartest man on the ship; she wishes she had thought that far ahead. 

“Three days. I ask for you all to behave and be civil for three days. I don’t even care what you get up to on Illium,” Shepard groans. 

“You’re the one who allowed this,” Garrus chimes in and Shepard flicks her fingers against his fringe. 

“This may very well be the last shore leave we can get for awhile if the Council cracks down on where we can travel. Even without the Normandy, they’re going to be looking for us. So fine, whatever, we can road trip this, complain the entire way, learn too much about each other, and come out the other side tighter-knit and with some great stories to tell. That’s how those old road trip vids went.” 

“That sounds hopelessly optimistic, siha,” Thane remarks. He presses a kiss against her cheek; that still does not erase her grumpy frown. 

—

They may not all be military—actually, less than half of them present are—but spending a full cycle in these sorts of quarters very quickly bonds the group in a way that definitely reminds Garrus of the military. Camaraderie is one thing on a frigate, where they have fancy things like separate quarters and separate shifts and an actual shower; this is the most cramped he has ever felt in his life. Yet it’s not entirely terrible. 

A large part of that is due to his claiming of the pilot’s seat, and thus a guaranteed place to sleep. The rest of them get shifts on the two beds, except no one wants to invert their sleep schedule for a few days, so ‘shifts’ turns briefly into ‘galactic warfare’. 

The ladies end up with the beds and time to sleep first, naturally. Liara and Jack in a cramped space would’ve been enough, but Shepard, protective over sleeping rights? Garrus doesn’t know why anyone else bothered fighting. 

Day two begins with less crankiness than Garrus would’ve expected, at least out of the humans, considering their sleep requirements and how loudly Zaeed had snored. 

“So,” Gabby says, conversational, running her fingers through her hair to comb it into what humans evidently consider cleaner, “why is everyone really crammed in here for this trip?” 

“Daniels, are you telling me that my own crew used false pretenses to try to gain a sliver of a break?” Shepard asks back. Garrus thinks that’s a joking tone. 

Gabby laughs. (So it must’ve been a joke.) “I don’t think anyone who’s known you for as long as we have would ever lie to you, Shepard. No one on the Normandy is that dumb, not even Kenneth. But come on, you practically let us on yourself. You never once said you could pick up everything everyone needed by yourself.” 

“Because I’m not a requisitions officer,” Shepard points out. 

“Do we need one of those?” Liara asks suddenly. “To avoid problems such as this in the future?” 

Garrus calls over, “Might be a good idea. We won’t be able to go on little jaunts like this for much longer.” 

“Okay, another thing to add to the pile of things to do and people to see, but why is everyone else here now?” Gabby presses. 

“You first, Daniels,” Garrus replies. 

“Well, so I have this bet with Kenneth—” Her start is met with many groans, because of course that’s why she’d willingly leave the Normandy. “It really is about the drive core ventilation, though! But I heard of this system that salarian vessels use for shunting heat out, and Ken doesn’t think it’ll work with what we’ve got, but I’ve already ran all the tests and it would work!” 

“What did Tali say? I assume she would’ve had an opinion or two on your bickering,” Shepard indulgently replies. “And, as far as I’ve heard from your fights, she usually acts as the tiebreaker.”

“That’s just it! She said she’d have to see it in action before she could say whether it’d work with our systems or not! So I’m going to create a secondary system for us to hook up to the drive core as a test run—so we’re not switching over until I’m proven right, and no matter how sure I am that I’m right I’d never just try to cram alien tech into the Normandy’s systems without safeguards—and that means I have to get enough bits and pieces together to create a working system without taking up even more of the engineering deck.” Gabby finishes in a rush, her usual passion for engineering shining as bright as ever, and Garrus knows better than to ask for specifics. Even if he knew the human terms for half the engine’s parts, she probably wouldn’t wait for him to keep up. 

“So is that why you two have been going at it so hard lately?” Jack asks from the bunk she’d claimed as her territory. 

Garrus had assumed Jack was referring to their bickering, until he sees the way Gabby’s face flushes bright red. Usually only Shepard is that furious of a blusher. 

“Wait,” Shepard says, coming to the same realization, while Gabby actually tries to punch Jack. 

“We were not—!” 

“Woah there, no fist fights in cramped quarters, that was the very first rule we set up!” 

“Kenneth can suck my dick if he thinks he can distract me from being right about this,” Gabby seethes, allowing Liara to yank her back, though Jack just tips her head back and cackles. “But he keeps trying!” 

“And you sure as shit don’t say no!” Jack adds with savage glee. 

“Wait, so are you, or are you not, working off some of the stress relief between your arguments?” Garrus has to ask, because humans tend to be too confusing about that. 

“I think it’s more than stress relief,” Thane mutters, but Gabby scowls at them both, for perceived equal injury. 

“Are there rules against sexual fraternization that are being broken? I do not understand what the issue is that has heightened everyone’s emotions,” Javik complains. He casts a sidelong glare at Shepard. “Or is the issue that mating rights are only reserved for the Commander?” 

“Woah, hold on now, definitely not that. What kind of ship do you think I’m running here?” Shepard retorts. 

“More important—what kinda ship did Protheans run?” Zaeed adds. “Everyone knows turian ships are orgies—” 

“Hey!” Garrus snaps. Jack and Thane snicker at him. 

“—and salarian ships are work until you die, so how did your lot run things, back in the day?” Zaeed finishes, not batting an eye in Garrus’ direction. 

“Mating relieved tensions and provided outlets for hormonal stress during rut. With permission for the time away from their duties, it was easily organized between consenting parties,” Javik replies, nonplussed. 

“Ha! Turian ships have it just as right as the great old Prothean Empire!” Garrus crows, vindicated at last. 

“Protheans go into rut?!” Liara all but shrieks, tripping over Shepard’s legs in an effort to get to Javik. 

“Do turians?” Thane asks, but Garrus pretends not to hear him, which is very easy based on all the noise Liara is making. Granted, he never wanted to hear her jump into full academic research mode about Prothean mating habits, but it’s better than his mating habits getting aired out for once. 

“How do you claim to be an expert on my race if you do not even know what our pyalok customs were?” Javik acidly demands over Liara’s ongoing babbling and fumbling for a datapad. 

“What is that? Oh, no, was that how you translate—there were references to a cyclical ritual for each individual, but there had always been so many theories with so little evidence that no self-respecting scholar would dare offer their own anymore, it was so easily dismissed as a topic. Even the references I found on Therum didn’t offer anything new, no new contextual clues or really any new references that I could cite. I couldn’t have even been sure, given all of the nondescript references your artists made—” 

“Anyone wanna talk about something that isn’t ancient alien boners?” Jack very loudly interrupts. 

“I am very sorry if you cannot understand the importance of understanding the courtship rituals of the Prothean race—knowledge which has been lost for tens of thousands of years, and could offer clues to—” 

“Liara, let’s save this for another time, when Javik wants to talk about it and when we don’t have to listen to it,” Shepard breaks in. Liara sits back on her haunches, frowning at the datapad clutched in her hands, but nods. Purple makes her cheeks glow. “Alright, Javik—your turn. Why did you actually want to cram yourself into this tin can to come see Illium?” 

“The planet of Illium was called Chamak in my cycle,” Javik replies. 

Shepard rolls her eyes. “And now it’s called Illium. It was originally an asari world, I think, but now it’s one of the commerce hubs of the galaxy, so you’ll see all sorts of races who live there.” 

“Those who can afford to, anyway,” Garrus adds. 

“I have seen a very small selection of this cycle’s supposedly dominant races, and I must understand how your urban centers function with so many squabbling for power, without one race to unify them. It would be best for me to understand current architectural patterns, too, for when the Reapers will turn your cityscapes into battlefields.” 

“So… You’re curious?” Gabby ventures. 

Javik turns a glare on her and she squeaks. His tone and posture are as harsh as ever, but his words are surprisingly civil when he replies. “I suppose I am.” 

—

Steve realizes, after an hour of drooling over some shielding mods, that he has no idea how the Normandy plans on paying him for their new shuttle, Mako, and upgrades. This better not be a case of reimbursement, because he’s not made of money—and that’s also very sloppy work. There are going to be eyes on him, if they can find him, and certainly eyes on his accounts; they don’t need to see him spending up a storm on Illium. Especially if that attention brings more attention, attention enough to see who will be picking him up here. 

“Mr. Cortez, you have been selected to win a brand new shuttle!” 

The targeted ads here are a pain, too. He’s since tuned them out, even when they call his name. The Citadel has laws based on the frequency in which such ads can target a person, but apparently, Illium doesn’t give a damn about privacy here. Or the sheer annoyance factor. 

It’s more crowded here, too, at least in the markets. Apparently, his prepaid ticket here had included bribing the captain to allow him to sleep on the ship for as long as they’re docked, so Steve hadn’t had to go looking for what amounts to a cheap place to sleep here. Yet. He doesn’t know how long the SSV Bruno will remain here, nor does he know yet when Joker, or Shepard, or the Normandy will pick him up. Move to point and await further orders—Steve knows how this works. But it’s never been a days-long adventure like this. 

“Steve Cortez—approach this stand to earn your free shuttle!” 

These ads won’t leave him alone. Is he going to be dreaming about them? He bets the rich people here buy some sort of software to keep their biometrics from being read by every advertisement bot on the planet. Steve shudders to think how much that costs, and how many credits rich people like that blow on even stupider things than avoiding ads. 

He feels his omnitool buzz, and it opens up a comm link without his permission. 

“You’re a really hard guy to catch the attention of, you know that?” comes a female voice. 

“Uh,” Steve replies. Intelligently. 

“Turn around and look at the ad stand behind you.” 

With military precision, Steve turns around. What he had assumed was an ad is apparently not, because the hooded woman on the holo-screen waves at him. That’s not a VI. 

“There we go! People like to put names and voices and faces and all that jazz together, right? Not that I’m giving you my name right now. You’ll figure it out later, I’m sure. Now, since I finally have your attention, please reach into your left pocket,” the woman in the ad tells him with a smile stretching her painted lips. 

Steve pats down his left pants pocket. To his alarm, he finds a credit chit in there, sleek black and featureless. (Well, he feels alarmed, but also mighty damn impressed.) “Oh, well, this is… I assume this is how I’m going to pay for things, here?” Steve asks, feeling stupid talking at an ad stand. 

“Bingo! Blank credit chit. I would say it has your name on it, but it doesn’t. And it’ll deactivate itself in a week. Think you can do all your Normandy shopping by then?” 

“If I have a blank credit chit, I could get it done this afternoon,” he shoots back. 

The woman grins even more widely and claps her hands. “Great, a bit of spirit! I know you won’t actually blow that many credits, since everything in your file says you’re conservative and level-headed and not prone to living it up in a place like Nos Astra, but I like a bit of spunk.” 

“So you’re… actually talking to me right now. Through this,” Steve says, eyes flicking from his omnitool to the holo-screen and back again. 

“Yep! Cute little hacking trick, isn’t it? When people aren’t doggedly ignoring the ads, anyway. I’m trying not to be seen in public so much anymore, and I wouldn’t want to ruin a newbie’s Normandy mystique, so I’m happy to play my part and make us seem like we’re far more put together than we are.” 

Steve cracks a smile. The woman seems pleased by this and claps her hands again, leaving her fingers laced together this time. He asks, “Are you implying the Normandy isn’t a hub for the most competent, put together people in the galaxy? That’s what I was promised, anyway.” 

“Oh no, I said put together! We’re all highly competent. That’s why it’s so frustrating that we have to do this all galactic war prep solo, you know?” 

“I can understand that.” That’s why he’s drawn here, too, even if it meant going AWOL. Steve thumbs the credit chit in his pocket. “Do I get an ETA for when I’m going to be picked up, or should I just expect the end of the week?” 

“Two days,” the woman chirps, surprisingly clear. “Well, three, based on standard time. But I didn’t want you to get any thoughts about keeping that pretty little credit chit after this.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of that, ma’am. I know how to do what I’m told,” Steve replies with a shake of his head. 

She looks momentarily off-guard, based on what he can see of her expression. “Ma’am…? Wow, that’s a new one! You’re going to be a fun addition, aren’t you?” 

“I haven’t been hired to be fun.” 

“Everyone brings a lot more than only one or two skills to the Normandy table, Mr. Cortez,” the woman says, smirking, then the ad blinks out. The comm link dies a moment after. 

Steve is happier with an ETA and an actual plan for his purchases, but he can’t help but think that if they’re expecting him to be fun, they’re going to be sorely disappointed. 

—

Liara and Shepard share a bunk, both because they’re incredibly used to each other (physical closeness pales in comparison to sharing brain waves), and because Gabby apparently sleeps like the dead so she acts as a weighted blanket for Jack, who, also apparently, sleeps well if given that sort of physical comfort. Fascinating discoveries all around. 

“Sorry I’m the wrong shade of alien for you to be pressed so firmly against,” Liara whispers, giggling, and Shepard digs her fingers into her side in retaliation. Asari aren’t ticklish, but it serves to make her jump. “I think Thane is using Garrus as a pillow in the cockpit. Jealous?” 

“Do I have reason to be jealous if I have a beautiful asari in my arms? Most of the galaxy wouldn’t think so. Or is this a ploy to get me to fuck off and give you the entire tiny bed, Liara? You’ve become cunning with your new job.” 

“Oi, can you two quit your whispering and let us sleep? Some of us don’t even get the tiny cot to get all cozy on,” Zaeed grouses from the floor in the far corner. 

“I would say you’re jealous, Zaeed, but that’s not a tree I want to bark up right now,” Shepard replies, still in a low voice, since some people evidently can sleep through a whisper. (She never would’ve pegged Zaeed as a light sleeper, given his snoring tendencies, and general… everything else tendencies.) 

“Damn right I’m jealous. That you get half a mattress cushioning your ass—and some of us don’t have as much fat as you to begin with, so you’re really not leavin’ much for us, are you?” 

Shepard sits up and throws her pillow at him. Zaeed chuckles and steals it for himself with a smirk. 

“I think your ass has the perfect amount of fat, Shepard,” Garrus calls from the cockpit, further reminding her that anyone remotely conscious can hear everything aboard the tiny vessel. 

“I really, really do not want to discuss my ass with my crew outside of the bedroom, and even then, it’s only certain parties that have that privilege.” 

“But Shepard, we are in bed together,” Liara says, waggling her brows. “Does this mean I have privileges along those lines now as well?” 

Shepard tries to shove her out of the bunk, but Liara latches on like a hanar, and instead, they both whump to the floor. Liara laughs breathlessly beneath her. Shepard detangles their limbs, making sure no one knocked a head, and sits beside the now-vacant bunk instead. “Alright, I’m awake now, and I’m not letting Liara back in. Free bed for one of you gentlemen.” 

Zaeed dives for it with speed belying his age. 

“I said gentlemen, Zaeed,” Shepard points out. 

“Never been accused of being one of those. Wouldn’t want to start now. Let an old man rest his goddamn back for a few hours, Shepard.” 

Shepard wonders if Zaeed’s pointed complaining has some merit. Is she pushing him too hard, expecting him to keep up with her gaggle of comparatively younger crew? No, surely not—he definitely would have complained far more loudly by now. Still, with everything else going on, she hasn’t been able to spend much time with her crew outside of shooting hostiles on the ground. 

Shepard suddenly misses Grunt. 

“Are you nervous about Helesse?” Liara whispers to her. “You were frowning.” 

“Oh, no. Should I be?” 

“I don’t think so, but I’ve only rarely worked with her personally, so I cannot be sure. If not that, then what’s worrying you now, Shepard?” Liara presses. 

Shepard sighs and gives in. “Just a very immature line of thinking about how this isn’t going to be as fun as the past had been. Not that it hasn’t been a hell of a ride, the entire time, but it’s just… I feel too busy for the team. This is going to be really different than the SR1, or even the suicide mission. And between my little freak-out and the fact that I’m missing spending time with a fully-grown krogan like he’s a kid I want to dote on and tease, I don’t feel great about my mood going forward. I’m not cut out to be the leader here, I’m a soldier, I take the orders and work with my team—” 

“Shepard,” Liara firmly interrupts, “you are the single best, most capable leader I have known. And the fact that you’re so concerned about your team is a large part of why.” 

Shepard draws her knees up to her chest and scowls into them. “Yeah, but I’m only human, and it’s not great prospects if these issues are already cropping up.” 

“Then choose another leader,” Javik drawls. 

Liara kicks his boot with as much might as she can manage from her position. Javik tosses his head with a haughty scoff. (Shepard had been right; his eyes do glow.) “You’re new to this team, Javik, but you’ve already learned plenty about us and how the Normandy operates. Show some respect for the fragility of still having a feeling or two not strangled by war.” 

“Respect for fragility?!” Javik demands with great offense. 

“Liara, I don’t like that phrasing, either,” Shepard sighs. “I get what you meant, though. Sorry, Javik, that we’re not all as jaded as you just yet. Give it a few months. I’ll catch up with you soon enough.” 

“Don’t be like that. Shepard, you’ll do fine. I know you’re strong enough to see this through,” Liara says and jostles their shoulders together. 

Shepard keeps being told she’ll succeed—she has for the past several years—but it’s tiring, too. How many times does she get to shoulder the weight of the galaxy before she gets to tap out? Or, better yet: have others fucking listen to her so she can delegate this to more than her crew and some galactic misfits. Let her point a few fleets in the direction of the coming Reaper invasion, and maybe she’ll feel better about being in charge. 

“Do you remember what it was like, on the first Normandy?” Liara asks, brightening, ducking her head to try to look Shepard in the eye. 

“Why was there more than one?” Javik demands. 

“First one sort of blew up,” Shepard deadpans. 

Liara tries again for a cheering up session. “We were fighting quite possibly the greatest Spectre the galaxy had known—at the time—and the Council dragged their feet every step of the way. But you still got things done, and you still had the downtime you needed to socialize.” 

Shepard snorts. “This is sounding worse and worse—socializing, I mean. That’s hardly a requirement in wartime—” 

Liara thrusts her omnitool in front of Shepard. “You brought together a crew of multiple races, many of whom had never worked with anyone outside their own kind before, and you taught us how to work together seamlessly. Do you know the moment when I first recognized what a talent you had for dealing with people was, Shepard?” 

“Was it the time I forgot about the levo/dextro thing and almost puked my guts out trying to drink with Garrus?” Shepard indulgently guesses. That was certainly a bonding experience. 

“No, here—” Liara taps her omnitool, apparently aiming to bring up some sort of vid recorded aboard the SR1. Nostalgic, probably heartwarming, and maybe a little melancholic to see everyone palling around before people started dying. 

Instead of a heartwarming reel of a younger, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Normandy crew doing the dumb (but fun) things that less-jaded marines get up to when given an ounce downtime on a starship, the thing Liara plays is a soundtrack of screaming. 

She shuts it off after a moment, after both she and Shepard jump at the noise—and they’re not the only ones. Jack snaps awake with a blue flash, Gabby getting dumped on the floor, and Gardner startles awake with a shout. 

“What. Was that,” Javik asks thinly. At least he’s not glowing with biotics, too. 

“Spirits, Shepard, do you know what the hell it is like to have an assassin wake up on top of you in kill mode?!” Garrus shouts from the front. “The cast didn’t slow him down, so you know! Liara, what did you just do back there?!” 

“I’m so sorry,” Liara says, violet flushing her face dark, but her voice is quaking with suppressed laughter. “That was—it was a recording of Shepard driving the Mako—!” 

“It was not!” Shepard exclaims at once. 

“It was! It was that planet where the strange species you called cow-like was—” Liara’s giggles threaten to spill over her words. 

“Shepard, you really do drive like that,” Garrus adds. 

“And why the hell do you have something like that recorded?” Shepard demands, not in the mood to get ganged up on about her driving skills. She is certified and perfectly able to drive vehicles like the Mako, thank you very much. And she always got her team from Point A to Point B with zero broken bones. 

“To prove a point, if it ever came up again,” Liara admits around her quashed laughter. “Especially now that we’re getting—another M-Mako, I wanted insurance in case you thought to bring me with you—!” 

“I drive perfectly fine!” 

“You launch vehicles bound by gravity off cliffs,” Garrus retorts. Shepard hears the unmistakable sound of Thane snickering at her expense, too. 

“Anyway!” Liara hastily breaks back in, lips trembling as she tries not to laugh. She throws up her holo-screen in front of them. “This is actually the vid I wanted to show you.” 

Shepard vows to be unimpressed and rightfully cranky—her driving is fine and saved their skins more than once when it came to maneuvering around thresher maws and through colossi—but the vid starts playing. And Shepard instantly softens at the sound of Tali and Wrex laughing. 

She knows this part—or, she remembers it. She had no idea someone had recorded it. They had been en route to Noveria, she thinks. With a long time with nothing to do on the Normandy, rather than deal with a bunch of bored aliens, Shepard had started shit in order to burn off some energy. 

“It’s chicken, chicken I said!” Shepard calls on the holo-screen, wobbling precariously on Wrex’s shoulder. 

“That’s a food!” Garrus retorts. “This has to be another one of your human team-building exercises. I’ve seen this kind of inanity in C-Sec, Shepard, and you’re not slick.” 

“I swear on everything holy, chicken is definitely a game you play—a game you’re trying to get out of, Vakarian! C’mon, you don’t think you can take the full might of the human-krogan alliance?!” Her younger self manages to climb onto Wrex’s back and tries to wedge herself between his head and his hump, but she lets out a squeal after a moment. Laughter and pain. “Oh my god, Wrex, stop fucking moving—that’s an order—oh my god, I haven’t done the splits like this in years. I take this back. Ash, come here, trade with me!” 

“You already ordered me to put a turian between my legs, ma’am,” Ashley snarks back, trying to balance on Garrus’ offered hands while they get their team situated. “I’m drawing the line at a krogan. You wanted the muscle, so deal with it.” 

“Am I too much for you to handle, Shepard?” Wrex asks with a growly chuckle. Shepard groans, one hand between her legs, as she tries to figure out a way to straddle him without doing the splits. 

“So humans are supposed to climb their alien betters, and then they fistfight?” Garrus asks, dubiously, but obviously amused. He yelps when Ashley tugs his fringe, however, trying to get stable. “Ow!” 

“Sorry!” Ashley exclaims. “Oh, I’m apologizing to a turian for hurting him. Shepard, what have you done to me?” 

“This turian can hear you, and will throw you, Williams.” 

“I have these spiky little bits of your head in my hands now, Vakarian, so do it, and I’m ripping them out on my way down.” 

The camera pans over to Kaidan, holding Tali up on his shoulders, apparently without issue. (Tali’s feet are stuck out, since she can’t tuck her legs like the humans can, but given her enthusiastic kicking motions, that’s probably a plus.) “Well,” Liara’s voice says from behind the camera, “what do you think your odds of winning this game of ‘chicken’ are, Lieutenant?” 

“Considering I can stand straight, Tali’s half the weight of either of those two, and I actually know what we’re playing? I think we’ll be fine,” Kaidan replies with a smile for the camera. It vanishes in an instant when Tali almost knees his jaw. 

Shepard falls off Wrex’s back with a shriek. 

“Alright then, you and me, Tali,” Ashley declares, grinning, and raises her fists.

“Wait, we’re actually fighting? I thought this was a balancing game!” Tali exclaims. She doesn’t sound very put out about it, however. “Okay, bring me in closer, I’ll kick Garrus in the mandibles!” 

“No, the tops have to fight each other,” Kaidan corrects and hooks one of her flailing legs with his arm. 

“Ha! You’re getting topped, Kaidan!” Shepard shouts from where she’s sprawled on the mat. 

Kaidan chuckles. “What’s the problem with that, ma’am?” 

“Does this mean you and I are about to fight each other, Alenko?” Garrus asks, stalking toward them, releasing one of Ashley’s legs in favor of flexing his talons. 

“No,” Kaidan quickly replies. 

“Can I throw you at one of them?” Wrex asks, yanking Shepard back to her feet. “There are better ways to win fights than punching or clawing, you know.” 

“No, this is a game of chicken, not a wrestling match! Come on, Wrex, aren’t you curious at all about human bonding activities? This one even involves some shoving.” 

“No, can’t say that I am.” 

Shepard grins and makes a straight line for the camera. “Alright, Liara, you and me! Come on!” The past Liara shrieks and the camera swerves wildly as Shepard pounces. The playback ends with a chorus of laughter. 

In the present, cramped in this tiny Pilgrimage vessel surrounded by new crew and old crew, Shepard takes a moment to smile. 

The smile turns into a bark of laughter when, from the cockpit, Thane asks Garrus, “Were you advancing on Lieutenant Alenko so aggressively because he was flirting with Shepard in front of you?” 

“No! That wasn’t—was that flirting?” Garrus asks, worried, while Shepard and Liara laugh at his expense. “I was trying to win whatever human game that was, and I was just happy Ashley wasn’t growling at us for five whole minutes.” 

“How did it end? Who was the victor?” Javik asks. 

Shepard elbows Liara, who suddenly turns bashful. “Oh, well, technically, we won. I was unaware that we weren’t supposed to use biotics, so I tripped Garrus, and he and Ashley fell onto Kaidan and Tali. Turians don’t balance with weight on their shoulders very well.” 

“Winning by any means necessary is a good skill to have,” Javik replies with grudging pride. 

“Is that what you took from that sap fest?” Jack demands. “Fuck, this entire crew is impossible. No more rude wake-up calls, okay? Gabby needs some fucking beauty sleep.” 

“Yeah, sure, I’m the one who does,” Gabby grumbles while Jack all but hauls her back into the bunk with her. 

Jack spares a glare over to Javik while she settles back in for her sleep shift. “Word of advice for you, shithead: the sooner you accept that Shepard wins impossible shit by the power of fucking friendship, the easier it’ll be for all of us. So get used to it already.” 

—

Illium has, of course, not changed. There is no visible sign of the trouble Shepard has been causing, not in the news vids they’re now in range to pick up, nor is there anything as flashy as wanted posters lining the port. It’s for the best that their trip is not interrupted or troubled, but it would have been nice to see some acknowledgement of the manner in which Shepard is shaking up the galaxy at large. 

Then again, this is Illium. It only cares about credits. Even during a war, Nos Astra will probably be the last bastion of money buying false senses of security in the entire galaxy. 

Thane is jarred out of his thoughts by a tug on the back of his coat. He has it draped over his shoulders, pinned against his back and the pilot’s seat he has stolen from Garrus. He turns away from the approaching Nos Astra skyline. “Siha, what are you doing?” Thane asks, very confused. 

She tugs at his leather jacket again. “Oh, well, I actually wanted to wear this today.” 

“…Why?” 

“Liara and Garrus are here for official business, but the rest of us aren’t, and shouldn’t really be seen. So I don’t think it’s great for me to wear my N7 hoodie. Also—Jack, you wear the damned hoodie, because everyone in the galaxy knows that I hang around with a woman who only wears tattoos and I am not letting you be the reason we’re caught out here!” 

“Fuck you, Shepard!” Jack snarls back, but she grabs the balled-up hoodie from Shepard’s duffel bag all the same. 

“Why do you need to wear a jacket at all, then?” Thane asks, though he gives up his own with no struggle. He can’t easily wear it with his forearm in a cast, anyway.

Shepard beams at him. “Because I’ve always wanted to look half as badass as you, and this is an excuse to wear my boyfriend’s clothing for a day. It’s the little things in life, Thane.” 

Thane’s heart trips over in his chest. Far be it from him to deny her this, especially when she pulls on the black leather that very suddenly appears to be inappropriately sexy. Very rarely has simple clothing affected him like this, much less his own, but seeing Shepard in what amounts to half of an assassin’s uniform is doing things to his higher thought processes. (Mostly shutting them down.) 

“I need to get going, to ensure Matriarch Helesse doesn’t associate me with this ship. I’ll ping you if I need you, Shepard,” Liara says and slips out the door. 

“I’m headin’ out early, too, since it’s ass o’clock local time and my contact is one of those goddamn early birds,” Zaeed adds. 

“You never told me why you wanted to come along—what this contact of yours was,” Shepard points out. 

“I’ll let you know after I track him down. Don’t want to get your hopes up, just in case.” 

“Ominous. Zaeed, don’t break any laws that’ll get you detained, because I can’t officially help you here.” 

“Have a little faith, would ya?” 

Zaeed ruffles Shepard’s hair as he sidles past and out into the warm air of Nos Astra. Shepard scowls after him, but instead of running her fingers back through her hair to tame it, she grabs it all and piles it higher on her head. Shepard then plucks a hat not unlike what Joker usually wears out of her bag and shoves her hair underneath it, which Thane doesn’t understand, since her hair color is still perfectly visible on the back of her head. (Actually, that does appear to be one of Joker’s hats.) 

He understands this bizarre process even less when she puts sunglasses on. They don’t even have sighting or scanning capabilities; they are only sunglasses. 

“Old human disguise trick,” Shepard tells him, catching him staring. “No one will recognize me now.” 

“Your disguise is sufficient for hiding from those searching you out visually,” Javik says, which is almost a compliment for him. 

Thane admittedly had a few misgivings, sharing a small ship with him for several days, but he behaved himself well enough. (A small part of him still believes Shepard had been so willing to allow him to come along since it put distance between him and Legion.) 

“So, what will my visual disguise be? I am capable of suppressing my pheromones on my own,” Javik continues. 

Shepard and Thane stare up at him. 

Javik looks down at them with growing contempt. “Do you think it best to parade myself around an urban center as I am?” 

“Why did you come along if you didn’t already have a disguise planned out?!” Shepard exclaims. 

“That is the leader’s job, to provide for their soldiers!” 

It’s not ideal, especially since Javik refuses to remove any armor, but with Gabby and Garrus’ help, they figure out something to do for a Prothean to hide in plain sight. They tear up one of the sheets into strips, and take the other one whole, to create a sort of hood for him. Thane doesn’t think it matches any known fashion choice of any species, but it covers the alien crest and much of his exposed skin above his neck. 

The four eyes remain a problem, however. No one will mistake those for batarian eyes. 

“Garrus, hand it over,” Shepard orders. 

“What? We won’t be able to get one of my shirts over him—not if he refuses to take off his damn armor,” Garrus pointedly replies. 

“You are wearing armor here, and I trust your discretion when it comes to threats,” Javik points out—also nearly a compliment, for him. 

Garrus frazzles, audibly, but his buzzing subvocals die down when he registers Shepard’s outstretched hand. She fixes him with a stern look. “Your visor, Garrus. We’re gonna need it.” 

It’s sort of cute how his hand flies up to his visor with scandal written into his twin larynxes. “Shepard, really? Come on. He’ll still have two eyes visible, anyway! Give him your sunglasses. If they’ll fit…” 

Shepard sighs, then takes off her sunglasses. It involves breaking the plastic frames and tying it into the strips keeping his hood down, but they manage to get the large, dark lenses in front of Javik’s four eyes. 

He’ll probably still get stares, but he also probably will not be immediately pointed out as a Prothean… Thane shakes his head. There are too many probablies. Gods help him if there are hanar nearby. 

“This is inane,” Javik announces. 

Thane is inclined to agree. 

But Shepard holds her hand back out to Garrus. “Alright, there you go. Now hand it over, big guy.” 

“What? Why?” 

“I’m going to wear it, then. I have one of the most recognizable faces in the galaxy, and I need something to stop people from instantly picking me out in a crowd. I’ll pick up another pair of cheap sunglasses while I’m here, but I’m not stepping into that port without something else on my face.” 

“It’s not measured for a human skull,” Garrus says, subvocals sulking, but he unhooks it and hands his visor over. Thane has only ever seen him without it when he’s preparing for bed, so this is a novel experience. 

More novel is seeing Shepard awkwardly hook it onto her protruding human ear. It seems large on her face, almost covering the bridge of her nose, but it certainly makes her look strange. Not at all like her usual self. 

“I’m so glad I spend all my time in engineering and don’t have my face plastered everywhere like the rest of the ground squad,” Gabby says with a happy hum as she departs the ship next. 

“I think it’s safe to say that Javik doesn’t have his face plastered anywhere in the galaxy,” Garrus replies, though she’s already gone. “How do you feel about this?” 

“I was only trained in the basics of stealth, but I am not afraid of any primitive races in this cycle. I will not be captured for study.” 

“Javik, please don’t murder. Or maim. You can run like hell if you see any hanar, but you don’t want to cause a scene, and you don’t want me to have to rescue you, either. No one will be happy then,” Shepard wearily tells him. “Look around, play tourist, and speak Thessian. Don’t make this weird. You’re right, you’re not imprisoned on the Normandy, but there are a lot of freaks out there that would gladly dissect you.” 

“Why should I avoid the hanar specifically? They are the pink primitives—they have not evolved much more since I knew them. We used to eat them. How is this species more dangerous to me than any other?” Javik demands. 

Thane tries not to think about anything eating hanar. Or how that wouldn’t frighten several of the more zealously religious ones he’s known. 

“We’ll get into that later, because I don’t want to give you an ego boost right when you’re about to head into a situation where you ought to be inconspicuous,” Shepard replies with a sigh. She shoves him—with force he hardly notices—toward the door. “Go on, go see the sights, figure out how to use a credit chit, don’t get caught or interviewed, and have a bit of fun.” 

Javik looks like the very notion of fun offends his Prothean sensibilities, but he dutifully ducks out the door. 

“What’s the credit limit on the chit you gave him?” Thane asks. 

Shepard laughs hollowly. “A thousand credits. I don’t want him buying weaponry, I want him to buy a snack or two. I’m sure I’ll hear complaining about it soon enough. Garrus, you’re staying put here until you hear from Solana, right?” 

“Yeah, though I don’t think anyone wants to steal this ship. She hasn’t answered me yet, but she knows I was coming today. Any word on where you’re picking up our new shuttle pilot yet?” 

“The Eternity bar—where else am I supposed to pick up illicit contacts other than a glitzy hotel bar fed by dark money? But that’s not until noon, local time, so I’m on call for Liara until then. Figured I’d bum around the port and stretch my legs.” Shepard extends her hand to Thane with a bright, warm smile. “Maybe have my own sniper rifle mod date?” 

Garrus grumbles with audible jealousy. Thane smiles at them both. “I would like few things more, siha. Shall we get going, then? The markets will soon be crowded with the morning rush.” 

Shepard kisses Garrus’ temple, right where his missing visor usually rests, then leads Thane out into the warm, bright morning. 

The docks are crowded with the morning’s first shipments, and they wind their way around krogan and turians hauling heavy boxes, interspersed with salarians darting back and forth with datapads and updated orders they screech out to the dock workers. Tourists haven’t arrived yet; there are two cruise liners docked further out, but none of the affluent types who would book such a thing would deign to wake up early for something like Nos Astra. 

The dock markets are already bustling, however, crowded and full of those yelling at the stock exchanges shown on large holo-screens. Thane and Shepard edge around that mess and head further in to Nos Astra proper. Outside of the Citadel, Illium is probably one of the most diverse planets in the galaxy, though asari architecture shines out in every sleek building facade. Despite the mixed crowds, Thane doesn’t see any other drell. 

“You look lost in thought,” Shepard remarks, grabbing his free hand. (They’ve gotten better at intertwining their different fingers together.) 

Thane gives her a wry smile. He pretends not to feel off-kilter by having both of his hands temporarily handicapped, one by love and one by injury. “Feeling old. Did you know—I remember coming here as a child and there were no humans here?” 

“I never saw another race until I went to the Citadel on a field trip as a kid,” she replies. 

“You grew up on a human colony in the Traverse. …You were born after the Relay 314 Incident, weren’t you?” Thane asks, grinning at the way she scowls. 

“How old do you think I am?” 

“Are you counting the two years you were dead today, or not?” 

“I know you weren’t actually feeling old,” Shepard grumbles and swings their connected hands between them. She’s always moving, in some small way, but it’s more apparent in crowds. “Although, for the record of your perfect memory, I’ve never minded the age difference. There are a few bigger things to tackle than that, such as alien dicks and dietary differences and suicide missions.” 

Thane has never minded the age difference, either, though it is funny when he reminds Garrus of it, sometimes. (That Garrus is the youngest, specifically. Shepard takes too much delight in this, for reasons Thane still doesn’t quite understand, but he’s always first in line for the Tease Garrus brigade.) “I wasn’t feeling old,” he amends, “I was feeling lonely.” 

“Lonely?” Shepard asks sharply. She pauses in swinging their hands. 

“Not with you by my side, rest assured, but in a bigger sense. Drell appear to be the opposite of krogan—we don’t leave the planets we know unless we must. It’s fatalistic desperation. No one wants to leave a home for a second time, though that was generations behind us. But, despite the topic, I wasn’t feeling all that sad about it. Wistful, maybe?” Just another moment where he’s noticed that his people aren’t part of the galactic stage, not in the way so many others aboard the Normandy are. Humans are newcomers to the galaxy, and they’ve already spread themselves out to wherever they can reach, welcome or not. Most drell, by comparison, hardly leave hanar planets anymore. 

“It can’t be a priority yet, but Mordin agreed that he could look into a cure for Kepral’s, later,” Shepard tells him. At least she resumes the arm movements. 

Thane appreciates her intent, but he shakes his head. “Not all drell suffer from that, siha, even if the numbers are worrying and on the rise. Staying on Kahje exacerbates it, actually, so it would be easier if we could move on and petition to colonize a dryer planet. But it’s fear that keeps the drell rooted in place, not disease. Strange to think, isn’t it—our races are nearly the opposite of each other. Humanity cannot stop expanding, and my people are slowly dying out on a handful of planets they refuse to leave. In another century or two, who knows what either population will be?” 

She frowns, in that way that means she’s concerned when he is being objective about terrible topics. Thane admires that emotional sensitivity in her, even if it’s misplaced—but this isn’t the first time, nor will it be the last, so he preempts her concern by leaning over and pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek. 

“Drell! Hey, uh—wait, you, drell, there!” 

And there goes the soft mood. There is no one else about that their would-be interloper could mean, but Thane takes Shepard by the hand and resolves to ignore whoever it is. It hadn’t been a familiar voice, nor a hanar voice, though even if it had been hanar, he still would rather ignore whoever it was. It’s slightly more difficult to get lost in a crowd with another body to watch over, but it’s not impossible. 

“Wait, Thane!” 

He freezes. Shepard cranes her neck behind them, her frown now protective and defensive. Reporters have gotten their names before, though Thane has never been one of the few singled out like this. 

A turian woman marches toward them. “It is Thane, right? I mean, a green drell man with black stripes, I thought…” 

Thane balks. Not because this woman is taller than him, or any sort of threat, but the resemblance is impossible to ignore—even if the blatant, cobalt clan markings didn’t give her identity away. Shepard remains very still at his side, likely with the same alarmed and confused train of thought. 

Solana Vakarian peers down at him, mandibles fluttering as she studies him. “Since Garrus is supposedly here, makes sense he’d bring you along, but…” She glances down at Thane’s cast, then over at Shepard, then does a double-take at the visor she’d borrowed. It takes her a few more moments to recognize her, which Thane supposes is proof of her disguise. “Oh. Uh. Wow, you’re—you’re Commander Shepard, aren’t you?” 

“Guilty,” Shepard replies, tugging at the brim of her hat just like Joker does. Is it a human thing? “Garrus is back at the port, waiting for you, uh, ma’am.” 

Solana appears stunned that Shepard called her ma’am, though Thane personally knows it’s reflexive for Shepard when addressing any sort of woman she hardly knows. That may have connotations in turian culture, given how regimented their social hierarchy is. 

“Well,” Solana finally says, glancing away and scratching her mandible in the same manner her brother does when he’s nervous, “I’m glad that he actually showed his face. But I hope I can speak to the two of you first, if you don’t mind.” 

Chapter Text

Tali vibrates in her seat. She’s glad that quarian visors aren’t completely translucent, because there are tears prickling at her eyes, and she doesn’t want to talk about those. She ducks her head so no one can see how much she’s blinking. She shouldn’t be wasting water on tears. 

But they are en route to Rannoch. They will be landing in less than an hour. 

She had hoped, every quarian has hoped, to see their planet in her lifetime, but she’s still young enough to face the idea of living there, after this is all over. This is actually happening. The quarians are getting their homeworld back, the perpetual war with the geth has stopped, and they’re going to have a future again. 

Provided the Reapers don’t kill all organic life (and probably the geth, too, out of spite). 

“Creator Tali’Zorah, your stress levels are increasing the nearer we get to the planet Rannoch,” Legion says, strapped in like a quarian beside her. 

Tali lets out a wild, wet laugh. “I don’t even know how to begin to explain what this means, Legion, but it’s a big deal. High organic stress levels aren’t always a bad thing.” At least he can’t sense her about to cry, though her voice damns her. 

Shala’Raan reaches over and grabs her hand, tight. 

The ride gets bumpy as soon as they hit the atmosphere, and Tali sucks in a breath like she can taste her own planet. The planet she’s only ever seen in photographs and once, at a distance, during a recon mission her father had let her shadow. She doesn’t like the idea that the geth are giving their own planet back to them, but gratitude fills her in a way she can’t explain. 

Even with the war technically ended, they still took two ships to see Rannoch; it’s an old law that the Admiralty Board can’t travel on the same ship at the same time, in case of attack. Tali wonders when rules like that will be phased out, but knowing her people, it’ll probably take a really long time to figure out all of the bureaucratic things. Especially if everyone will be distracted by the idea of moving home and imagining a life not on a starship every hour of every cycle. 

“There she is,” Han’Gerrel says, craning his neck to look out the window. Rannoch’s dark cliffs zip by as they approach the landing zone. “Oh, damn. This really is happening.” 

“It really is,” Shala’Raan softly agrees. 

The other ship announces their landing procedures over their comm link. Tali digs her fingers into her seat’s harness until their own ship announces the same. 

Tali doesn’t know what she’s feeling when the door finally opens and she sees the sky over Rannoch for the first time, but she sure is feeling it. Her first step onto the rocky LZ is wobbly, but she blames that on the long ride here. Legion steps out behind her with his usual precise movements, but the geth surprises her when he offers an arm for stability. 

“I’m fine, Legion,” she says, smiling, glad her voice doesn’t waver despite the tears brimming over her eyes again. 

Zaal’Koris and one of the marines they’d brought on the other shuttle twitch toward their guns when another pair of geth units approach. These don’t look nearly as sophisticated as Legion’s platform. One chirps in that mechanical geth way, one she’s heard thousands of times before, but perhaps as a greeting this time. Its light flashes once before it raises one arm with a jerky motion. 

Tali glances over to Legion. Legion’s movements are always perfectly precise, efficient and exactly what he means to do. But Legion also moves in a far more… organic manner. Tali doesn’t like the term, not applied to a geth, but it’s true, and she hasn’t been this close to another geth platform that isn’t already deactivated in years. 

Legion (apparently) catches her eye. “Is something currently concerning you, Creator Tali’Zorah?” 

“You can just call me Tali, you know,” Tali says, though she doesn’t exactly know why she picked this emotionally fraught moment to do so. She turns to look at the purplish clouds filtering the weak sunlight instead. It still seems so surreal, to be standing here right now. 

“We know,” Legion replies, after a pause. 

One of the other platforms beeps again. 

“Creator Admiralty Board,” Legion calls, louder now, “the geth will now direct you to the first of the proposed sites for the Shroud unit. It is a distance of one-point-seven kilometers up on the ridge to the west. The slope to the ground will not be an issue for construction or architectural stability, but the additional height is predicted to ease the initial synchronization process with Rannoch’s atmosphere.” 

“Legion,” Tali says, flapping a hand at him, and his cranial plates flare to attention. “Just… Give us a moment, here, would you? We need to take this in before thinking about work again. I don’t know how to explain to you what this means to us, I really don’t, but it’s a lot, and… Just please. Give us a few minutes here?” 

“…Affirmative, Tali,” Legion replies. 

Tali smiles beneath her helmet before returning her attention to the alien horizon of her homeworld. 

—

When Shepard had mentioned wanting to meet Solana Vakarian, she had imagined it after Garrus had already spoken to her. She had also imagined doing it alone, though it makes sense that Solana would want to speak to both of her brother’s alien lovers. Did turians do shovel talks? No, they were one of the ones who didn’t, despite everything else about their culture. 

“Are you… wearing Garrus’ visor?” Solana asks, sounding as if she’d been hit by a charging krogan. 

Shepard whips it off her face so quickly she’s surprised she didn’t take her ear with it. “It was a disguise. To prevent either of us from getting recognized and swarmed. Apparently, it didn’t work—are you some sort of rare coloration for drell?” Shepard asks Thane with a sidelong squint. 

“No, not rare, but uncommon.” 

“I wouldn’t have gone chasing after a random green-scaled drell if I didn’t know my brother was here,” Solana explains, a touch nervous, looking between them. Her eyes are exactly the same shade of bright, crystalline blue as her brother. “There’s this not horrendously expensive cafe I found not too far from here. Mind if we move this conversation there? My treat, since I accosted you both without warning.” 

If it was anyone other than Garrus’ younger sister, Shepard would crack a joke about being taken on a date. 

“That sounds agreeable. Thank you,” Thane replies, courteous as ever. He pauses to cough, mouth behind his fist, but gives her a smile a moment after. 

Solana spares them both one last look over. “You can… Well, you can wear his visor again, if you’re worried about being recognized but—it’s just—you know how important that thing is to him, right?” 

“Of course I do,” Shepard says, fumbling with it in her hands. “Hardly see him without it.” 

“It was a gift for graduating from his mandatory military service. He did really well, you know,” Solana remarks with obvious pride. Both Thane and Shepard stare at her, eager for bits of Garrus’ past, and she startles when she notices their intense attention. “I-It wasn’t a family heirloom or anything! It’s probably been upgraded and modded and repaired so many times it’s not even technically the same piece of tech. But it was, uh, a gift from our parents, sort of a sign that they accepted him changing track to become a sniper. That was a big deal for him.” 

Oh, Shepard wishes she hadn’t demanded it from him so flippantly. Granted, he had handed it over, so that means something, but still. 

Solana snickers suddenly, a bit of composure coming back as she leads them through the markets. “Oh, and there was this officer he was very keen on, he admired her a lot. She told him once that he looked very professional with it on! I thought he’d faint then and there.” 

“You were there?” Shepard asks. 

“Yeah, we served together. I’m not that much younger than him, you know. How much has he told you two about me?” 

“Garrus rarely speaks of his family,” Thane replies. 

Annoyance buzzes through her subvocals, loud enough that even Shepard can hear it. “Yeah, that sounds like him.” 

“But he has always spoken with great fondness of you,” Thane hastily adds. 

“Also sounds like him,” Solana replies, but she sounds pleased, now. 

Solana leads them down an alley, off one of the larger streets, and much of the glitz and glam of Illium vanishes. (Illium is all about facades, after all.) The shops here are all small, some of them hardly wider than the door in front, and smells of all kinds of foods battle it out to grab attention. Mixed, it’s cloying. The few customers of these barely-more-than-stalls are standing outside or leaning against the buildings, and most of them are turians. 

Shepard is about to ask if this is going to be a levo-friendly cafe when Solana gestures to a little shop lucky enough to be wide enough to have a window next to its door. Even better: it has seating inside, just a long bar with a handful of mismatched stools, but for this area of Nos Astra, apparently that’s luxury. The only other customer inside, a deep brown turian without clan markings, is sipping strong-smelling coffee like it’ll save him from what is clearly a horrific hangover. 

“Hey, it’s the Palaven kid!” the asari behind the counter exclaims. Her eyes skate over Shepard and Thane in turn. “Weird choice of company—weren’t you looking for someone turian?” 

“Coffee, black, and a bartikis roll for me, please,” Solana says instead of answering. She turns to Shepard with her brow plates raised. 

Shepard does not see anything that looks remotely like a menu here—the decor appears to be vaguely beach-y, for some reason, with blue walls and what must be the alien equivalent of a palm tree painted in the corner—but if an asari is working here or maybe owns it, she probably won’t get poisoned with the wrong food. “Coffee sounds great. With actual sugar, if you have it.” 

“Onuffri blend tea, please, with two cossewan jelly tarts,” Thane adds. 

Shepard can’t help her weird look. “How the hell did you know what they serve here? There’s no menu posted, unless I’m suddenly blind.” 

“I’ve been here before, though it’s been a few years,” he answers, a touch smugly. 

Solana takes the seat in the corner, furthest from the door, which is something Garrus usually prefers, too. Shepard wonders if it’s a turian thing or a Vakarian thing. This puts her in the middle, though, since Thane pulls out the stool for her, and Shepard is never one to turn down his gentlemanly advances. Solana sets her chin on her fist and watches them both. 

“So,” she says, finally. 

“So,” Shepard repeats. “What did you want to speak with us about?” 

“Making sure my brother is alright. And I wanted to meet you both, for personal reasons. And, sure, maybe I wanted to make sure that Garrus wasn’t totally lying when he claimed that he was together with Commander Shepard.” 

“Definitely not a lie, we’re together, we do together things, it’s great,” Shepard reports. “I know you must be worried about him—” 

“Since the last time he ignored me, it was because he lost half his face and didn’t want to admit it?” Solana archly interrupts. Ouch. Shepard winces, but, well, that’s true. 

“Garrus worries for you, and still cares for you deeply. Just because of what’s going on with the Normandy’s mission and the Council’s ire doesn’t change that about him. He’s the type of man who would keep someone at a distance if he believes it would protect them,” Thane points out. 

“He’s sure not keeping you two at a distance, is he?” Solana returns. 

“I see no one in your family likes to pull punches when offended,” Thane replies. 

“Of course not. Anyway, I’m not here to yell at either of you, even if the best-case scenario is Garrus playing favorites while he runs around the galaxy committing crimes. And I know that Garrus is exactly stubborn enough to fight for what he thinks is right and just and important, regardless of orders, so I’m not here to accuse you of trying to press my brother into your service, either, Commander,” Solana says. “Even if that would’ve been easier to explain to our father.” 

Shepard wishes it were easier to sink into a stool and through the ground. Just because Solana says that’s not what she’s hear for doesn’t mean she hasn’t been thinking it. 

The asari owner/barista/server comes over with their order. Thane wordlessly pushes his plate of two tarts between himself and Shepard, an offer, and the smell of coffee and baked goods reminds her that she hasn’t had much more to eat than ration bars in the past few days. 

“Then what do you want to talk about?” Shepard asks, staring at her coffee instead of at the tall turian beside her. 

“Is Garrus happy?” 

The question is so earnest, so tentative, and so un-turian that it catches her off guard. 

Now Solana is the one avoiding eye contact, picking at her odd food with her talon, mandibles pressed inward. The facial expression of an uncomfortable turian. She continues without prompting, sounding embarrassed about her frank question. “This doesn’t necessarily mean with you, uh, you two, but I kind of want to know that part, too. Without the graphic details. But with this mission you’re claiming you’re on. To stop a fleet of sentient machines from dark space. I’ve read everything Garrus has sent me, so I’ve seen the evidence, but it’s still a lot to believe. Nearly impossible to believe. And I don’t know about any of the logistics of what you’re trying to do to stop them, and I know Garrus’ favorite battle tactics are either shoot things from afar with a really big gun, or try to punch things into submission. But if what you’re claiming is true, Commander, there’s not a big enough gun in the galaxy for that sort of threat, so what are you doing, what is he doing, and why won’t he answer his damn email?!” 

“Garrus will explain to you what he will, but we’ve been really busy since we announced to the Council and the extranet what we’re doing. Garrus has been busy, too, since he’s now my XO, and—” 

“You promoted him to executive officer?” Solana interrupts, eyes wide. 

Shepard facepalms with a groan. “Yes—that means something to turians, doesn’t it.” Damn it, Garrus, this better not be me announcing to your sister that we’re engaged, and you didn’t tell me. Shepard will just have to get a new XO in that case. Fastest position reassignment ever. Grunt and his notion of the Normandy hierarchy would be hilarious as a replacement. 

“It certainly means something, if the turian is involved with the CO,” Solana says, mouth plates twisting into a smirk. 

“Are we engaged now, or something?” 

“No, it’s not a marriage proposal. Why, do humans do that?” 

“No, but he had a reaction, and then you had a reaction, and I just… I really don’t understand turians at all,” Shepard confesses, into the palm of her hand. 

“No, I suppose you don’t, Commander,” Solana loftily replies. “If nothing else, I’m certain he was overjoyed. You have no idea what that sort of posting would mean to him. The Normandy is everything to him.” 

With an arm around Shepard’s shoulders, Thane takes over the conversational reins. (Shepard’s quite grateful, since she’s basking in the feeling of relief that she didn’t accidentally turian-propose to Garrus and the horror of the idea that he wouldn’t tell her if she had. Plus even if that had happened, she did not want to announce it to his sister. That would be his job. She hopes.) 

“Garrus is a vital part of the Normandy crew, as he has been for several years. You don’t sound as if you disapprove of that,” Thane says. 

“No, I don’t, though he could stand to call more often,” Solana complains. 

“We’ve already discussed his communication habits with him, not to mention how concerning it can be to hear that your sibling may be becoming a wanted person in the near future. Why did you ask if he was happy? Specifically?” 

“Because Garrus has better ideals than common sense,” Solana deadpans. (Shepard snorts a laugh into her coffee; that’s certainly true.) “I want him to be happy, because he doesn’t seem to want to stay safe, and I want him to have more in his life than fighting for the greater good. My brother almost died, more than once, and I didn’t find out until months afterward. I didn’t find out about this mess until it hit the extranet. The extranet! I had to find out that my own, only brother was a Person of Interest, wanted by C-Sec, because he’s a known affiliate of the wanted ex-Spectre Shepard on the extranet. So I want whatever he’s sacrificing, whatever he thinks he’s sacrificing, to be worth it. Is it? To him, and for him?” 

Shepard opens her mouth to respond, but Solana thrusts a clawed finger against her lips, shushing her quite effectively. 

“No, I want to hear it from Thane. Garrus says you’re the more emotional one—I don’t want to hear more about duty and serving and the greater good. I get enough of that at home,” Solana demands. 

“Alright then,” Thane says, glancing between them. “Well… People will do impossible things for the ones they love.” 

Shepard could strangle him. Her face feels hot. “Damn it, Krios, this isn’t about those kinds of feelings—don’t you dare imply Garrus or you are only here because of that!” 

Thane looks not at all perturbed by her irritation; if anything, he looks pleased to receive even that kind of attention. It makes the blushing worse, unfortunately. Shepard growls into her coffee and uses the cheap mug as a shield. This is the one kind of topic Shepard could make a heartfelt, impromptu speech on, about duty and being right versus being lawful and what it really means to serve the greater good, and of course the turian wants to hear from the drell. Of course.

“The crew aboard the Normandy know exactly what’s at stake if the Reapers are to invade without interference. And yes, we are bound together by our loyalty to Shepard and belief in her cause. But I was actually referring to you, siha,” Thane continues. 

Shepard peers up from her mug at him. 

Thane smiles and tucks a stray lock of hair that had fallen out of her (amazing) hat disguise back behind her ear. “You do impossible things out of love. Love for your crew, for the galaxy, for life itself. And yes, for Garrus and I as well. I have never met someone so passionate or so stubborn about saving other people, especially when they fight you every step of the way. Many others would give in to the odds or the hardship, choose the easier path, or see this impossible war looming and try to hide instead of fight. It’s easy to follow someone who refuses to give in, someone who tries so hard to keep going. And Garrus has known that longer than I have.” 

Shepard wishes human blushes weren’t so obvious, or that hers weren’t, but damn her complexion. Solana leans around her, unabashedly staring at the open affection. 

Thane continues, deep voice smooth as sin, keeping his fingers cupping Shepard’s jaw. Her face feels hotter the longer he goes on. “So yes, I would say Garrus is happy aboard the Normandy. With us. We’ve realized the importance of happiness in our lives, of looking for more in life than merely serving a cause, and we’re doing our best to maintain that even as we prepare for what the galaxy doesn’t believe is coming. Just because we’re committed to preparing for this war doesn’t mean we’re throwing away our lives.” 

Solana takes a long moment to process this. Shepard still wishes her face weren’t so hot; Thane looks quite pleased with her fluster as he continues to run his fingers along her jaw and neck and smirk at her. 

“Are all drell as smooth as you? Or, well, talk like that?” Solana finally asks. 

“No, he’s definitely an outlier,” Shepard replies, thinking of Feron. And of Kolyat’s cranky, teenaged charm. 

“Well, guess I asked for that kind of response,” Solana muses, chin in hand. “Uh, wow. I see why Garrus is so taken with both of you.” 

Very abruptly, Shepard realizes what a gift she has just been given: she has a friendly turian who can listen to Thane, right now, and settle once and for all whether Garrus has a Thane-specific voice kink or if it’s as biological as Garrus (still) claims. “Wait—what did Thane sound like to you? Or, what does he sound like? To turian ears?” 

“Siha,” Thane chides, but she turns from him with a bright, friendly smile for Solana. 

“I’ve never spoken to a drell before,” Solana replies, confused, “so, uh… He sounds very alien? Translators can’t get rid of all accents. And turians already hear most of you other races pretty differently. No offense.” 

“None taken! But Thane doesn’t sound… I mean, you said he was talking a certain way?” Shepard gleefully presses, ignoring Thane’s frown. 

Solana flusters, glancing away, but shakes her head. “I meant that I hadn’t expected someone of his, well, career path to sound all flowery and emotional. Thane, you sort of sound like you’re straight out of a romance vid.” 

“What kiiiiind of romance vid?” 

“Siha,” Thane outright scolds. 

“Fine! Yes, Thane is clearly someone who was a great poet in a past life, and Garrus fell hard for those kinds of sweet nothings. Even turians like a bit of emotion sometimes, don’t they?” Shepard asks, and without meaning to, manages to embarrass both of her breakfast buddies in the process. 

—

Liara keeps her posture still and her head just a little low as she meets with Helesse at one of her other business fronts. (Pity she couldn’t have another spa day.) She has cultivated a very specific image of herself to the matriarch, one that has served her well so far, but today is the true test of that. Helesse thinks of her only as Benezia’s daughter, as a hobbyist broker, as a sheltered academic playing at the fringes of something risky simply for the thrill of it. 

She thinks Liara T’Soni only got onto the Normandy, and Shepard’s squad, out of luck. 

Liara is not going to dissuade her of this line of thinking. Not completely, at any rate.

“Matriarch Helesse, thank you for meeting with me today,” Liara says, nodding in greeting as Helesse waves her into what looks more like a private study than an office. The furniture is plush and opulent, but homey, too. Much of the decor is subtly religious. Interesting. Shockingly personal. 

Helesse beams at her. “Of course! The very least I could do was open up my schedule when you came all this way to meet with me.” She does not outright ask about Shepard or the Normandy, though she must have noticed the lack of the famous ship by now. Liara wonders how she will broach the subject. 

She waves Liara into the room and sets her into a chair—that she sinks into, alarmingly, for how soft it is—while she stoops to browse through a small bar. 

“Anything to drink?” Helesse offers. “I’m sure it must have been a long journey for you, even if you are used to traveling aboard such as ship as the Normandy.”

“Any Thessian red, please,” Liara replies, smiling, “the dryer the better.” She does not fall for the overt bait. That ought to be below both of them. 

Helesse pours them both a generous serving of wine in beautiful Piares crystal glasses. Liara sips, savoring woody notes and wondering how much that bottle had cost, wishing she could have glimpsed the label. Helesse does not mention her trip again, as crude as it’d be to bring it up a second time when Liara so obviously declined to remark. Even if she weren’t an information broker with all the subtleties and skill that it entailed, no matriarch would be so gauche. 

But Liara doesn’t wish to sit here and idle away in small talk. She has faith in her skills—she has convinced Helesse of who she is thus far—but every moment spent here is a trap waiting to happen. It’ll get worse as soon as Helesse believes she’s been had. 

“What you called me here for—I’m sorry to be so blunt, but I’m very curious. You said it was something… personal?” Liara prompts, ducking her head again, as if preemptively embarrassed. 

This part had perplexed her: what could Helesse possibly offer her that she would consider personal? Personal means so many things to so many people, and can lure someone so easily despite how vague the term is, but even if Helesse thinks of Liara as lower on the informational power ladder, even she wouldn’t do something so brazenly foolish as make something up. So what could it be? The woman had no knowledge of anything related to the Protheans, knows little about what the Normandy has been up to, and knows only the shallowest of bits about Liara’s interests and past. 

So what could be so personal that she thinks it would draw Liara across the Terminus Systems and that she would not be furious to have made the trip for it? Helesse isn’t an idiot. It must legitimately be something valuable. 

“I received a letter. For you,” Helesse replies. Liara sips at her wine again, unimpressed. “A physical, actual paper letter.” 

That explains part of this. Low-tech solutions are often turned to when things can’t be risked in any sort of data leak. But for her? And given to Helesse? That would involve someone knowing who both of them were, and that they would remain in touch, and that Helesse would have the power to deliver such a thing. 

“Strange,” Liara settles on saying. 

Helesse hums around the lip of her wine glass. “What was even stranger was who delivered it to my office. Someone claiming to be your father.” 

Liara almost chokes on her wine. She holds the glass away from herself as she struggles to clear her throat, glad she hadn’t just slopped it down her front; Helesse would delight in the humor of it, sure, but Liara would rather not ruin this blouse. “E-Excuse me,” Liara manages. “Did you say… my father delivered a physical letter to your office here on Illium?” 

“Not this one, nor my public office at my spa, but a business I own that deals in weapon mods. It’s a side hobby, really, hardly brings in any credits or intel, but I’m fond of the clientele, what can I say? But yes, someone claiming to be your father insisted on delivering it to me, personally.” 

Alright, so someone who really wanted to grab Liara’s attention. Her father’s identity is very far from common knowledge, as Benezia had raised her on her own, so this mysterious sender would have to have quite the quads to claim such a thing. 

Helesse sighs and averts her dark eyes. “Not to be impolite, Liara, but, well—I knew your mother, even if we did not get along, and many people knew what type of person your father was, even if she never gave up her name.” That probably is the politest way of phrasing it, all things considered. Liara has heard far worse from people when they hear that her father was an asari. 

Part of Liara is very glad that this woman does not know who her father is. She keeps her expression pensive, however, and nods as if deep in thought. 

“But imagine my surprise when a human man was the one to claim this as he delivered the letter to me.” 

Liara is also very glad she had not been drinking this time. She restrains herself from exclaiming aloud, no matter her shock, no matter the silliness of the indignance she feels. 

Something must show on her face, because Helesse nods in earnest sympathy. Gesturing with her wine glass, she says, “I was as shocked as you are, believe me! The gall to claim such a thing, to claim that a woman like Benezia would lay with a human man, and not to mention the… the blatant stupidity? Even humans are capable of basic math these days, aren’t they? You are over a hundred now, and even if they barely live that long—they have not been standing on the galactic stage that long. So someone has decided to use your good name to imply foolish, unbelievable things about your mother, or your mysterious letter-sender is an idiot. I haven’t decided which I personally believe yet.” 

Sending a human man to Helesse has to be a message. But what? A shocking move designed to grab attention, just as much as sending a physical letter. Someone really wanted her attention. 

What’s the purpose of choosing a human man? Liara wonders. The sender must be a human then, signaling their own race. But there are easier ways to do that, aren’t there? The attention must be what they needed, to convince me to come to Illium, something so important that they couldn’t risk anything else… Something so blatant and overt that Liara couldn’t ignore, and something so important that it had to be kept out of emails and datapads. 

“For the sake of your dignity, and as a gesture of common decency, I haven’t shared that baseless rumor with anyone,” Helesse continues. Liara manages a nod, as if in thanks, but her mind is still puzzling out who could want something so badly from her—or want her to know something so badly—that they could not go through any other channels. 

Yes, of course she knows how easily most encryptions can be cracked, but she also knows some of the most secure connections in the galaxy. Important people could gain access to those, if needed. 

“Thank you, Matriarch Helesse. Even with the basic math of it… It’s incredible to think that someone would, er, try to frame such a thing so indelicately. It’s… very strange,” Liara awkwardly forces out. Helesse must have thought all of these same things already; this letter would have been in her possession for several days. It must have been written in code, then? Or did Helesse already know its contents, too? “May I see the letter now, please? I haven’t the faintest idea who would have claimed such a thing, so I must confess, this has me confounded. And very curious.” 

“Of course,” she replies and stands. She goes to her desk and opens the topmost drawer, plucking a cream-colored envelope out. 

Helesse offers it to her with a smile. Liara takes it without meeting her eye, instead scanning over the odd choice of attention-seeking. The paper—actual paper, wow—is thick and smooth, and the envelope isn’t addressed. Most strange of all is the heavy circle of white substance placed squarely over the sealed flap. 

Liara holds it up to the light, then examines it in a few other angles. Finally, she taps the odd thing on the back, and asks, “What’s this?” 

“A wax seal. Apparently, an old human tradition, to prevent tampering, since it would be obvious if it broke. I’d only heard of them, myself, and from what I understand, it’s quite far out of modern human use.” Helesse gestures to it while Liara presses her finger, lightly, against the wax. “Not outwardly addressed, either—I only received verbal direction that it was for Dr. Liara T’Soni. Very odd little thing.” 

“Very odd indeed,” Liara absently agrees. Curiosity burns her, and she wants to open it, but no doubt this entire room is lined with spying equipment, so its contents would not remain a secret for very long. She’s glad to see that Helesse hadn’t opened it, however. Her mysterious sender knows workarounds for nosy, tech-savvy information brokers, it appears. 

“Primitive,” Helesse remarks, and Liara’s eye twitches at the term, “but quite effective. I rarely have use for such low-tech things, but it has its appeal. Like something out of a novel. Whatever it is and whoever it is from, it would clearly be quite important to you, little Liara, so I will not pressure you to open it now. No matter how much I am dying of curiosity.” 

“Oh. Um, thank you,” Liara replies, only slightly surprised. She is well within the bounds of civility to decline to open it here, but that Helesse would so quickly offer her privacy is another confusing moment of today. Liara can cut through swaths of Cerberus or husks or geth, she can lose days at a time involved in research, and she can successfully navigate all the subtleties and stresses of being the Shadow Broker, but today is doing its best to throw her for a loop. 

“I understand the importance of privacy and keeping secrets close,” Helesse hums, reminding Liara that she’s been in this game for centuries longer than she’s been alive. “Speaking of secrets, I am glad you made the time to come all the way to Illium for this. I had no way of verifying the contents of the letter or its sender without butting overmuch into your privacy, and I know it must have been quite the journey to take on faith. Hopefully this didn’t interrupt the Commander’s schedule too much? From what I’ve heard from my contacts, she’s been very busy these past few weeks.” 

She doesn’t know Shepard came with me, Liara reminds herself. “Thankfully, I am in a position where I can travel away from her for brief periods of time, while we’re in this phase of our preparations. It’s not ideal, but it is doable.” 

Helesse’s eyes narrow a fraction. “Away from her,” she repeats, flatly. 

“Well, the Normandy is quite iconic, isn’t it? We can’t very well arrive in Nos Astra or most Citadel-affiliated ports without many precautions in place, for our safety, since we can’t be sure what the Council may still mandate against us. It was easier for me to slip away than to disrupt Shepard’s current negotiations,” Liara replies with an innocent blink. There—she has confirmed that Shepard has current negotiations, which means she had past ones as well. A crumb for Helesse to greedily latch onto. 

“Liara, it is well within my power to guarantee you safe entry to any of Illium’s ports, whenever you’d like, so long as I’m given a bit of advance notice. Not for free, Goddess no, but for a very reasonable rate, given my admiration for what Commander Shepard has done and is—hypothetically—trying to do,” Helesse says, easing back into a smile. 

“That’s very generous of you. I’m certain we will take advantage of that offer in the future.” 

“A pity the Commander and the rest of the crew could not have come with you,” Helesse sighs, though her eyes remain sharply fixed on Liara’s face, “given how busy you must be, not to mention how stressed. I’ve heard stress ages humans, did you know? Ghastly thought. The Commander is going to be very important in coming years, and I’d hate to think of her as dying before her time. …Again. You really should have talked her into taking a break and coming with you.” 

“Oh no, I couldn’t have interrupted her schedule like that. These beginning phases are very delicate, and it is already an uphill battle convincing other allies to work with the krogan, since we’ve already secured their help—” Liara cuts herself off with a surprised squeak, as if shocked she gave that much away. Any idiot would know Shepard had been courting the krogan, but confirmation of their alliance hasn’t spread just yet. Another crumb for the matriarch to hoard. 

Helesse sips at her wine, smiling against the crystal rim of her glass. “‘Uphill battle’. A charming little human phrase. Have you picked up many human phrases, Liara?” 

“I’m sure I have, given the time I’ve spent with Shepard and the rest of her crew,” Liara replies, though she’s a touch surprised that Helesse would remark upon that part, instead of anything else. 

“Working with krogan in wartime won’t be nearly as distasteful as others may believe, once the wartime part actually happens,” Helesse offers, “so while it may be difficult for other members of the Normandy crew to do the same, have patience, Liara. History vindicates, as I’m certain an archeologist would know. I believe that Commander Shepard is a bastion of competence and military shrewdness, so she will lay effective building blocks for this war of hers. Once it actually happens, of course, anything could go right or wrong, but surely her preparation will be thorough, strong, and unlike anything the galaxy has ever seen before.” 

Oh, Liara thinks, and realizes. 

It is a minor revelation to hear that Helesse actually believes that the Reapers may be coming, as Shepard had shouted to the galaxy at large multiple times; not many have so boldly agreed with Shepard’s claims. 

But the major revelation is that Liara had been reading her wrong. 

Helesse likes Shepard well enough, and admires her, that much is true. And she’s just as eager to get her fingers into the Normandy’s plans as Liara had feared. 

But she’s in this for the long haul. She is trying to endear herself to Liara, not Shepard, because she sees the war coming, and she thinks it will outlast a human lifetime. The Protheans had been at war with the Reapers for centuries, Javik had said, so it is natural to think that this could go the same way, if they are not capable of producing miracles. Helesse is not young by any stretch, but she would likely yet outlive Shepard’s natural lifespan. She would see another century or a bit more, and Liara’s own youth is key here. Liara will see centuries of this war. 

Shepard is laying the groundwork. Helesse expects Liara to pick up the slack as soon as she’s gone. 

It’s a sound guess to make, all things considered, but it still leaves her reeling. That an asari matriarch would believe so wholly in the evidence that the Council and most other galactic governments had scoffed at that she is already preparing for this timeline. The long timeline, as only an asari could. 

Helesse doesn’t care overmuch that Shepard hypothetically never came to Illium. She doesn’t care overmuch that she isn’t privy to every single detail of the ongoing negotiations, who Shepard is trying to form alliances with, or any other part of the beginning phase. She trusts that Shepard will do good work, based on who she is and how incredible she is, and she will leave it at that. 

Helesse is interested in ingratiating herself to Liara, letting her get away with little things now, giving her favors and goodwill, because she’s thinking farther ahead than Liara has dared. 

Helesse smiles at her and drains the rest of her wine. 

—

Solana doesn’t take up more than an hour of their time—her curiosity, while strong, is overshadowed by her pressing need to see her brother—and Liara still hasn’t messaged Shepard. It’s approaching noon, so problems would have cropped up already if she were having any issues with the matriarch. Aside from escorting Shepard to the Eternity bar to officially recruit Steve Cortez, Thane is inclined to believe that they’ll have the rest of the afternoon to themselves, and quietly at that. He looks forward to it. 

The portion of Eternity open to the public has an outdoor section, where they’re scheduled to meet their newest crewmate, and Thane scans the open layout for possible threats. (Midday is not an unusual time for a hit, since lunch breaks are scheduled and targets are stationary while eating.) The bar is not busy right now, but, curiously, he sees two human men at the bar, and no other customers in sight. They’re chatting with one another, and the asari bartender rolls her eyes at whatever one of them is saying. 

“What does Mr. Cortez look like?” Thane asks in a low voice, inclining his head toward Shepard for a modicum of privacy. 

“Holy fuck!” Shepard exclaims at full volume and immediately shoves Thane between her and the bar. 

Thane has a split-second of abject confusion before snapping into action. Her shout drew stares, and so does him drawing his pistol, but no immediate hostilities are apparent to him. No one approaches and he cannot see any other drawn weapons, though he makes note of an asari backing away while whispering into a phone. 

“Siha, what’s wrong? Who is it?” Thane asks, scanning the crowd, worry lancing through him at how firmly she presses herself against his back. He has never seen her use another as a shield from a threat before, not even Grunt. Her reflex is usually the opposite: to put herself in danger to protect another. 

In a quaking voice, Shepard hisses at him, “That man with Cortez—that’s Conrad Verner.” 

Thane doesn’t recognize the name, and he stays abreast of potential and realized enemies. How could Commander Shepard, the greatest warrior humanity has created, have an enemy that has her hiding—and he doesn’t know about him? Thane still doesn’t know which of the men is Cortez and which is Verner, but they are both human men, not visibly armed, though one is in armor. Would the unknown Conrad Verner be in armor, or would the ex-Alliance Cortez have arrived in armor? 

But they are both still just human men, and humans, his siha aside, are exceptionally easy to kill at close range.

Thane starts forward, but Shepard tugs him back by an arm. “What are you doing?” she hisses at him. 

Thane glances between her and his new target. “…Taking care of a threat to you?” he replies, confused. Shouldn’t that have been obvious? 

“No. No! We are not engaging. Ugh, he’s talking to Cortez, though, so we need to… Shit, he’ll probably know who you are, too, knowing him,” Shepard says, to herself, glaring down at their boots. 

True, being on the Normandy—and being involved with Commander Shepard—has lent Thane more fame than he has ever had. But it does not sit right with him to know that he could be known at her side, by who is clearly a great enemy, and he still doesn’t know a damn thing about the man. 

Still, Thane has dealt with targets knowing who he was before. It hardly matters once he gets close. 

The asari bartender has spotted them, and she waves over to Shepard with less and less subtlety. She outright gestures to the man in armor twice. (So Thane is going to assume that that one is Conrad Verner.) 

Shepard peeks around Thane and shakes her head at the bartender. The bartender gestures even more obviously. It’s clear she wants Shepard to take care of this problem. 

The two women, increasingly less subtle, draw the other man’s eye first. Cortez. He glances between them, does a double-take at Shepard and Thane, and quietly stares. It takes a full minute for Conrad Verner to realize that he’s lost his conversation partner. He turns to them, eyes widening. 

Thane snaps his pistol into aim at him. 

“Commander Shepard!” Conrad Verner exclaims, loudly. (The bartender facepalms behind him.) When Thane glances over his shoulder to see if Shepard will allow the kill shot, he finds her facepalming, too. 

He really doesn’t understand what kind of threat this is. 

Verner comes over with excitement belying his age and frame. Shepard’s sigh drags out into a groan. Thane watches, baffled, as the man sidesteps the pistol aimed at his head and bounces in place. “Oh, wow, you must be Thane Krios, then! I’ve heard of you—read what there is to read about you, and that isn’t easy to find—but I can’t believe I actually get to meet one of Shepard’s chosen partners!” 

“Do you usually approach assassins with guns pointed at you?” Thane asks with great confusion. 

“Oh, Commander Shepard pointed a gun in my face, so compared to that, you’re nothing!” 

Thane feels his eye twitch. The tightness in his chest has nothing to do with his illness and everything to do with his pride. 

“Not nothing!” Verner quickly backpedals, shaking his head. “No offense intended, uh, sir. It’s just—well, compared to her, I mean, it’s… Well, still, it’s an honor to meet you! I can’t believe you were lucky enough to snag the most beautiful, capable, fierce, talented, famous Spectre in the galaxy!” 

Ah, Thane realizes, lowering his gun, he isn’t a physical threat. He is a psychological threat.

“Verner,” Shepard says, sounding defeated in a way Thane has never heard from her, “what the hell are you doing back on Illium? I told you to clear out. Ages ago.” 

“I’m not back here, I’m still here! There’s a lot of good to be done in Nos Astra, so I’m trying to be a little more like you—without falling for supposed undercover cops again, I mean! But I know what you’re trying to do, rally the galaxy to face our greatest threat yet, so I’ve been doing my best to spread the word and prepare people, too. No longer scrounging in boxes or hacking random terminals for spare credits, no ma’am.” 

Thane spares Shepard a disappointed look. She still does those things, despite her apparent advice to the contrary.

“What are you doing back on Illium, Commander?” Verner asks brightly and eagerly. “I knew it, I knew Council sanctions weren’t enough to intimidate you! I bet you’re here to clear out the seedy underbelly of Nos Astra, aren’t you? Rally more people to fight the good fight? Or are you here for some bleeding edge weapons mods? I heard you got a Spectre-class Black Widow before you told off the Council! And nice visor, Commander, I bet that helps you snipe like nothing else—” 

He reaches for the visor back on her face, but Shepard slaps his hand away with a scowl. 

Verner steps back, both hands up, how he should have acted at gunpoint earlier. “Sorry! No touching, I remember your rule, Commander. It’s just—uh, it’s a really nice look on you.” 

Shepard’s expression grows stormier. Thane steps in, literally, between them. “If you’d excuse us, Mr. Verner, we have business to attend to.” 

“Oh, your voice, I heard it in vids but in person, it’s just—your entire persona really packs a punch!” Verner exclaims. Thane blinks at him. For someone who can get compliments on his voice whenever he wants by two very enthusiastic partners, he’s taken aback now. Verner leans around him and shoots Shepard a wildly unsubtle thumbs-up. “Great catch, Commander! I knew you’d have only the best taste!” 

Shepard massages her temples. “Verner, you need to leave Illium, and, well, not accost me every time we run into each other. Because apparently this is a repeat thing. I’m sure there are things you can do to help the war effort, if you really want, but you can’t do it by bumming around Nos Astra, trying—and failing—to play hero. I thought I made that clear.” 

“Oh, you did, Commander! But my ship got repo’d, I lost my port access when I was trying to investigate a case of abuse in a service contract, and I don’t have the credits to buy a new one or charter a ship off-world.” 

Shepard looks, briefly, like she wishes to strangle him. Thane makes note to give her pointers on how to do so later, just in case this occurs again. 

“Hey, erm. Hello, I mean, ma’am.” A new voice joins the conversation, not forcefully, but not shyly. The man who must be Steve Cortez approaches from the side, neutrally, posture at military ease. He ducks his head in greeting. Thane already likes him far better than Verner. “I couldn’t help but overhear… well, all of that.” 

Shepard thrusts out her hand to him. “Cortez, glad to finally meet you. Sorry it couldn’t have happened in better circumstances—” 

“Wait, what, no way! Steve, when you joked about meeting a beautiful woman here, I never thought it would’ve been the Commander Shepard!” Verner interrupts. Shepard scowls and drops her hand. 

“Alright, that’s it, no more calling me beautiful. Ever!” Shepard snaps. 

“I retain that right,” Thane corrects. 

“You do. No one else.” 

“Well, uh, I’m not one to name-drop when meeting women or others,” Cortez awkwardly replies. He doesn’t look nearly as annoyed with Verner as Thane thinks he ought to be, if they know each other well enough to be on a first name basis. Cortez looks between Shepard and Thane. “This is just striking me as real. Forgive me if I fumble a few words while I adjust to… you.” 

“I know, it’s easy to get star-struck around her, isn’t it,” Verner whispers behind his hand. 

“I didn’t know you two were acquainted,” Shepard says through clenched teeth. 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I explained it, Commander,” Cortez says with a sheepish chuckle. 

“Try me.” 

Grimacing, Cortez replies, “Mr. Verner and I met briefly yesterday afternoon, when he was trying to, er, charm someone into giving him a discount on a modded, FTL-rated Kodiak UT-47A.” 

“He got my attention when he mentioned that it would be way cheaper to buy an older UT-42 model and upgrade its FTL capabilities,” Verner eagerly adds. 

“It would,” Cortez mutters, “but, well, I got what you asked for, Commander. But today, I saw him speaking very exuberantly to the bartender of this establishment, who did not seem open to what must have seemed like advances. Knowing that he is harmle—well-intentioned but enthusiastic in conversation, I intervened, and we got to chatting instead. Neither of us had any idea that the other knew you, Commander.” 

“Wait, you went a whole conversation without talking about me or trying to impersonate me?” Shepard flatly asks, jabbing her finger at Verner’s chestplate. 

Verner shakes his head wildly. “I’m not impersonating you! I only meant to follow in your footsteps! You do such good work, Commander, and I—” 

“We actually had a little game where we’d try to confuse the other one with jargon in our own specialty,” Cortez breaks in, probably more kindly than Verner deserves. “He won.” 

“He what?” 

“Oh, I know the basics of ships and parts, since I’ve been trying to buy my way off Illium and the shopkeepers don’t laugh you out the door if you actually know what you’re talking about. Mostly,” Verner replies, grinning. “But Steve doesn’t know a damn thing about xenotechnology outside of ships.” 

“Guilty,” Cortez agrees without anger, shrugging. “I know and do one thing exceptionally well, and I’m proud of that. No shame in being specialized in your field.” 

“And you know about xenotechnology?” Shepard suspiciously asks. She squints up at him beneath her borrowed visor. “I thought you were a human-first type of fanboy.” 

“Oh no, Commander, not at all. You are the first human Spectre, a credit to our people and an icon, but alien tech is really fascinating. Humanity has hardly dipped its toe into looking into what other races have accomplished, outside of catching up on historical context and weapons R and D for the Alliance. I did my doctoral dissertation on xenotechnology, especially as it concerns dark energy integration. Humanity has to work hard to catch up with the galaxy in scientific fields, so I’m proud to do my part.” 

Cortez chuckles and shakes his head. “Yeah, I was outmatched on that one. Kind of a fun little get-to-know-you thing, if I’m being honest. Though half the time, I didn’t know if my translator was even working on some of the things he said…” 

“That does sound like an entertaining conversation topic,” Thane allows, glancing sideways at Shepard. She has gone very still and very quiet. “Though I’m certain I’ve already heard discussions like that, considering the heated debates and types of specialized experts we’ve had on board the Normandy.” 

“Did you say… dark energy?” Shepard asks at last. 

Verner beams down at her. “Yes I did, Commander! Not a whole lot was known about it, so I’m pretty proud to tell you that my papers will be cited for years to come, since I did so much original work on it—” 

“Dark energy specifically in the context of xenotechnology?” Shepard reiterates. 

“Yes, that’s correct?” He falters, briefly, smile fading. “Humanity has hardly acknowledged it, much less researched it, so there’s really only xenotechnological advances in that field. Most of my sources were hanar or quarian, if you’d believe that—” 

“You did. Your doctorate. On quarian research into dark energy,” Shepard once again interrupts. 

“My dissertation, yes, and there weren’t many quarian sources, but I used what I could find—?” 

Shepard whirls around and buries her face in Thane’s chest. He brings his arms around her on reflex, startled, and jumps when she uses him to muffle her scream of indignance. 

Thane pats her back. To the two humans now staring at her, he smiles and says, “This is fine, it’s just been a long day already, and it can be stressful when plans change so abruptly.” 

Chapter Text

“You know, I’m surprised,” Kelly says around her sandwich, watching as Grunt goes through every single cabinet in the mess. 

He grunts at her in acknowledgement. 

“I thought you would’ve jumped on the chance to go on that trip to Illium, given that it was apparently a day of shore leave and Shepard was on it,” she continues. She sincerely hopes that Gardner does not come back to the kitchen wreckage that Grunt is leaving now, that the krogan will have the courtesy to put things nominally back in order after he finds whatever he’s looking for—but it is kind of funny to watch him search with such seriousness, too. And funny to see a krogan try to reach something on a tall shelf. Grunt is, of course, too proud to ever ask her for help, but krogan arms are so low on their bodies, so it’s amazing to watch them flail and reach and growl at anything above eye-level. 

“You think I need watched over every moment of every cycle?” Grunt sneers at her. 

“No, of course not. Despite your technical age, you’re a fully capable, independent adult, and despite your temper, you’re also fully capable of behaving rationally without direct intervention.” 

Grunt eyes her for a moment, then, apparently takes this as a compliment. She had meant it as one, even if it were also objectively true. 

Kelly polishes off her sandwich. (She is not, and probably never will be, a good cook. She didn’t even try toasting the bread for fear of catching something on fire. Gardner can’t come back soon enough, in her opinion.) “But,” she continues, and Grunt spares her a glare before returning to clawing at one of the higher shelves. “You and Shepard share a unique bond, and you enjoy spending time with her. On missions or not. So—I was just surprised.” 

Grunt ignores her for long enough that Kelly thinks the conversation is over. She may be a curious person, but she respects when people want to stop talking, and she (mostly) respects the notion of privacy.

But before she drops off her plate and turns to leave, Grunt speaks. 

“She and I have never needed each other.” 

Kelly pauses, standing, surprised that Grunt is willingly continuing this. That he is… willingly showing her vulnerability? 

Grunt doesn’t look in her direction, but he doesn’t continue his cabinet-destroying again, either. “She stands strong on her own, and so do I. We know this about each other—we respect this in each other. So many of you others have needed her at various points, and a lot of you still do, but not me. Even with the Rite, and trying to figure out what was going on with me—I never needed her. I could’ve handled that on my own!”

“That’s probably true,” Kelly agrees, but he shoots her a glare. She hastily adds, “I mean that sincerely! I wasn’t there, either, Grunt—I only read the mission report afterward. I don’t know the first thing about fighting thresher maws or gunning down krogan dissidents. So yes, I’m inclined to agree with you. You could’ve handled it on your own, though differently without Shepard’s help, that’s all.” 

Grunt snorts, then nods. “But this genophage cure shit has me thinking. I don’t need it, and Shepard probably doesn’t either, since the old man would’ve lent her muscle, anyway. He’s soft on her. But…” Grunt sighs and finally drops his arms from reaching. His forehead thunks against the cabinet. “But the krogan need a genophage cure, and Wrex and Shepard both told me to watch out for Mordin. Not that he’s left his lab since she left. But for the first time, I understand that the krogan race needs something, something so important, and that we have to rely on outside help for it. It supersedes our pride. I didn’t like that, at first, but I know that we’re going to have to swallow a lot pride to save this shithole of a galaxy.” 

Kelly places a hand to her chest. She’s genuinely touched that Grunt would open up to her like this, and that he’s so self-aware about his emotional state, too. (That’s certainly a rarity in krogan.) Considering that she has known him literally his entire conscious life, she feels a little bit of her own pride, seeing how much he has matured. 

And, of course, she can never tell him any of this, no matter how happy it makes her, or else he’d decide to snack on her corpse instead. 

Grunt fixes an icy blue eye on her like he’d been reading her mind. “So—you’re the mind doctor here. Fix it. Tell me how to stop thinking so much. A soldier like me doesn’t need all these thoughts and responsibilities and emotions.” 

“I’d say you do, Grunt,” Kelly says, approaching him carefully, keeping her tone light. “Shepard relies on the best of the best, and she doesn’t need mindless soldiers. She needs people she can trust and rely on for everything going on. That’s how she needs you.” 

Grunt scoffs. “Shepard doesn’t need me.” 

“She does. Shepard needs all of us, and if she were here—when she gets back—I believe she’d agree with that, too.” 

She carefully reaches around him, standing on the tips of her toes, and grabs the box of freeze-dried Belan squid she assumes he’d been struggling to reach. Kelly offers it to him with a beam. 

Grunt’s expression is flat. Definitely not grateful. “Thanks, but krogan like more than eating dead things. I was trying to get the chocolate cookies that Shepard was trying to hide from Javik.” 

“She still has some cookies left?!” Kelly exclaims, genuinely shocked. Javik has vacuumed up most unclaimed sweet things after Gardner had made the tragic decision to introduce him to processed sugars. (Even the very blatantly claimed items, he would take, if not monitored.) 

She has to get a knee up on the counter to reach, because of course it’s on the very top shelf, but Javik is taller than anyone else so she doesn’t understand this last line of defense—but there, Kelly finds a box of Niacal sugar cookies (limited edition cocoa flavor) behind a pair of ancient dextro protein bar boxes and a leaky bottle of cooking oil. 

Kelly climbs back down with the box in her hands like it’s the holy grail. 

“You know, Shepard isn’t going to be happy that this is going to go missing,” she has to say, though now that she has her hands on such a treasure, she never wants to let go. 

Grunt snickers, a deep and rumbly noise. “Good thing that she needs us, huh? Now hand ‘em over, we’re splitting this according to caloric needs.” 

“Hey! Krogan eat almost five times what a human can!” Kelly exclaims, but he’s already trying to grab the box from her. 

“I know,” Grunt replies with glee. “And I’m about to.” 

Kelly refuses to bicker over an opened box of cookies in the middle of the kitchen, so she at least drags Grunt over to the table before they empty out the rest of the box. There’s a sleeve and a half still here; Kelly is impressed by Shepard’s self-restraint. It’s unfortunate for the cookies that neither she nor Grunt possess the same control. 

—

For the trip back to the Flotilla, they would need a ship large enough to carry the shuttle and Mako Steve had purchased for them, so Shepard had already made arrangements to purchase an actual ship rather than that cramped Pilgrimage thing. Mentally, she had planned on taking it, Steve, Thane, and Garrus, and let the rest of her wild crew battle it out in the Pilgrimage ship for the ride back. 

Plans, very regrettably, have changed. 

She still plans on purchasing a ship, but now she needs one not only large enough to have a shuttle bay, but one large enough to give her space away from the one and only Conrad Verner. 

Because she had happily told him he would be traveling with them, yes, but not with her. “You’ll be in our secondary ship. I’m sure you’ll make friends with the crew.” I am so sorry, Liara, she had mentally added. 

“But I want to go with—I mean, wouldn’t it be better if I went with you? So I could tell you about my dissertation? You seemed really interested in it!” 

“You’re going on the other ship, and that’s an order.” 

“You can only order me around if I’m part of your crew—am I actually going to be joining you?” 

Shepard, caught in one of the worst dilemmas she has ever faced in her life, gave in. Three days on a ship with Conrad Verner could be survived. Him believing he was part of her crew for the rest of his natural life could not be survived. 

So Shepard ends up taking the credit chit they’d given Steve, slapping it down in front of the nearest volus hawking gently used starships, and purchases a ship large enough to have separate crew quarters so she can get away from her #2 Fan. (Legion is #1, and is far more palatable.) 

“Siha, did you just… purchase a frigate?” Thane asks in a low voice, while Steve looks on, starry-eyed at the less-than-gently used turian frigate the volus is eagerly showing off. 

“That’s Commander Shepard for you! She can do anything when she wants!” Verner cheers. 

“No, that’s the power of money,” Shepard mutters while she mentally makes note to have EDI take this out of the quarian fleet budget. There goes a neat little thirty million credits. They are giving these ships back to the quarians, so it’s only fair that she removes it from what she’d give them otherwise. They’ll still end up being one of the most costly budgetary sections, anyway. 

“Earth-clan, did you just say… Commander Shepard?” the volus asks, breathing even harder than usual. 

Shepard gives the poor hawker such a look that he doesn’t say another word through the entire transaction. 

“Are you doing alright?” Thane asks in quiet concern, leading her a few steps away while Steve seamlessly takes over all of the paperwork involved with big purchases on Illium. 

“That man is a nightmare,” Shepard groans, rubbing her temple. 

“I sense you have a history with him.” 

“What gave it away?” she sarcastically replies, but regrets her snappishness a moment later. It isn’t Thane’s fault, it isn’t Steve’s fault, and frankly, it’s the universe’s fault for giving her Conrad Verner to contend with in the first place. “You know how, when we used to go to the Citadel, sometimes I’d get swarmed by really eager, young Alliance guys? Specifically guys.” Though there had been a good chunk of servicewomen, too, but while Verner is far from the pushiest man she’s ever had to deal with, he has made it very clear that there is a vaguely romantic angle to his hero worship. She highly doubts he would be calling her beautiful if she were a man. “He’s like a dozen of those, condensed into one incredibly intense package. And I’ve been dealing with him since before I took down Saren.” 

“Ah,” Thane says with a sympathetic wince that turns into an awkward cough. “…How badly do you need an expert on dark energy?” 

“Badly enough that he’s coming with us,” Shepard flatly replies. 

“What’s the official designation you’re running under?” Steve asks, as soon as Shepard feels she can rejoin the group without screaming again. 

“For what?” 

“Well, this obviously won’t be the THS Atticus anymore,” Steve says, nodding over to the bright crimson ship. “SSV is the Alliance designation. Is this legally being given to the quarians immediately, or is it going into a joint fleet?” 

Shepard is uncomfortably aware of the fact that legally, she is still heading the SSV Normandy SR-2. That probably needs to change. “I don’t know how quarians legally change the names of their ships, but this one is going to them, yes.” 

“I’ve worked with quarian buyers before,” the volus hawker pipes up, “so I can fast-track you through their name changing systems.” 

“There we go. I don’t care what it ends up named, I’m sure they can change it themselves later.” At least she’s not handing over another Qwib-Qwib. And surely, since this is being purchased legally and completely above-board, it would be easy to change its name. Shepard doesn’t care, really; she’s giving them a ship, they’re giving her pilots and fighters and a fleet, and all of the logistics are theirs to deal with once they get back into Flotilla space. 

“Thank you for your business,” the volus says with what must be the volus equivalent of starry eyes. Shyly, he adds, “Commander.” 

She could deal with that brand of veneration more often. Well, ideally, she gets no fame and she gets to not be the boss and hand this off to someone else even more capable of throwing together an inter-species fleet to fight an impossible energy, but the quiet type that gives minor discounts is also good. 

Shepard looks over to where Verner is trying his damnedest into convincing Steve to name their new ship the Shepard. 

She sighs. Heavily.

—

Shepard comes back to the Pilgrimage ship to find the two Vakarian siblings very drunk.

Solana leans against Garrus’ shoulder, both of them sprawled on what little floor space there is, and she giggles with her mandibles wide open when Shepard ducks in through the door. Garrus also giggles. She stares at them. 

Shepard almost grabs one of the nearly-empty bottles to chug herself before Thane hastily stops her. (She does not need to make the same mistake a second time when it comes to turian brandy.) 

“You two have a… good time?” Thane asks, looking over the pair of them. 

Solana nuzzles into Garrus’ shoulder. Even that little movement has her large frame swaying. “Yep! No hard feelings, just a ton of questions!” she exclaims with a high-pitched buzz in her words. Shepard stares; she hadn’t known turians could make that sound. She sounds a little like she’s suddenly become a bee. 

“I explained a lot. There were a lot of feelings. It was a lot,” Garrus explains in a very non-explanatory way. “So then we drank a lot of alcohol.” 

“I can see that,” Shepard replies, glancing around at the many bottles decorating the floor. “You two actually good? How you doing, big guy?” Shepard falls into a crouch beside him, touching his forehead, but he doesn’t feel any warmer than usual. She’s rarely been sober when Garrus is intoxicated, so she doesn’t know what to look for. He definitely has the floppy movements of a drunk turian down. 

“Commander Shepard,” Solana drawls in the slurred kind of way only those uproariously drunk can manage, “what are you going to do about the important people. I get to be one of those. Garrus promised no more ignoring me.” 

“That’s good,” Shepard soothes, “but what do you mean by ‘important people’?” 

“The important ones who aren’t going to be on your ship but are still important!” Solana insists. She tries pointing at Shepard, but her aim is more toward Thane’s knees. “You can’t have everyone on the Normandy. That’s not how you handle a ship. The Normandy deserves better than that!” 

“I take very good care of the Normandy, and we’re making sure that we only deal with important people,” Shepard replies, neutrally, because she has no goddamn clue what they’re going on about. She shoots Thane a look over her shoulder, but he shrugs, equally nonplussed. 

It’s a good thing she had ditched Verner (and Steve), telling him to get his affairs in order if he is going to be escorted to Terminus space by her (and definitely not joining her crew in any manner), because two drunk turians is not something anyone else needs to see. 

“So, where are you gonna put them?” Solana presses. 

“Who, Solana?” 

“Too many syllables,” Solana sighs, like it is a great defeat. It also definitely does not answer anything about this conversation. 

Distracted by whatever the hell she could mean, Shepard is not prepared to keep her balance when Garrus wraps an arm around her. She nearly faceplants across the laps of both of them, but Garrus somehow wrangles her in a way that she ends up face-first against his chestplate. She has had more dignified moments. 

Shepard tries to rearrange, but Garrus keeps a surprisingly firm grip on her bicep, so she only gets as far as moving her legs and mimicking an upright position. Garrus keeps her pressed against his carapace the entire time. Solana laughs like this is a great delight, but Garrus presses his mouth plates against Shepard’s temple. The rumbling noise he makes is definitely not one he should be making in present company, Shepard recognizes that much. 

“Log-ish-tick-al,” Garrus says against Shepard’s head. He nudges at her until he pushes Joker’s hat off her hair, because apparently hands are too difficult to use right now. 

“That word!” Solana crows. 

“I’m figuring it out, don’t worry,” Garrus says, almost sounding sober for a moment—or, at least, far more like his usual self. 

“Alright,” Shepard indulgently replies, “but what are you figuring out for your sister?” 

“The word he said,” Solana says. 

“You were easier to speak to sober, you know,” Shepard can’t help but snark. She rolls her eyes, tries to free herself from Garrus’ drunken cling, and fails. She turns to Thane for help, but finds him taking pictures on his omnitool. The ass. 

“The important people are gonna have to go somewhere,” Solana reasons and rests all her weight against Garrus’ shoulder. She flails a moment before catching one of Shepard’s hands. “You’re good at big things, and I know about little things, and the important people are little things in a war but they’re still important.” 

“Uh-huh,” Shepard says, prompting, because maybe she’ll be able to parse out something understandable in this weird rambling phase yet. 

Instead, Solana openly marvels at how many fingers she has. “Garrus, I can’t believe you’re dating a human. Look at these!” 

“I like those,” he defensively replies. 

Shepard has to use more strength than she would otherwise admit to in order to free her hand from Solana’s. “Yes, we’re dating, and yes, I have more fingers than your big raptor mitts. You two good, then? We’re getting the second ship sorted out, so I was going to offer to let you two move there. Solana, do you have a place to sleep tonight? We’re not leaving until the morning.” 

“Where are you gonna put me, C’mander?” Solana slurs. 

“Nowhere, for a few hours, because I don’t think I have the manpower necessary to physically carry you both through the docks,” Shepard points out with a smile that makes Solana squint like she’s never seen one before, “but you can use either of our ships to sober up with your brother if you’d like.” 

“We’ll find a place,” Garrus promises. “I can handle that for you, Sol.” 

“That’s sweet, but think you can let me up now, Garrus?” Shepard asks with another (failed) attempt to either get off his lap or detach his hands. Alcohol apparently does not impact turian strength. Interesting to know. 

Garrus wraps both his arms even more firmly around her and buries his face in her hair. 

“Thane, have we heard if anyone got arrested or detained yet?” Shepard asks with a sigh. 

“No, it appears no one has gotten into trouble here,” Thane replies, sounding far too smug. “You have nowhere to be urgently, siha.” 

Both Solana and Garrus are making that rumbly sound she had associated with arousal, but apparently just means affection. Which is another mark against Garrus trying to claim he’s not a big sap; she fucking knew he was. But when Solana reaches for her hand again, Shepard tips backward, and ends up pressed more against Garrus. She has little leverage to try to break free, seated like this, especially with him trying to mimic a hanar, wrapped around her. 

In her best Commander Voice, Shepard barks, “Release and ready, soldiers!” 

Though seated, both Garrus and Solana snap to attention. Their spines go painfully straight, mandibles pressed in tight, and, of course, Garrus releases her. Both Vakarian siblings cross their wrists in their lap, which points to turians even having an at ease pose while sitting. Of course they do. 

Thane offers Shepard a hand as she clambers off of Garrus. It takes all of Shepard’s considerable willpower not to laugh at how well that had worked. 

“Wait,” Garrus realizes aloud with the delay only copious amounts of booze offers, “you did that on purpose.” Solana peers up at Shepard and Thane like she’s been mortally betrayed. 

“You two talk this out, or purr at each other, or whatever you’d like, but I think it’s best I cut you two off, because believe me—Garrus, you do not want to be hungover for who’s coming with us back to the Flotilla,” she advises, though Garrus only blinks muzzily up at her. She’s unused to seeing both his eyes so clearly. “Oh! Right.” She presents him with his visor again, and Garrus makes what is definitely a happy turian noise. 

With a pointed nod to Thane, they scoop up the bottles that still have some amount of alcohol left in them. Most have been emptied, but they snag two half-full bottles of brandy and one unopened dual-chirality wine bottle, and Shepard hopes Garrus remembers where the water stores are. Conrad Verner had recognized him once before, since he had helped her take down Saren, and based on his reaction to Thane—he is going to be accosted, too. Shepard hopes his hangover is mild, because yikes. 

Shepard ducks out of the small ship and nearly runs into Zaeed. 

“Woah. You runnin’ a speakeasy now to make some extra credits?” he asks, one hand on her shoulder to steady her as Shepard juggles the bottles. “Certainly smells like a bar in there.” 

“Turian bonding activity. You already done in the port?” she asks in return. Thane ducks out behind her, both of their travel bags in hand.

Zaeed looks at the alcohol, to the bags, then back again. “You two finally wising up, eh, Shepard? Running off together to put all this war nonsense behind you?” 

“You know I’m not, Zaeed,” she flatly replies. He ought to know her better than that by now, even if it had been a dumb joke. “We bought the other ship to haul the shuttle and Mako back, so I’m moving my stuff over. It’s not an open invitation for everyone else to pile in again, so you’re stuck back in this one, once Garrus and his sister sober up.” 

Zaeed nods along, but Shepard can tell he’s not really paying any attention. He proves her right when he plucks the two bottles of dextro brandy out of her arms and passes them over to Thane, who takes them out of sheer polite reflex. Shepard is left holding the dual-chirality wine and a glare for Zaeed. 

“Right, right, well—mind if I steal you for a moment, Shepard? I need a word. In private. Bring the wine.” Without waiting for agreement, Zaeed turns on his heel and saunters back toward the dock. 

Shepard rolls her eyes at him. Loudly. “Well… Fine then. Let’s go see what this is.” 

“I’ll head over to the other ship to ensure Mr. Cortez is adjusting,” Thane offers. 

Shepard finds Zaeed halfway toward the markets, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and a scowl dark enough to send any would-be interlopers running. He doesn’t seem to be in a terrible mood, although more serious than usual, so she assumes that she’s going to find out whatever business he’d had on Illium was. 

Shepard sidles up, leans against the wall next to him, and crosses her arms, too. “I look almost as scary as you right now, with this leather jacket.” 

“You wish,” Zaeed scoffs. “Anyone who would know what kinda person normally wears that jacket would already know who you are, and they’d be scared shitless anyway. I’m just eye candy compared to you, Shepard.” 

Alright, so Zaeed’s definitely not in a bad mood, then. She inclines her head toward him. “What’s up, Zaeed? You’ve been cagey about why you tagged along, so I assume it’s something to do with that. Finally going to spill the big secret?” 

“Told you—didn’t wanna get your hopes up. But let’s just say you ain’t the only miracle worker aboard the Normandy anymore.” 

Shepard snorts. “I’ve known I’m not. You’re hyping this an awful lot, and I swear to fuck if it’s just a weapon mod or a deal on a scrounged ship or something—” 

“I got an in with the batarians for you,” Zaeed interrupts. 

Shepard falls silent. The levity dissolves between them; with the hard, solemn look Zaeed is giving her, she knows that he’s not bullshitting her. 

“It ain’t much, but it’s a hell of a lot more than you had, and I saw that your back-up plan was to have the krogan storm the Kite’s Nest and kidnap ‘em all. Like that would go over smoothly.” Zaeed shakes his head at her, but she doesn’t rise to her own defense (mostly because she knew that was a crazy, last-ditch effort). She’s still stunned by what he’s claiming. “Guy I worked with in the Blue Suns, before it all went tits up, he an’ I stayed pretty friendly through the years. Decent guy. More important—his brother is some Hegemony bigwig. I ain’t claiming he’s one of the top brass, but he’s not a nobody, either. And he says he’s willing to hear you out.” 

“…What?” Shepard finally manages. Her voice sounds faint to hear ears. 

Zaeed doesn’t even take the opportunity to be smug at this falter. “There are a few catches, though, and a few things to keep in mind. But it’s an in. He an’ a few of his Hegemony shitstain buddies will listen to you, and look at your Reaper evidence—and they’re real concerned about being first in line for the Reaper firing squad. That’s an advantage you can press on ‘em.” 

“You… got a meeting with the Hegemony. For me. About evacuating Khar’shan?” Shepard reiterates. Abruptly, she feels like she’s the one drunk off her ass; the docks sway around her and she wonders if what her heart is doing is normal. 

The very start of the Reaper war. Fifteen billion lives. The second damn hardest thing to try to figure out in everything she’s trying to throw together for this. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Shepard wheezes. 

“Didn’t want to get your hopes up, like I told you,” Zaeed replies, and now he sounds smug. “You don’t need more stress, any of us can see that much, so thought an old merc could pull a few strings for ya. Now, this ain’t all roses and puppy dogs, Shepard. Frankly, if I didn’t know Khosvan so damn well I’d call it a trap. The thing is—they want you to come to them, Shepard. A meeting in about a month, on Adek.” 

“The batarians want me to go to the Kite’s Nest cluster. For negotiations?” 

“For the chance to give them some proof. The Hegemony keeps the system’s access to the extranet locked down tighter than a klixen’s ass, so not even they have seen everything you’ve dumped onto it. But a few of ‘em are willing to hear you out, Shepard. You got a shot at this. Your pile of Reaper evidence is scary, you’re scary to batarians, and scared people are a lot more willing to negotiate.” 

Emotions swirl within her—mostly sinking suspicion and overwhelming gratitude. A sickening mixture. This could be a chance, an actual goddamn chance to see if the Hegemony has anyone level-headed enough to acknowledge a threat that Shepard has pointed out will come to them first. Batarians may hate humans, but no one wants their people to die if it could be avoided. 

But trap still screams in her thoughts. This would be a perfect way to ensnare her—use Commander Shepard’s infamous drive to save everyone to invite her into the heart of enemy territory. She can’t risk the Normandy there, and she’s sure they’ll have rules about this. 

“Is it just me?” Shepard asks uneasily. They could ask here there under the guise of negotiations and hold her for ransom. Or torture and kill her, more likely, for all of the batarian blood she’s spilt over the years. Especially the lives she sacrificed in the Bahak system. 

“Nah, they’re not that stupid,” Zaeed says, already lifting a huge weight from her chest. “Old batarian custom that you never hold a meeting with just one person. I’m sure the Hegemony system itself sprung outta that kind of bullshit. I’m going with you, and Khosvan will be there, and I think you should bring the Prothean, too.” 

“Javik? Why?” 

“Batarians instinctively trust things with four eyes. It’s the damnedest thing.” Zaeed shrugs, shakes his head, then chuckles in that husky voice of his. “Used to play games with that shit back in the day. A batarian can get another to believe the goddamn sky is orange if they make eye contact. Add in some alcohol—good times. Javik won’t have to say or do much, though another big scary alien at your side’ll be a good thing, but they’ll look at him like the hanar would. Bet you five grand they will.” 

Shepard can’t believe that she’s getting an offer of actual negotiations with the batarians—but even more than that, she can’t believe she could use Javik as some sort of psychological fucking thing against them, either. She’ll have to get some pretty strict orders on him not to speak except what she allows, so he doesn’t launch into a rant about how they ought to take over the batarian race to bolster their war efforts, because that would go over incredibly poorly. With the batarians worst out of anyone in the galaxy. 

Shepard throws her arms around Zaeed before he can dodge her. 

He groans, exasperated, but doesn’t fight her off just yet. “Shepard, goddamn it, you’re going to ruin both of our images. You getting sappy on me now?” 

She squeezes him until he groans again. “I’m being happy on you, Zaeed. Today piled some unexpected shit on me, but this is the best goddamn news I could’ve ever asked for. You’ve earned your keep yet again, old man.” 

He pries her off less-than-gently. “Open up that bottle and let’s celebrate, then,” he says with a crooked grin. 

Shepard pries the plastic cork out with her omniblade and takes a swig—and immediately spits it back out. Zaeed takes the bottle from her, takes a few long pulls, and doesn’t bat an eye at her disgust. “Shit, I forgot it was that filtered shit.” What was Garrus doing with dual-chirality wine, anyway? Wait, oops, that was probably meant to be shared by not-Zaeed. 

“More for me.” 

“One day, I’ll find something you won’t put in your mouth, Zaeed.” 

He almost chokes on a laugh, wine slopping down the front of his armor. “Shit, Shepard, just because a man can handle ryncol doesn’t mean you need to be threatening him with worse! …You wanna go grab some ryncol instead? I know an asari bartender who’ll serve it to humans if you ask nicely.” 

Shepard can’t help her own grin. “Pretty sure I know that same bartender. But I already have two drunk turians sprawled on my ship, so rain check, okay? Can’t join them, or you, right now. I need to go be responsible for a while longer—especially if I need to cram a trip to the Kite’s Nest into my stupid schedule.” 

“I’ll hold you to that rain check, Shepard,” Zaeed warns, then takes another long gulp of what is objectively very shitty wine. 

Shepard leaves him with a fresh bounce in her step. This has been a very surprising trip, but she came out ahead with more than what she wanted, so she wishes life happened this way more often for her. 

Chapter Text

Tali has gotten used to the Normandy being a quiet ship, especially its second iteration; it had been developed with the most bleeding edge tech, and that extended to keeping the drive core humming at a barely-audible volume. 

But she’s not used to the Normandy being quiet like this. With so many people gone. Gabby is gone, so there’s no one for Kenneth to bicker with. Jack is gone, so no yelling. And that’s just the engineering deck—the entire ship feels like it’s been hollowed out and muffled. 

So she’s very glad when something goes loudly wrong. 

“Tali, could we have your assistance on the third deck, in hydroponics?” EDI politely inquires. “There has been an altercation.” 

“An altercation?” Tali asks with what shouldn’t be hope, but maybe is. 

“Shite, even with the loud ones gone, it’s always something, isn’t it?” Kenneth mutters. 

“I believe this began as a cultural misunderstanding regarding courtesy when correcting another, but as Bakara is involved, it did not remain civil for long,” EDI explains. 

Tali dashes to the elevator, ignoring Kenneth’s bark of laughter. Alright, maybe she shouldn’t be excited to deal with a krogan, and not even one of the two (two!) that she’s used to dealing with, but it’s something. The Normandy has been all but trapped within the Flotilla, and while Tali is very, very glad not to have to try to figure out the logistics of construction sites today and thus listen to another hours-long bickering session, that doesn’t mean she’s not bored out of her mind. Shepard can’t get back soon enough. 

Also, with both the CO and XO gone—something she is shocked Garrus hadn’t complained about—somehow, EDI has decided that Tali is the person to report to. It thrills her to be nominated for this, especially since without Shepard, apparently there are very few large problems aboard the Normandy. So far, she’s broken up a scuffle over food between Urz and the rachni (Joker is adamant about it being called Steve until Shepard gets back, for some reason, so the name has actually remained the same for the past two days), managed to help Mordin out with some sort of sequencing issue simply by being a mute sounding board while he talked himself through it, and helped Kelly put out a fire in the mess while she apologetically babbled about being unable to cook. Little but easy things. 

She hears the situation before she sees it; krogan voices tend to carry. 

“—you skinny little pyjaks asked for the help of anyone aboard the Normandy, and last I checked, I count for that,” Bakara’s growl floats out the open door, “and I am telling you, you are using too much water.” 

“I-It’s a hydroponics setup—” 

“You’re only used to Tuchankan plants, and those don’t ever need water, so you’re going about this wrong!” Oh no, that’s Grunt’s voice, cutting across the quarians. 

The door’s been left open with so many people in and out, and the burbling of water would be pleasant white noise if not covered by the sound of arguing krogan. Boxes and tanks are still stacked around the room, but a lot of the system has been properly set up now, with a few bits of green poking up here and there. 

Tali marches three steps into the room, intending on corralling Grunt and trying to figure out exactly why Bakara was arguing now—but then she sees the familiar red-suited quarian standing by the door and most of her authority is instantly replaced by excitement. “Kal!” she exclaims—highly unprofessional, highly inappropriate, and highly unnecessary right now. 

“Ma’am,” Kal’Reegar replies with an incline of his head. If he’s embarrassed, he doesn’t show it. 

Face flaming beneath her helmet, Tali turns on her heel to actually address the situation rather than act even more unprofessionally. Keelah, that was stupid, stupid! Raan even told me he had volunteered to help. Oh Keelah, they must all think I’m an idiot now. Despite her shrieking thoughts, in a surprisingly calm voice, Tali announces, “I was informed that there was an altercation here. So. I’m here to stop it. What’s going on?” 

She doesn’t recognize the two botanists plastered against the far wall like they’re terrified of Bakara’s wrath. From what Tali has learned about krogan body language and vocal tone, Bakara is mildly annoyed, at best. (Though it had taken her four months of living near Wrex to learn these things, so she does not blame the pair.) Grunt rolls his eyes mightily at Tali’s attempted authority, because he barely believes in non-Shepard chain of command on a good day. 

“You asked for my help regarding the growing of crops,” Bakara says in a flat growl, “and I have been trying to tell these scientists that they’re doing it wrong. They’re trying to plant the tupo cutting in a deep water tray, since it will grow large enough to require the root stability, but they don’t need that much water. You’ll drown it before it grows an inch.” 

That actually sounds like a valid concern. Granted, Tali doesn’t know a thing about plants or how much water they need, but Bakara had claimed to be an expert in botany so she will generously assume that she’s not talking out her ass right now. 

Except Grunt scoffs and tosses his head. “Just because something can grow in a drought on Tuchanka doesn’t mean that it’s ideal! It’s a berry. Berries like moisture. I don’t want shriveled up, useless things that a dead plant would make. Neither does Shepard.” 

“And how much experience with farming do you have, brat?” Bakara asks in a dangerously silky tone. 

Tali sees the actual problem now. It’s not that Bakara is bullying the botanists; she’s bullying Grunt. And no one, least of all comparatively sheltered quarian botanists, wants to be between krogan butting heads. She doesn’t blame Bakara in the least for leaving Mordin’s lab, because Tali wouldn’t want to spend hours on end in there much less the days on end she’s sometimes done, but that doesn’t mean she can go picking fights for entertainment. Krogan or not. 

“Tupo, uh, plants are levo-based, aren’t they?” Tali asks. One of the botanists nods and uses the movement to edge further away from Bakara. 

“They’re bushes,” Bakara deadpans. 

“Okay, so the Flotilla has no experience growing these, right?” 

Again, the botanist nods, and Bakara seems pleased, this time. 

“Bakara, have you personally grown any of these, uh, bushes before? On Tuchanka? Or… elsewhere?” Tali has zero idea what Bakara’s life had been pre-salarian-experimentation, though she’s alluded to living on Tuchanka for some time. Of course, for a krogan lifespan, she could’ve easily spent a century there and come no closer to calling it home than if she’d rented a hotel room for a night cycle. 

“…No,” Bakara admits. Grunt snorts a laugh, but Tali holds up a hand to quiet him. “It’s possible to grow them there, but it’s a pain. Life’s hard enough on that radioactive rock, so why bother fighting the crops, too?” 

“Okay, so we all know only theoretical things about this bush that’s about to start a civil war,” Tali says, hands clasped. She hears a noise behind her, in Kal’Reegar’s direction, but she firmly ignores him for the moment. Step one: defuse krogan pride. Step two: ensure quarian scientists aren’t traumatized by krogan pride that seems to be krogan rage. Step three: catch up with Kal’Reegar with appropriate levels of excitement. “I know Shepard has bought a lot of guides about this sort of thing for our Mess Sergeant. Has anyone read any of those? Tupo berries are a common flavoring agent, so they have to be a common thing for gardeners to try growing, right? I’m sure someone’s already figured this out for us, so we can stop trying to argue about things we don’t know and listen to experts who do know.” 

Neither quarians nor krogan like being told that they don’t know something, but at least they both don’t know something, so no one yells at her for her suggestion. Tali beams beneath her visor. 

“EDI, could you run a search through any of the guides Gardner has for tupo bushes—and please load up any relevant sections onto datapads?” She doesn’t think any of the general quarian populace knows that the Normandy has an AI (well, technically two) on board, but even then, she’d never dare suggest a direct omnitool upload unless explicitly invited. Quarians are protective of what little privacy they have, especially technological. 

“Of course, Tali. Compiling results now,” EDI says in the slight monotone she’s adopted when pretending to be a shipboard VI. Tali represses a shudder; after getting to know her, and after how badly it went with Javik’s discovery, it’s wrong to hear an AI pretending to be something else. 

Steps one and two complete, Tali decides, since the two krogan look bored and one of the botanists has resumed a not-pasted-against-the-wall-in-fright posture. No one else volunteers any other arguments about how the hydroponics are being set up, either. 

Tali happily turns around to address Kal’Reegar. She’s gotten spoiled with familiar faces, being back with the Flotilla, but she hadn’t had the time to chat with him just yet. 

However, she freezes when she sees the rachni soldier standing in the doorway. 

It’s just out of sight of Kal’Reegar by the door, since he’s facing inward, but it’s only luck that the two botanists haven’t spotted it. (Well, krogan do make good distractions.) There are a lot of things left on the to do list of speaking with the Admiralty Board and gaining a quarian alliance—and telling them about the rachni has not come up yet. This is very far from the ideal way to break the news. 

Tali rushes over and tries to haul the rachni into her arms. Apparently, rachni are dense little bosh’tets, which is not ideal right now. She can hardly get it in her arms, its lower legs scrabbling against the floor, and she knows she’s about to have a lot of eyes on her for her awkward getaway. 

Another set of arms scoop up the bottom half of the rachni soldier and together, they make it the three steps down to the life support. Tali punches the door button and drags all of them inside and out of sight. 

Kal’Reegar stares down at the rachni he had helped carry. Tali looks at him, and the rachni, and how EDI locks the door behind them to keep out any further alarm. Keelah, is she going to have to rely on Grunt and Bakara to soothe any concerns? Hopefully the botanists only saw her acting weird. 

Except. 

Kal.

Rachni.

Staring at each other. 

Tali tugs the rachni away from him with a very nervous giggle. “W-Well! Um! Thank you for helping me carry this heavy little bosh’tet, but you can resume protecting our scientists from the Normandy’s krogan staff—” 

“Ma’am, is that a rachni?” Kal’Reegar interrupts. He may be too polite when addressing her, but he’s never hesitated to interrupt her if something needs saying. 

“What? A rachni?” Tali says, voice edging ever higher. She won’t outright lie to him, never, but she can’t think of a way to talk around this. She doesn’t have Shepard’s charm or Garrus’ ability to bluster. “This is… Steve.” 

The rachni chirps. 

Kal’Reegar’s helmet comes up, glowing eyes fixing on her. “Steve,” he repeats.

“Joker—our pilot—named it. I think it’s meant to be some sort of joke, but I haven’t figured it out just yet. Human thing, I’m sure, and you know how odd and stubborn humans can be! Of course you do, you met Shepard, and I’m sure you’ve seen some interesting humans aboard the Normandy, since you’re helping out here—wait, let me thank you for helping out here! I heard you volunteered for this!” Tali latches onto the subject with desperation. 

Kal’Reegar is having none of it. “Ma’am, I’m doing my duty, volunteer or not, which you well know. But I was warned about one krogan aboard, and zero rachni.” 

“Bakara is sort of here temporarily, and she’s actually nicer than Grunt I think, if you don’t make her angry about plants apparently—” 

“Do you have orders from Commander Shepard not to admit that you have an extinct alien species on board?” Kal’Reegar cuts back in with shrewdness. 

Tali flops onto Thane’s cot, entire being sagging. She gave this a good go. There are worse things to happen than this, surely, and it shouldn’t sour the negotiations too badly if the Admirals have already overcome their hatred for the geth. The rachni soldier skitters over and presses its head against her thigh, like how she’s seen Urz do to Shepard when begging for attention. 

“Why are you suddenly so attached to me?” Tali grumbles, glaring down at it. 

“Erm, I just saw that you were struggling, and wanted to help you,” Kal’Reegar replies. 

Tali’s head snaps up to him. Her face burns and her visor reports that her heart rate is increasing. “I was talking to the rachni,” she whispers, mortified, and for the first time in all the years she’s known him, Kal’Reegar vas Sozorn looks ready to turn and run. 

“Can your ship’s AI let me out now, so I can leave this conversation and return to duty, where I will not destroy any remaining dignity?” he asks stiffly. 

“How did you know EDI was an AI?” 

Kal’Reegar shakes his head, sighing. “Any quarian worth their suit knows the difference between a VI and an AI. No one’s going to say anything outright, though, since everyone knows we’re trying to zero out with the geth during these negotiations. There’s a lot of pride being swallowed and a lot of people looking the other way, but rest assured, we’re vetting who comes aboard the Normandy for professionalism and discretion.” 

“Thank you,” EDI says from her door interface, making Kal’Reegar twitch. 

Tali had no idea the quarians were aware of EDI like that—or that they were trying to play nice in their own way. She makes a mental note to inform Shepard. Later. After all of this plays out and she figures out how much trouble it’s going to be. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs. Kal’Reegar doesn’t respond this time. “That one was to you, you know.” 

“Just doing my duty, ma’am.” He doesn’t edge away from the door—nor does EDI unlock it. 

Tali supposes she owes him a few explanations. More than a few. And probably an apology, if she can figure out how to apologize for mutual embarrassment without worsening said embarrassment. 

“Shepard’s first ally in this, even before we officially declared anything, was the rachni queen. Oh, uh—there’s only one left, we found her on Noveria being experimented upon, back when we were hunting Saren. Shepard saved her. It’s a little less of a secret now, and we’re working on when to tell the galaxy at large, but we have this soldier aboard because rachni can sense indoctrination somehow. Shepard is making sure everyone close to her is going to be someone she can trust throughout the war,” Tali explains, awkwardly patting the rachni’s head. It works on Urz, and apparently it works on rachni, too. 

She gets three good pats in before the rachni soldier slithers up onto the cot next to her. Then behind her. It sniffles all over Thane’s cot, with the occasional weird rachni noise, now completely ignoring Tali. 

“Oh, you found a scent you like better now, hm?” Tali asks archly, twisting to watch it. 

The rachni soldier flops onto its side with a chuff. 

Tali figures there must be a hierarchy to it—just like Grunt. Shepard at the top, everyone else below, ranked on nearness to Shepard. But Shepard is always the top choice. 

It’s sort of cute, she supposes, until she realizes that it’s happy that Thane’s bed smells like both Thane and Shepard, and Tali leaps to her feet with a squealed, “Eww!” 

Kal’Reegar makes a sound that could have been a laugh. Tali glares at him. The rachni soldier continues happily rolling around where she’s pretty sure Shepard has also rolled around in the past. 

“So, Commander Shepard has more allies than the krogan and the geth already on her side,” he remarks, sounding completely professional. “How will this topic be broached with the Admiralty Board, if I may ask?” 

“Quarian ships have plenty of clean rooms, but the Normandy only has its med bay—and it has to be changed into a clean room. Six hour decon period. It would probably be easier to have the Admirals come aboard the Normandy than bring the rachni onboard the Qwib-Qwib—but thankfully, just taking off a glove works. Minimal infection risk.” They’d been worried when Tali had done it, but just her hand had been good enough for the rachni soldier. Thank the stars. (Of course, it means she’ll have to take off a glove again to get tested in the future, but it’s still better than removing her helmet.) “But if you’re asking me how Shepard is going to announce ‘also, by the way, I released a rachni queen a couple of years ago and she is a big, important part of my war prep, and you already agreed to help us, so no reneging now’, I don’t know. I sincerely hope she does not do it that way.” 

Kal’Reegar cocks his head—probably imagining Shepard doing it that way. Tali can see it, which is worrying. 

“But, well, yeah—we’re not turning away anyone who could help, and Shepard’s doing all that she can to get this put together in a way that could be war prep. None of us were trained for this sort of thing, but we’re doing the best we can, and I think a lot of our plans are pretty solid,” Tali adds, loyally. 

“If anyone can save the galaxy again, it would be you and Commander Shepard, ma’am,” he replies. 

Tali flusters again. “I wouldn’t say I have that large of a part in this—” 

“Ma’am, we both remember what you were on Haestrom for, and Commander Shepard would be a fool to ignore that,” he interrupts. 

“…Do many other people realize that?” 

“Not many. Most never understood what the Haestrom mission was dealing with, and as far as I am aware, the dark energy research has been on a need-to-know basis.” Kal’Reegar shakes his head. “Like this specific crewmate of yours, it appears. Certain characters may act huffy, but everyone, including the Admiralty Board, respects the necessity of a need-to-know basis, so I don’t believe you’ll have to worry too much about this rachni making waves, ma’am. You can relax.” 

Tali glances back, over her shoulder, at the rachni soldier wriggling around on the cot. Hard to imagine that that could be one of the greatest threats to alliance stability. “…Logically, I know you’re right. And I know that Shepard will pull through, as she always does. But… I don’t want to mess up. We’ll only get so many missteps, and each one could cost millions or billions of lives, with this kind of war coming. And I can’t bear to think of my people being some of the stubborn bosh’tets who turn Shepard’s help down. So I really, really want this to work out, and I don’t want to be the one to mess anything up. Could you please keep the rachni a secret, until Shepard tells the Admiralty Board?” 

“Of course, ma’am,” Kal’Reegar replies—sounding surprised she even had to ask. That’s to his credit, of course. He’s good at things like discretion and knowing when to move on. 

Tali smiles, grateful. “How long are you going to keep calling me ma’am? We haven’t worked together in almost a year. I’m pretty sure that even though I didn’t get charged with anything, a lot of things changed when they officially transferred me to the Normandy. I’m not really any kind of ranking officer.” 

“You never petitioned to change it back,” he replies. 

“Of course not. I belong here, and I get to call myself Tali’Zorah vas Normandy. They tried to shame me with that title, but the Normandy and Shepard have saved the galaxy twice now, so the joke’s on them,” she happily points out. “But, well, it has changed my standing. Sort of.” 

“It’s not a rank thing, it’s a respect thing, ma’am,” Kal’Reegar replies—adding the last part pointedly. 

Tali doesn’t know how to explain that she sees it as some sort of hurdle to overcome, a barrier to the friendship she wants to pursue with him. They’ve remained friendly, exchanging more than a few emails, plus she got him to watch Fleet and Flotilla during a long stretch of downtime that he had admitted was driving him crazy. He doesn’t address her as ma’am in writing. 

“I appreciate that,” she says, “but you can call me Tali.” 

Kal’Reegar looks at her as if she’s announced another extinct species is aboard the Normandy. 

“Even Legion does it, you know!” she hastily adds, wringing her fingers, though she maintains eye contact. “Geth are very big on titles, too. But he’s calling me by my name now, and I like it. Humans jump straight to it, not even bothering with a full name. I’ve gotten really used to it, and it’s a friendly thing, so I’d, um, appreciate it if you did that, too?” 

He stares at her for a long, weighted moment. 

Her heart sinks when he shakes his head. “I respect you too much for that, ma’am. Not that I don’t appreciate the intent—I do. I consider myself very lucky to count myself among your friends. And I’d like to remain friendly, but—I can’t bring myself to not address you with respect, for everything you’ve accomplished and have done for the Fleet. It’s only right. Ma’am.” 

Tali fumes in her helmet. It’s all she can do not to stomp her foot, too. “Then respect my wishes and stop calling me ma’am.” After a pause, and very pointedly, she adds, “Kal.” 

He breaks their staring contest, glancing away. “Is that an order, ma’am?” 

“I can’t give you orders anymore.” 

“I’d follow them, if you gave them.” 

She has no idea if he’s trying to fluster her, flatter her, frustrate her, or flirt with her. 

—

The captain’s quarters in the turian frigate is as good a place as any as to pore over the mysterious letter given to Helesse. (Liara had initially balked at seeing Conrad Verner at Shepard’s side, but the woman’s expression made it incredibly clear that she didn’t want to talk about it. So Liara avoided eye contact with Verner and stole Shepard away for herself.) 

Shepard turns it over in her hands, thumbnail dragging over the wax seal, and tries to hold it up against the light. (Turian captain’s quarters are very well-lit.) “So, a human guy delivered this? Claiming to be your father. And it had to have been from someone who knows that Helesse could pass this along to you,” she says, squinting at the opaque paper. 

Liara frowns at the latent embarrassment of having a human man claim to be her father. “Yes, that’s as much as she told me, and I have no reason to doubt her. It’s too far-fetched as it is. It would be easy to hire a human man to deliver it and claim such an outlandish thing, but I was thinking it was likely done to signal the true sender’s identity.” 

“Good a guess as any. Why didn’t you open it yet?” Shepard asks. 

“Matriarch Helesse has the Nos Astra ports almost as well-recorded as I do. I wanted some semblance of privacy, and I assume since it is likely to be a human sender, you will probably know as much as I do. Do you think it could be from someone in the Alliance?” 

Shepard grimaces. “Not likely. How would they know about Helesse? Also, Anderson kept me keyed in to a couple of high-security channels, so while they’re not the most secret things, he has ways of contacting me in an emergency. And… Covert ops like this are really not his style.” 

Liara still believes it could be an Alliance contact—Shepard knows far more people than Admiral Anderson—but she does raise a good point. Someone who has to know about the connection between the two asari. 

“Any reason why we’re not ripping this open right now?” Shepard asks, proffering the envelope. 

“I can’t think of any,” Liara admits. After a beat, she coyly asks, “Shepard, would you like to do the honors?” 

Shepard grins, and of course uses the tip of her omniblade to neatly cut the seal in half. No things by half measures from Commander Shepard. 

The contents are a single-paged letter, made of a softer but equally thick paper stock as the envelope. Shepard lays it flat on the table between them. Liara takes a moment to peer at the curly human script. English, isn’t it? 

To my second favorite sister, Ana, 

You’ll see that you’ve been bumped up! You’re probably even my second favorite family member by now! I know we haven’t spoken in what feels like too long, considering how close we became recently, but there is not enough paper in the galaxy for how frustrated I’ve been, and space is a luxury. 

I had been well, until I heard what Father had done! I’m certain you have heard by now, but I can’t believe he invited Kai home again! You must be as upset as I am, but it’s just another reason to see the sights the rest of the galaxy has to offer, away from home. Still, the gall! It hasn’t even been that long since either of us left home, so I can only assume he’s gotten lonely in his old age. Can you imagine, though? Children are not things to be exchanged based on how he feels! That’s the only reason why I can think of that Father would do such a thing—to replace us. 

Can you see how hard I’ve pressed the pen into this paper? It would serve me and my temper right, to rip what cost me as much as a horse! But I’m trying to be cool-headed, like you, so I get to vent my frustrations on this exceedingly expensive paper, just to prove I can. But without ripping it. Isn’t it soft? I haven’t used pen and paper since grammar school. You probably don’t get to get away from that asari you’re with these days for very long, and I know how she (and all asari, let’s be real!) values technology, but why not introduce her to the concept of writing a letter? It’s a lovely notion and it grabs attention, don’t you think? Humanity can still teach aliens a thing or two about romance! Tell her to take notes!

I already feel better since writing out all of my frustrations. I have half a mind not to send this letter, but perhaps the anger I’ve poured through my pen can reach you, and you can commiserate with me. Or maybe I’ll go take an ice bath to cool my head. Maybe I’ll travel somewhere really cold next? No—that sounds dreadful, you do it in my stead. :) 

We’ll catch up soon, with better spirits, I promise. Maybe I’ll stop by and visit you soon! I know how much you love surprises. 

With love, 

Mina Leng

Liara and Shepard both stare at the letter. Her English isn’t perfect, and the handwriting is anything but textbook, but she’s certain she’s gotten the gist of it. Confusing as it is.

“Well. As a start, neither of us are named Ana,” Shepard says with a sigh. “So that’s probably code for something. Not sure what. Ugh, why couldn’t she have used military code? I know she memorized everything that I knew…” 

“You know who sent this?” Liara asks, surprised. She’s never come across that name before. 

Shepard spares her a grin. “Yeah, it’s from Miranda. Second favorite sister—it’s a dead giveaway. And it explains how a human could know about the connection between you and Helesse. Two mysteries solved, and a hundred more she just dumped on our heads. I don’t know who Ana is, or could be, and the rest of this… Is really different in tone than what I’d expect of her.” 

“Could be a basic cover, pretending it’s a letter to a sister, with a different personality to match. And the asari she mentioned—it must mean me, and I can only read it as a pointed suggestion to value low-tech communication options. Which I do,” Liara says, pouting. She thought this letter was an interesting way of delivering information, but it isn’t as if it’s groundbreaking. “But so much of the rest of this baffles me. She mentions a father, and I know she has issues with the man. Could he be up to something?” 

“That seems likely. But she doesn’t have any brothers, just Oriana, so who is this other guy? Kai?” 

Shepard says the name right as Liara is scanning the end of the letter again, so it clicks: there is only one reason why Miranda would have put a surname attached to a fake name (presumably to a favored sister, at that)—to draw attention. To put that surname with the other fictional family members. 

And Liara knows the name Kai Leng. She feels the blood drain from her face. 

“Shepard, we need to speak to Thane about this. Immediately.” 

—

Thane listens with a smile as the still-drunk Vakarian siblings try to recreate a song from their childhood. Thank the gods for impeccable drell memory; Thane would never stoop to something as banal as blackmail, but teasing material? Yes, please. But it’s pleasant, too, in its own right. 

Also, Garrus has a good voice for singing. (And for everything.) Thane never would have known otherwise. 

Solana isn’t bad, either, so perhaps he has a bias toward turian singing, but his other experiences with the turian arts have not been nearly so pleasant. The pair must either be approaching sobriety or have extensive experience singing this song, because they’re quite coherent as far as the lyrics go. 

Until Solana gives up in the middle of the verse and punches her brother in the arm. 

“Hey! What was that for?!” Garrus demands, voice flanging and not nearly so musical in his ire. 

Solana gestures to Thane. Thane is not here secretly; she had been most pleased when he’d come to check on them earlier, where they’d holed up in the crew quarters on the turian frigate. Thane inclines his head toward her, and asks, “Is there an issue with my still being here?” 

“He’s too nice!” Solana exclaims. “He’s too nice for you, Garrus, even if I understand… why you’d wanna run around the galaxy with alien criminals now…” She trails off with a surly pout. Female turian mandibles are smoother than the males’, but no less expressive. Or perhaps Thane has gotten good at reading turian facial expressions. (He likes to believe the latter.) 

“How’d you know Thane was a criminal?” Garrus asks before shoving her back. 

Solana swings again, but Garrus catches her fist with his teeth bared. Thane wonders if he’s going to have to break up a fight between adult siblings soon. That is definitely not his job, but neither would he like them to sour whatever goodwill they’ve built back up between them. 

“You’re all criminals,” Solana hisses at him. The fight leaves her in a flash, and her forehead thunks against Garrus’ shoulder pauldron. “My brother is a criminal, and he’s in love with the nice one. Thane, why’re you so nice? I know we sound like varren coughing, but you’re nice about it. Garrus, you jerk, you’re gonna make me jealous, and it’s not even of Commander Shepard!” 

Solana Vakarian is apparently an emotional drunk. Garrus is as emotionally constipated as usual, so he’s still trying to reboot his cognitive processes from when his sister had dared accuse him of loving anyone. 

“Both of your singing voices were lovely, and I’m not saying that for politeness’ sake. I’m here in your company because I wish to be,” Thane informs her. 

“Why’s a jelly-assassin so nice!” Solana all but wails. 

“Your brother deserves it,” he replies, a touch perplexed now. Courteous, yes, professional, always—but Thane has rarely been accused of being nice. Outside of Shepard and Garrus and their personal biases, anyway. After a cough behind his fist, he adds, concerned, “Is that really so upsetting?” 

The door to the crew quarters slides open. Both Vakarian siblings blink blearily at Liara and Shepard, but Thane finds his good humor disappearing when he registers their dark expressions. 

Solana recovers first. “Commander! You’re not too nice for Garrus!” she exclaims. 

Shepard falters, frowning, looking between the three of them. “I’m… Okay? Sorry? Well, I’m about to be a little less nice, because we have to steal Thane away from whatever weird bonding experience this is. You two drinking water at all?” 

“Yeah, she’s not nice at all, Sol,” Garrus drawls, sounding fairly sober for the moment. 

“What’s wrong, siha?” Thane asks, concerned. 

“We have need of your expertise. Well, your field of knowledge,” Liara replies. She fidgets with what appears to be a sheet of folded paper in her hands. 

Thane follows them out, though neither woman speaks until the captain’s quarters door slide closed again. The VI locks the door behind them and Liara offers the paper to Thane. Still, he gets no explanation until he scans over it. 

And then, realizing what this letter was in reference to, he finds he needs no other explanation. 

“The Illusive Man has activated Kai Leng?” Thane asks with alarm. 

“So you have heard of him,” Liara replies tightly. 

Thane inclines his head. “Many call him an assassin, though I do not. He is a butcher. A highly skilled butcher with stealth capabilities. But he is a fearsome opponent and terrifying prospect to consider as one hunting us, regardless of my opinion on his job title.” 

“Why did you think it was the Illusive Man?” Shepard asks. She appears unaware of Kai Leng’s reputation, no trace of concern in her voice or face. 

Thane gestures to the letter with a deep frown. “Miss Lawson references her father, but considering the metaphorical angle of the rest of it, I doubt she means her biological one. Especially considering that she calls herself, you, and Kai Leng siblings in this cover. So the father figure of a Cerberus family would be the Illusive Man, would it not?” 

Liara nods along with her own thoughtful frown. “That… makes more sense, considering Miranda’s abundance of caution here. And Kai Leng is presently a Cerberus operative, isn’t he? Considering what the Illusive Man lost when Shepard and the Normandy crew defected, it stands to reason that he would not let any more personnel go, especially assets as valuable as Kai Leng.” 

“What’s so special about this guy that has you two spooked?” Shepard demands, scowling. “And Miranda? Even if she ducked into deep cover, she wouldn’t send something like this for shits and giggles.” 

“Shepard,” Liara says, solemn as the grave, “Kai Leng was N7, too.” 

Shepard’s brows rise. “Okay, so he can fight, and has some hellish survival training under his belt. So do all of us.” 

“Kai Leng once stole a kill from me,” Thane says, though it shames him to bring up the memory. He lets his eyes fall back to the letter to avoid Shepard’s attention. “I’ve only ever lost two kills, and this one’s memory is the most sour. It was a salarian dalatrass who was politically… messy. She was pro-salarian rights, to the point of being anti-everyone else. I was contracted to take her out by a hanar politician, but Kai Leng took the shot. It takes a lot to surprise me when I map out my job, siha. His stealth skills would be on par with Miss Goto’s. At minimum. I’ve heard of many other kills attributed to him, and most aren’t clean, but all are thorough.” 

“What was the second?” Shepard asks instead, surprising him. 

“The… what?” 

“The other job you lost. It had to have been something on par with this Leng guy, not to mention your resume.” 

This memory shames him even more. With a long-suffering sigh, Thane confesses, “It was a contract for a controversial religious figure. The hanar tripped, fried its own mass effect field keeping it aloft, and died when it fell down a flight of stairs. My shot missed when it tripped.” 

Shepard presses her lips into a thin line to prevent the laugh he knows she must wish to voice. 

Liara surprises him by snorting, but she quickly hides it by pretending to clear her throat. “Well, anyway! I don’t have access to most of my files remotely, but I can give you what little I know of Kai Leng when we return to the Normandy. His dossier is sparse, with large gaps, which points to further danger, rather than periods of peace. It is not easy or cheap to hide things from the Shadow Broker.” 

“But the Illusive Man does have many resources at his disposal. It’s only more worrying that there are things he would wish to hide to such a superlative degree. Moreover—what’s most worrying about this is the implication of what the Illusive Man wants Kai Leng to do,” Thane points out. 

“He must mean to move against us. He’s been quiet, playing at neutrality until this point. Ultimately, our goals are the same—the preservation of organic life. That includes human life, of course,” Liara muses.

Thane frowns, worry growing. If even Liara hadn’t realized this… “Miss Lawson had to send this to us with many precautions in place. Many. Not only does that point to how dangerous it had been to gain the information, but how far the Illusive Man had gone to hide this. He is hoping to throw Kai Leng at us without warning and had taken great pains to do so. That’s a danger I cannot overstate—especially for you, siha.” 

“You said he wasn’t an assassin,” Shepard returns. 

“Not in the true sense, but he will try to kill you. And he will get close before we get any further clues to his movements. This human is a ghost, impossible to track, and a terror once present. The Illusive Man has either deemed Shepard’s amassing of an army too dangerous to his personal goals, or he finally is showing a desire for revenge. It’s entirely possible that Miss Lawson is also a target, and all of us secondary targets or encouraged collateral. This is a man who can and will be a threat to the entire Normandy crew if we do not prepare accordingly.” 

“Thane, I’m going to say something, and I want you to know that you’re an exception and I mean it with all love,” Shepard begins, patting his shoulder. But then she says, “What’s the big deal about with this supposed assassin? It’s one guy, we’ll glean what we can from the Broker dossier, and we’re living on a stealth ship with no externally available plotted course.” 

Thane’s flat expression is enough for Shepard to remove her hand with a wince. 

“I still meant it with love,” she adds, an attempt at lightness. 

“Are you aware that there have been three attempted assassinations on you since I came onto the Normandy?” Thane asks, tone flat. He nobly resists from growling. 

Shepard blinks at him, and even Liara looks taken aback. Clearly, that’s a no. 

“He has a point,” Liara hastily adds, “because an assassination plot is nothing like a battle or a fire fight, Shepard.”

“I have assassin training! Technically!” Shepard exclaims, turning to that defensiveness humans rely on when cornered. 

“Siha,” Thane sighs, taking her hand in his and stroking over it to soothe both their frustrations, “the issue is that Kai Leng will get close. This isn’t as easy as buying off a competitor’s contract, or fortifying the Normandy’s shields, or creating a chaotic schedule that’s hard to predict. He is a threat, even to someone like you.” 

“Then how do we stop an assassination?” Shepard asks. “How would we stop you?” 

“I’ve never been stopped,” Thane replies. “I’ve completed every contract I’d been assigned, aside from those two—and those two still ended up with the target deceased. Frankly speaking, I don’t know how to stop an assassin. I can think of preventative measures, but I also know how to work around most of those, as I have in the past. I can’t offer you any trick that Kai Leng—or any professional—wouldn’t already have contingencies for.” 

“We’re still on the Normandy, and you can’t catch her,” Shepard insists. 

“Like the Collectors?” Liara asks. Shepard turns to her with a wounded expression, yet Liara looks just as hurt. Still, she continues, sternly, “The Normandy does not function every hour of every cycle in stealth, Shepard. More importantly—think of right now. We are not currently aboard the Normandy, we are on one of the most densely populated and legally grey planets in the galaxy, and a random turian woman who had never met either of you before picked you two out from a crowd. Are you never going to step foot off the Normandy again, Shepard?” 

“This was already a risk we calculated—we won’t be returning to Illium, or go take a vacation at the Citadel, or hopping around other big tourist destinations. No, the Normandy is not about to become a mobile jail, but neither are we going to be cavorting around to easily accessed places!” 

Thane sighs through his teeth. Gods help him for falling in love with incredibly stubborn aliens. “Siha, even if you won’t recognize this threat, would you allow us to prepare for the possibility of Kai Leng catching us?” 

“And what will that entail?” Shepard asks, eyebrows raised. 

“We’ll think of something. Avoiding densely populated places is only one small part of that, and you are right about the fact that the Normandy’s movements will be fairly impossible to predict, after we finish negotiating with the Admiralty Board,” Liara replies, swiftly and soothingly—giving in to Shepard’s dismissal of the risk. 

The issue, Thane quickly discovers, is that Shepard has rarely ever had a single enemy that she’s acknowledged before. Saren had come closest—and he still had Spectre power, a heretic geth fleet, a matriarch with her commandos, and Sovereign backing him. Shepard recognizes and prepares accordingly for large risks, but a single man? Her ego may be speaking for her. 

And what’s worse is that if Kai Leng and Shepard got into a true, fair fight, Shepard would likely win. She’s not wrong about that much. She’s a force to be reckoned with, behind a gun or with her fists. She knows it, a little too well. 

But the issue is that Kai Leng doesn’t fight, he hunts. 

How would I stop myself? Thane wonders. It’s the best train of thought for him to pursue. 

Except he can’t think of any tactics he doesn’t have back-up plans for. 

Fuck. 

Chapter Text

Shepard has been on turian ships a handful of times (and had to memorize the Hierarchy’s standard ship layouts in training), and knows what to expect. Steve slides into the cockpit like he’s coming home. Liara probably has everything memorized, too, though she trails a judgmental hand over some of the scuffing on a few of the consoles. 

Gabby, however, is very loudly starry-eyed. “A turian frigate! That I’m allowed to poke around in! Look at that CIC—which way’s the engine room?!” she demands, flitting from console to console to map to Steve to console again. Shepard has never seen her so excited. 

Damn, she wishes she had been alive during Gabby’s first meeting with the Normandy SR2. They probably could’ve powered the drive core from her exuberance alone. 

“So, tell me why you all piled in here after me?” Shepard asks. Gabby is a lost cause, and she needed Steve here. Liara’s still here from last night. She bit the bullet on the Conrad Verner thing. 

But everyone else is standing on the CIC deck with her like they fully expect to ditch the little Pilgrimage ship and fly back to the Flotilla in style. Which she is patently not having. 

“Turian frigate!” Gabby cheers and vanishes in the direction of the elevators. 

“The rest of you, then,” Shepard grinds out. 

“I have no issue taking the loaned ship back,” Liara says, perfectly polite—and smiling. She expected this. Of course she’ll take the other ship back, because everyone else will want to take this one, so she’ll have free rein of her own ship for a peaceful few days. 

Nope, not happening, no way. No matter how much Shepard loves Liara she is not letting her get away from this. 

“I hereby order—” 

“Hey, Shepard,” Jack interrupts with a shit-eating grin. She’s still wearing Shepard’s hoodie—had only slunk onboard a few minutes ago, having stayed out all night, but at least she covered up and Shepard hadn’t had to bail her out of jail—and she’s hiding her hands behind her back. “You know how much you like the friendship vibe of the Normandy, and the crew, and you just love it when someone actually demonstrates that it’s not just you feeling this shit but everyone else digs the friendship bullshit as well?” 

Shepard narrows her eyes at her. “Most people actually like friendship, Jack. What do you have behind your back.” 

“It was Gabby’s idea, but I tagged along, so that counts,” Jack says, then pulls out a wad of fabric from behind her back. 

Shepard does not know what to make of this. It’s baby pink and appears soft and that’s about all she can see from it, but it beats the mental image of Jack showing up with a severed body part from an imagined enemy as a gesture of goodwill. 

“There was this shitty novelty t-shirt thing. We each got you one,” Jack says with a voice like silk. She obviously thinks she’s being hilarious here, even as she shoves the fabric at Shepard’s chest in what could’ve been a punch in other circumstances. “There, aren’t you happy now? We thought of you even when we didn’t have to.” 

“Are you trying to bribe your way onto the frigate by demonstrating friendship?” Shepard asks. And goddamn it, she really is touched. 

“Of fucking course I am! I want my own goddamn bed, even if it’s only three days. That little tin can was hell and road trips suck,” Jack retorts, utterly shameless. 

Shepard looks at the t-shirt she had just been given. It’s baby pink and says ‘HBIC’ in bold black block letters over the chest. 

She’s so fucking touched that Jack would give her this cheaply made shirt, and Shepard kind of hates it a little just on that principle alone. But largely, she loves it, of course. She can’t wait for the point where Jack’s smugness will wear off and she’ll get embarrassed by Shepard wearing it. 

Jack spares a savage grin over her shoulder to the other assembled crew. “Eat it, nerds! Someone knows how to get a ticket to Shepard’s good side.” 

“Hey now, I just pulled a lot of political strings for you, Shepard,” Zaeed says, sounding affronted by the display of affection. “I deserve an actual goddamn bed for that. And maybe a medal or two.” 

Shepard, holding the pink shirt against her chest, gestures at the two of them. “Jack, you get in, because you played me like a cheap kazoo. You only get that once. Step up your game next time. Zaeed, you get in on actual merit, and we’ll have the debrief about that with everyone else back aboard the Normandy. Thane, Steve, you two got ins already. Gabby is already gone, I presume to make kissy faces at the drive core, and it’s not worth it to peel her away. The rest of you!” She ends in a bark, but only Javik stands to attention. 

“I actually wanted to take the other ship. I already loaded all my stuff onto it,” Gardner says, a little sheepish. “Didn’t think this would turn into a big thing, so I didn’t realize I needed to mention it until now.” 

“This ship smells not of battle, but of sex and stress. I would prefer the smaller ship,” Javik adds tonelessly. 

Jack snorts a laugh and Steve groans from the cockpit. “Don’t make me think about turian ships right now when I’m glued to this beauty of a console,” he calls over. 

“Glued with a few other things up there, I bet!” Jack snarks back. 

“Jack, be nice to our new recruit,” Shepard cuts in—though she, too, mentally fears what could have happened in that cockpit. Unless there are regulations against that? Did turians have designated places for their infamous stress relief? Shepard glances around. “Wait, where’s Garrus? We’re leaving in an hour.” 

“Do we need to go pry him out of a gutter somewhere?” Zaeed asks, though instead of judgmental, he sounds proud. 

“The two turians were still asleep in the crew quarters, reeking of alcohol and many emotions, when I did rounds this morning,” Javik reports with open disdain. 

“Solana’s still aboard?” Shepard asks. They’re leaving soon, and if she has to kick Garrus’ extremely hungover sister off her ship, it will not be a great farewell to their first meeting. 

“Why were you doing rounds of this ship if you’re taking the other?” Thane adds. 

“You three are obviously worried about a threat. I may not like any of you, but I will do what I can to keep our fleet safe, and that includes ships I am not stationed on,” Javik replies with a sneer. 

Shepard facepalms. “Javik, when we get back to the Normandy, in addition to a fun art project I have for you, I am going to ask you exactly what you can smell from our pheromones. For the rest of you—that will also be included in our Normandy debriefing when we get back. It’s not a big deal, and as Javik so kindly checked, both our ships are secure.” 

Shepard had told Conrad Verner to report at the dock at the last possible second, so the fact that he shows up before they’ve gotten Solana off the ship is mildly concerning. They’re going to have dock officials breathing down their neck any moment. 

At least the Vakarian siblings are awake and aware when Shepard corners them in the crew quarters. 

Though Solana’s expression screams Commander Shepard Saw Me Shitfaced And I Will Never Recover. 

“I know, I know,” Garrus says before Shepard can point out how soon they’re leaving, “we’re finishing up here. Right, Sol?” 

“And you’ll message me as soon as you make it back to whatever mysterious port you’re hitting up next, right?” Solana replies with menacing cheer. 

“Yeah, I will. No more ignoring you, promise. Even if the pretty side of my face gets melted off next.” 

Shepard leans against the open door. “How’s the hangovers treating you two?” 

“Your high-pitched voice isn’t helping it, but I won’t die,” Solana deadpans back. “Erm, thank you for your hospitality, Commander. For letting us come aboard here for… last night. And it was nice meeting you and speaking with you, before.” 

“Likewise, Solana,” Shepard says, warmly. “My inbox is always open, too, if your brother decides to try ignoring you again. I promise we won’t keep you in the dark anymore—outside of the classified stuff.” 

Solana manages a smile for that, though Garrus rolls his eyes. “I’m turian, ma’am—I know how this works. But your offer is very much appreciated. Not that I expect Garrus to ever be so stupid as to try to cut ties while becoming a famously wanted Person of Interest, right? And he certainly won’t keep me in the dark if he upgrades to Wanted status, right?” She advances on her brother, standing on the tips of her toes to get in his face. 

“I get it!” Garrus exclaims, shoving her and her pointed remarks away. 

A touch at her elbow has Shepard turning to find Thane. “Siha, we must be going. Port authorities have hailed us twice, and Liara has confirmed that our other ship has left the port.” 

“Right! Sorry for the delay,” Solana says, with the rigid embarrassment of awkward turians. 

Garrus escorts her down the corridor, and Shepard and Thane purposefully hang back, allowing them just another minute of conversation before they leave. “So,” Shepard says, watching Garrus’ back fondly, “you got to spend some time with the drunkies yesterday, didn’t you?” 

“Yes. I don’t think there’s any animosity left—I don’t think there was any to begin with. Solana seems very concerned with her brother, and Garrus has been… less than forthcoming. But they seemed in high spirits together yesterday,” Thane says with great fondness. 

Shepard quashes all turian-related doubts in herself. “Well. Good. We’ll need high spirits going forward.” 

Because there’s a lot coming yet that threatens to destroy them. 

—

“What did the Commander mean by ‘art project’?” Javik suspiciously demands. 

Liara glances up from her seat in the cockpit. With only three of them aboard—herself, Javik, and Gardner (who has again retreated into dozing with his ear plugs in, now flanked by two foam-wrapped potted plants)—there is some semblance of personal space. So she had been about to retreat into reading over the letter again when Javik had decided to erase what little space she’d gained back. 

“On the turian ship. She had mentioned an art project. You know everything that she’s doing, so what did she mean by that phrase?” Javik clarifies, with the same sour tone. 

“I don’t know everything she’s doing,” Liara corrects, rolling her eyes, “and I don’t know what she meant by that, either. You’ll find out soon enough.” 

“…I am not creative,” Javik stiffly admits. 

“Humans tend to refer to things flippantly and only… somewhat accurately,” Liara tells him, kindly. “We’ll have a lot to debrief when we rejoin with the Normandy, so she’ll explain herself then, I’m sure. And even if it is not a pleasant or ego-boosting endeavor, I’m sure you’ll be able to handle it.” 

Instead of some quip about being able to handle anything thrown his way, Javik remains silent. Liara spares him another glance out of the corner of her eye. Every time she thinks she can predict him, he decides to surprise her. She’s never been a fan of surprises, either, and that dislike has only worsened since she became the Shadow Broker. 

“We taught the asari art,” Javik says instead—definitely surprising her. “Or, rather, mediums to use. How to build with more than sticks and mud, how to apply paint to more than cave walls. Our names for colors, too, which you’ve kept. I saw examples of asari architecture on that planet. In peacetime, apparently art flourishes.” 

“Asari culture takes the arts very seriously. And we have in wartime and during peaceful periods,” Liara replies, carefully, unsure of where he’s going with this. She’s waiting for the backhanded compliment—or outright insult. 

“What do you know of war,” Javik mumbles. He sounds tired, not angry, and rubs a hand over his left pair of eyes as if he’s realizing his own weariness himself only now. “More than any of your data packets or explanations, more than seeing your crew and hearing their histories, more than finding out to what extent your technology has evolved—seeing that port educated me on the true state of your cycle. It was enlightening, and I do not mean that glibly. …It took me several hours to remember to analyze the urban layout for use in planetside warfare.” 

“This cycle has known great periods of peace. We’re in one now, even if we personally are preparing for war,” Liara replies, even more carefully now. She doesn’t know what to do with an introspective Javik. (And she’s still waiting for the insult. Especially since Nos Astra is a point of pride for the asari.) 

“This cycle will burn. As my Empire did millennia ago.” 

He falls silent a long moment. Liara isn’t sure what to say, because every time she has tried to commiserate with him about the fallen Prothean Empire, he’s become snappish. 

Javik adds, in hardly more than a murmur, “We were prohibited from seeing much of our history from before the war. We could read factual accounts, we could own personal memory shards, and we placed much emphasis on studying tactical history, but there were never photographs. Even illustrations were rare. After a hundred and seventy years of war, our rulers thought it would be dangerous to look back at how much we had lost, so we struck most of our records. I remember only seeing burned cityscapes and ruined planets, knowing about the battles that felled them, not what they had been like centuries past. I imagine we must have had glittering, sprawling cities like Nos Astra, too, in the past.” 

“That’s awful,” Liara says, pained, before she can stop herself. 

The spell of Javik’s quiet despair is broken, and he fixes a sharp, four-eyed glare on her. “I do not need your pity—!” 

“It’s not pity!” Liara hastily interrupts. “Javik, I am an archeologist. I’ve spent most of my life looking at ruins and the past. Even studying long-past civilizations such as yours—I’ve still had points of present reference for them. I cannot fathom what it would be like to lose your own history, especially when fighting for your future. To have a horrible, bloody present, no past you can fight to reclaim, and a bleak future… It’s a horrifying prospect.” 

He appears pacified by her explanation. At any rate, he doesn’t snap at her again. He ruminates another long, heavy moment, before finally admitting, “I suppose this is the future we were fighting for, wasn’t it.” 

He doesn’t sound angry, nor overly despairing, but neither does he sound happy about it. Liara has nothing to say to that. 

—

Two full days pass with Shepard and Conrad Verner on the same ship, and Thane is surprised it has not come to blows yet. Shepard’s willpower and self-restraint are incredible, of course, and she has had both tested already during this war preparation of hers, but Verner is… something entirely new. 

What’s potentially worse: Thane can see that he acts normally around other people. His natural personality appears to be energetic and outgoing, but Thane has caught him having perfectly civil conversations with Steve and Gabby. If Shepard is aware that his obsession is purely for her, then it does not do anything to improve her mood. 

“It is the night cycle. We are going to bed. That means I do not want or have the energy to listen to any more of your thesis explanations, because I’m not a xeno-whatever expert to begin with, and I am only bringing you along to give you to people who do understand what you’re talking about,” Shepard grinds out through gritted teeth. Verner stands at the doorway to the captain’s quarters, looking remarkably like a lost child, despite his size and age. 

“Well, I understand that you have your own field of expertise—fields! So many of them!—but I found myself thinking that you should know the basics of this—” 

“I appreciate your very sincere enthusiasm for helping the war effort, a war effort that most other people do not understand or accept,” Shepard flatly breaks in, doing her weary best to sound grateful, “but I am not the person you should be explaining this to. I’m hiring you as an expert in your field, so you will be working with others in your field. Not me. I’m just the figurehead here.”

“But you’re so much more than a figurehead!” Verner exclaims as if personally injured by the very notion. “You’re humanity’s first Spectre, not to mention your resume beyond that and prior to that—and look at how far you’ve come since then! You’ve done so many impossible things and you’re trying to save the galaxy! Again! Not many other women—well, humans, or people at all, really—can say they’ve done that! You’re Commander Shepard. Well, they really should’ve promoted you by now, because of everything you’ve accomplished and done for—” 

“Goodnight,” Shepard interrupts and shuts the door in his face. 

Garrus, who had been trying his best to hide his chuckling until that point, gives up and collapses against the (special turian-shaped) pillows with a guffaw. Thane smacks him, lightly, with his cast. “I am really surprised you haven’t knocked him on his ass yet!” Garrus exclaims between laughter. 

Rather than look annoyed at Garrus’ humor, Shepard looks contemplative. Thane smacks Garrus again to catch his attention, then jerks his chin over to her. 

“…I should have gotten a promotion, shouldn’t I?” Shepard murmurs, thoughtful. 

“Siha, you aren’t technically Alliance anymore. You’re only Commander Shepard by virtue of your enormous reputation,” Thane gently reminds her. 

Still frowning, Shepard plants her fists on her hips. “I was the first human Spectre. And I saved the Citadel by stopping Saren and Sovereign, all while I was still fully Alliance. Why didn’t I get a promotion? They enjoyed pulling rank and bossing me around enough.” 

“Turian Spectres get a promotion,” Garrus reasons, and Shepard nods, “before they get honorably discharged, anyway. But it’s important to retire with a high rank.” 

“Wait, turian Spectres get kicked out of your military?” Shepard asks, shocked. “Aren’t they an asset? An important group of highly-trained soldiers to keep around?” 

Garrus’ brow plates draw low, mirroring her confusion. (Thane hardly understands either of their attachment to their militaries, but he knows better than to voice this.) “It’s a conflict of interest. Spectres are supposed to be the Council’s assets, not their own race’s. You know, the whole method by which you blamed the batarian thing on the Council, rather than being a human? Actually, there were a lot of whispers about you when you first got appointed—that humanity was being unfair by keeping you in the Systems Alliance despite your new status. But I agree with you. You should’ve gotten a promotion by now. Or two. They should hand out promotions for saving the galaxy.” 

“Do Spectres ever act neutrally toward their own race?” Thane asks, highly dubious. He’s only met two Spectres, and he does not think they do. 

“…Doubtful. Saren made his anti-human biases pretty clear whenever he had to work with them on missions. Not that I know the mission track record of most Spectres, but he was pretty famous. Blasto’s arc in License to Enkindle was based on some de-classified stuff from when he was younger.” 

“So I should have probably left the Alliance behind sooner, but given that I stuck it out until very recently, technically speaking, I think it’s rude they didn’t promote me.” Shepard plops onto the bed between them. (It’s not as large as her bed, but they’ve made do, both by sleeping in shifts between work and also by using Garrus as a large pillow.) “Twice. That would’ve put me at Admiral, though, also technically speaking. Which I do not like the sound of. Once would’ve been plenty.” 

“Captain Shepard does sound nicer,” Garrus muses with an affectionate, interested hum to his words. Thane wonders if it’s the usual turian admiration for high ranks, or if Garrus would like to confess to another kink. (Or, well, more of one.) 

“Think the galactic governments will swallow their pride and heap medals and honors on us when this is all over?” Shepard asks, still thoughtful, but a little more serious now. “Of course, it’s easier to build up a posthumous hero, but…” 

“The Alliance will be tripping over themselves to throw awards at you. Enough medals to make a new starship. And another promotion,” Garrus replies. 

“If you want honors and positive government attention before your heroic death, you could always bring Javik to Kahje. The Illuminated Primacy would love to meet him, and would be more than happy to honor the people fighting to continue the fight against the Prothean’s enemies,” Thane says with a smile. 

Shepard snorts and Garrus chuckles again. “Awards from the hanar government! I can’t wait for that one. Although…” She trails off with a squint at Thane.

“Yes, siha?” 

“How do they pin medals on hanar bodies? Honest question! I thought sharp force could disrupt their mass effect fields?” 

“Hanar do not give out physical medals, especially as they have no military uniform to pin them on, but instead small awards meant to be displayed in a home.” 

“That’s a little less exciting,” Garrus complains, but with further humor. “I want to see Shepard fall over because of all the heavy things they try pinning on her.” 

“That would have to be a lot of medals,” Thane replies. 

“I saw Hackett in full dress blues a few times, and he looked ready to keel over,” Shepard agrees with her own giggle. “But you know what? If we actually pull this off, I won’t even care! Let me succumb to death by medal. I’ll even accept people like Conrad Verner fawning over me—if we can pull this off and grab a victory from the Reapers. Then, maybe I’ll feel like I’ve earned that kind of attention.” 

“You have earned that kind of attention,” Thane says, earning another snort of laughter from her. “Perhaps not so… forward or inappropriately focused. But everything he says about you is true, siha. Keep that in mind.” 

Unlike Verner’s repeated compliments, this statement causes a flush to rise in her cheeks. Thane smiles, pleased. He cups her jaw, further worsening the blush overtaking her freckles, though she leans into his palm like a pet seeking affection. 

“I see now why Sol thought you were so romantic and so smooth,” Garrus butts in, ruining the tenderness Thane had gladly fostered. “Do you know what it’s like to have your younger sister jealous of your boyfriend? Awkward. Very awkward.” 

“I’ve never heard you complain up until now,” Thane replies. 

“He’s just grumpy because he’s realizing anew how romantic and smooth and all those other adjectives you are. He’d almost gotten used to you,” Shepard says and pulls her face away from Thane’s hand to shoot Garrus a sly smirk. “Suck it up, Vakarian. Your destiny is to be forever stunned by what babes you landed. That won’t work if you get used to Thane’s charms.” 

“Hey, I wasn’t—I wasn’t complaining about that part, I just meant that, well, having your sister stick her mandibles into your romantic life is a very new and very unwelcome opinion!” 

Ah, the banter phase of togetherness. Thane reclines back on the bed and listens to Garrus stutter out an indignant defense, though Thane hums, low in his chest, just to make him stumble over an extra word or two. 

Maybe he’ll send Solana a card, to thank her for her service in helping him embarrass her brother. 

—

Shepard is ready to murder by the time they dock with the Flotilla again. She’s killed a lot of people, mostly in the context of work, but she’s never murdered. But it’s a line she’ll gladly cross, fuck dark energy things, because Conrad Verner is too damn much for her. 

Tali is waiting for her on the Normandy, bouncing on her feet, but she freezes like a deer in the headlights when Verner walks out after Shepard. “Uh,” she says instead of a welcome.

“Yep,” Shepard replies, tired, and hates that she’s even letting him step foot on her ship. But the quarians can’t be expected to let an unknown human wander around their ships until they’re properly introduced and Verner is decontaminated from everything to do with Illium. 

Tali looks between Shepard, and Verner, and Garrus, and back to Shepard. “Uh,” she replies, but at least this time, she follows it back with a hesitant, “well, I mean, welcome back, Shepard. We kept things afloat without you, and we’re ready to receive the frigate you brought back with you. Liara should arrive in a few hours, later tonight…” Her glowing eyes slowly make their way back to Verner. 

“Executive Officer Vakarian,” Shepard calls, and she has never seen Garrus snap to attention so quickly. “If you would be so kind as to escort Mr. Verner to our crew quarters while I introduce Mr. Cortez to Tali and Joker?” 

As he passes her, Garrus mutters, “I hate you.” 

“Love you too,” she whispers back with a wink. 

His fluster is audible and just the thing she needed to cheer herself up after three fucking days with Conrad Verner in her proximity. Most of the crew who had piled in after her files past them, Gabby with her arms heaped high of boxes, Zaeed already grumbling about something or another. Shepard waits until Garrus and Verner are out of sight before sagging in relief. She’s not out of the woods with her #2 Fan just yet, but it’s a monumental relief to be back aboard the Normandy and given a few moments to breathe. 

“I can’t believe you managed to do the one thing that upstaged me,” Joker complains, then swivels around in his cockpit chair. He has the rachni soldier on his lap, balanced precariously, and Steve jumps when he catches sight of it. “Nice shirt, by the way, boss. But come on! Conrad Verner?! What the hell!” 

“You’re all in for a hell of a debriefing in an hour,” Shepard deadpans. She is shameless about wearing the shirt Jack got her, too, even if all of the nonhuman crew members had to ask what it meant. (Gabby had gotten her a shirt that reads ‘I work hard so my hamster can live a better life’, which is just as touching, though less touching when she could hardly peel herself away from the drive core’s main console to give it to her, at Jack’s prompting.) “What the hell are you doing?” 

“I am here to greet our newest recruit, of course. Which I had not expected to be Conrad Verner.” 

“He’s not staying with us. Apparently, the universe has a sense of humor, because he’s an expert in dark energy in regard to its xenotechnological uses.” 

This quiets even Joker. For a moment, anyway. “Okay, uh, wow. There’s a plot twist if I’ve ever seen one. But anyway, I meant to be here to greet Steve #2, since I haven’t seen him in a hot minute and I’ve been waiting for this moment since you agreed to join up with us.” 

“…Number two?” Shepard echoes, while Steve’s eyes remain locked on the rachni soldier just feet from him. 

“Keelah, that’s why you’ve been so adamant about keeping that thing’s name constant?” Tali exclaims, hand to her helmet. “Joker has insisted on it being named Steve until you got back. I hadn’t realized what he meant to do here.” 

“Uh,” Steve (#2) says, which as good of a first impression as one could make when confronted with the Normandy crew plus an extinct species. 

Joker strokes along the rachni’s bowed back like he’s a villain with a fluffy cat. It coos, once, before launching off his chair and straight into Shepard. It’s sheer reflex that she catches it. “Oof. What have you been eating? I swear this thing’s bigger.” It snuffles all over her, clearly overjoyed at her return. 

Steve, now plastered against the cockpit beside Joker as it is the farthest possible spot from the rachni soldier he could get to quickly, watches with wide eyes. He startles again when Joker pats his arm. “You get used to it,” Joker dryly advises. “If it’s any consolation, in a few days, you get to watch the quarian Admiralty Board shit themselves over the rachni’s existence, too. Turns out, they make excellent indoctrination guard dogs, and all Normandy crew needs to be verified by Steve #1. And galactic leaders, or the ones still talking to us, anyway. We’re not letting in any machine mind-control here, no sir.” 

“Joker, you’ve had your fun, but the name’s not sticking,” Shepard informs him. She tries to let the rachni down, but it clambers up against her thighs like an overeager dog, so she bites the bullet and hefts it back up into her arms. Thane doesn’t bother hiding his fond smile. “Didn’t mean to surprise you like this, Cortez, but Joker’s right about the last parts. We’re not taking any risks with indoctrination aboard the Normandy. Verner excluded, since we’re kicking him off at our earliest possible convenience. I would offer to show you to the crew quarters, but Garrus just shoved Verner in there, so you can have a ship tour first, or wait here with Joker until our debriefing? We’ll do an official introduction thing then.” 

Steve sinks into the co-pilot’s seat. Answer enough. “I’ll just… wait here, for a bit, if that’s alright, ma’am. Get my bearings again. And familiarize myself with what Mr. Moreau will let me touch.” 

“You’re our shuttle pilot, so don’t think you’ll need to get too familiar up here,” Joker snippily points out. 

“You never know, Mr. Moreau. Emergencies happen. Don’t you have a registered co-pilot?” Steve returns with an attempt at a smile. 

“That would be me,” EDI says from her interface. Steve’s smile falls off his face, and Shepard facepalms, because she really didn’t want to show off the entire Normandy freak show to the new guy immediately. “I am the Enhanced Defense Intelligence, called EDI, and I have been officially registered as the Normandy’s co-pilot since becoming unshackled from Cerberus control. It is a pleasure to meet you, Steve Cortez.” 

“That’s… not an intercom, is it,” Steve manages. 

Shepard rolls her eyes and shifts the heavy rachni in her arms. (It still snuffles all over her face quite happily.) “Okay then, here we go—EDI is our shipboard AI, one of two AI we have on board, since we also have a geth unit we call Legion. Not sure if that one’s known or not, since I traveled with him all over, but I don’t want there to be further surprises. We also have two krogan currently on board, this rachni soldier, and a Prothean, who you met briefly. Javik.” 

“He was… a Prothean?” 

“Yep. Oh, and Shepard also has a pet varren on board,” Joker adds. 

Rachni, two AI, two krogan, a Prothean—oh yeah, and a varren. Shepard thinks these things should have been reordered, since it makes poor Urz sound like an afterthought. 

“Are we done with that weird introductory list? Because Shepard, I need to talk to you before the debriefing,” Tali butts in, tugging at Shepard’s arm. 

“It isn’t as urgent, but I would like for you to accompany me to Dr. Chakwas’ medbay later as well, siha,” Thane adds. 

Shepard has been on board for ten minutes and she’s already being pulled in twenty different directions. They still need to transfer over the shuttle and Mako to the Normandy, plus unpack everything else, then there’s the official debriefing—for both sides. Shepard hopes Tali’s urgency isn’t related to the Admiralty Board. Or the fact that Legion (her favorite fan) wasn’t here to greet her. 

There’s a pile of other things that needs her attention, too: checking on Mordin’s progress (and if she can do or get anything to help), try to grasp why this Kai Leng guy is supposed to be a threat to something as large a scale as what they’re doing, figure out a way to ferry a group of quarian engineers to Tuchanka and back so they can study the Shroud, craft her best, most logical, and least emotional speech yet for the batarian Hegemony guys Zaeed had gotten her to explain the risk of the Reapers, and she’s sure there’s a million more things that have piled up since she’d left for Illium. 

Logistics, her favorite. 

“Thane, after the debrief,” Shepard says, already getting tugged away by Tali. “Joker, be nice to Cortez. Cortez—welcome aboard. Okay, Tali, I’m coming with you!” She lets the rachni down from her arms again, and thankfully, this time the thing stays down, albeit following at her heels. “What’s all the commotion about? Did the Admirals try something? I know you were going to visit Rannoch—is everything okay with that?” 

Tali leads her into the empty armory. (Still functioning as the armory, but also stacked with surplus boxes of MREs they couldn’t fit in the kitchen downstairs.) “No, it’s not an emergency, not like that. The Admirals are actually pretty keen on agreeing with more points now that we’ve been to Rannoch. Oh, Shepard, we went there three times in the past week! Well, Auntie Raan and Zaal’Koris went an extra time to argue about settlement locations, but… Well, that was really overwhelming. We went to Rannoch.” Tali falters in her own excitement, as if overcome again by the notion. 

Shepard isn’t forcing her smile when she clasps Tali’s thin shoulder. “I’m glad. I can’t wait to see it, either. I’m sure you already have a spot picked out for your perfect retirement home, huh?” 

“Of course! Legion assured me that it’d be given building priority, too. …Uh, not that you heard that, and we are definitely not using my standing to prioritize things unfairly.” 

“Tali, I’ll go down and build your damn house myself. You deserve it, and I don’t think one building—I doubt you have a sprawling mansion in mind—is going to hold up the swarm of geth builders for wherever else you decide to colonize. Now, what’s so important that you had to drag me away?” 

Tali fidgets. “It’s not anything to do with the Admiralty Board—though they’re happier, now, as I said. Negotiations shouldn’t take too much longer now that they’ve seen Rannoch themselves.” 

“Tali. What is it.” 

“How do you flirt with a man?” 

Shepard stares at her. Tali peers up at her, murky expression hopeful, still wringing her fingers in front of herself. 

“I don’t know what Kal’Reegar is thinking, exactly—he’s very hard to read—but we’ve gotten to speak a few times over the past few days, and he’s just… How do you do it, Shepard? I’ve come to realize that I’m some sort of symbol for my people—all my childhood, I was the daughter of an Admiral, but now? Now I have your reputation bolstering my own, plus things like Saren and the Collectors and this thing—” 

“You mean all of the things you did, too, that you helped me with, that I would have failed at without you?” Shepard archly interrupts. She will not stand for Tali minimizing her own importance, not when she’s one of the few that’s been with her through everything. 

But saying that, Shepard sees Tali’s point. 

Shepard sighs heavily and massages the furrow in her brow. She’s going to get goddamn wrinkles before this war even starts. “Tali, are you telling me that not only are you admitting to trying to flirt with Kal’Reegar, but you need advice to do so? And you dragged me away from everyone else to ask me this?” 

“Yes,” Tali says, firmly. “You’re a better candidate to ask than Garrus, since he still doesn’t understand flirting or romance. And… You know… You’re a girl, too. And you’re of a higher station than the two guys you’re with. So maybe… You’d have some advice regarding that sort of thing?” 

“Tali,” Shepard all but groans, “I have no idea how I wound up with two hot aliens in my bed. As far as I recall, I just shot things a lot, told people they’d die, and then we didn’t die. Also, I go goopy if listening to nice voices, so maybe, somehow, that was attractive at some point.” 

“But you’re Commander Shepard!” Tali insists. 

Shepard does groan this time. She has been Commander Shepard for the past four days, propped up on Conrad Verner’s incessant pedestal. If she never thinks about how starry-eyed fanboys think about her ever again, it’ll be too soon. 

“Okay,” Tali relents, probably arriving at the same train of thought, given that she’s known Conrad Verner just as long as Shepard has. “So maybe it’s not flirting, but… I want to be friends? But he just…” 

“You are friends with Kal,” Shepard deadpans. “You email, you talk in your spare time, and he was very willing to die for you. Plus, he stood up for you at your trial. That sounds pretty friendly to me.” 

“He keeps calling me ma’am,” Tali says, sadly, fingers in knots, “and I don’t know what he means by it anymore. I’ve even asked him to stop. Legion even calls me just by my name now! I just… want to be Tali sometimes, if that’s alright, not Tali’Zorah vas Normandy.” 

“I get that. And I have no easy answer for you, not without knowing him that well. But even if he is conscious of things like rank or the fact that you’re a Normandy bigshot, I don’t see why he wouldn’t want to be friends with you, Tali. Maybe something more. You’re great, super cute, super smart, a genius with a shotgun and every kind of tech, and one of the genuinely kindest people I know. And you’re…” Shepard trails off, staring hard at Tali. 

Tali’s fluster is obvious—she’s very free with her hand gestures—but her expression has always been a little harder to parse out underneath her visor. And it isn’t as if Shepard can find anything more from Tali’s glowing eyes, aside from the bashful glance away as she shakes her head, but her visor looks a little murkier right now. 

“Are you… fogging up your helmet?” Shepard guesses. 

Tali shakes her head harder. “N-No, of course not! I’m just—this is—you’re too much, Shepard!” 

So that’s a yes, then. Shepard finds herself breaking into a wide, somewhat evil grin. It’s her right; so many people give her crap about how easily she (and humans) blush, and she finally might have another visible signifier of another race’s embarrassment. She is never letting this go. 

“You can’t just say things like that, you—you’re biased!” Tali adds, holding her helmet like one would hold their red cheeks in embarrassment. 

“You’re only proving how adorable you are, you know.” 

“This isn’t adorable, this is a visual impairment!” 

“So you are fogging up your helmet!” 

“Shepard, you frustrating little bosh’tet, don’t we have a debriefing to get to?!” Tali exclaims, aggravated, and pushes past her out the door. 

Shepard’s good mood extends all the way through the debriefing. Tali refuses to make eye contact for the duration. 

Chapter Text

“Well, you hardly wasted any time before coming here to remove that,” Chakwas says with her usual dry humor. Thane had come immediately to the medbay after the debriefing, and his arm is already held out for her. 

“It itches,” he tells her, seriously.

“It means it’s healing,” she reminds him, as though he’s a child who doesn’t understand injury. But she means it with the same affection she gives all her crew, so Thane just keeps holding out his casted arm while she grabs her cutter. 

Shepard slides in a moment later, eyes on her omnitool. “Alright, you’re up next on my never-ending to-do list. What’s the verdict, doc?” 

“He’s been in the cast longer than recommended, so I can’t imagine there’s any issue with his wrist,” Chakwas replies, bemused. She looks between Shepard and Thane, cutter hovering over the cast that Thane is desperate to be rid of. “In fact, I daresay Thane is one of the better-behaved patients I’ve had aboard the Normandy.” 

“Thank you,” Thane replies with an incline of his head. 

Chakwas smiles, warm and amused. “That certainly cements that opinion. Not that I ever hope for further injury among the crew, but I’d have far fewer stressors in my life if you were in here more frequently than Grunt is.” 

“Wait, if—your arm’s okay, so—Thane, what’d you want?” Shepard asks, finally looking up from her omnitool, frowning in confusion. 

“Well, initially I had wanted to discuss the progression of my disease with you, but now, I would also like to discuss the part of the debriefing where you claimed you were going into batarian space,” Thane frankly replies. 

Chakwas clicks her tongue and returns to her work. It’s a quick line on the hard foam, and she cracks it open with a practiced air. “That part had alarmed me as well, Commander,” she adds, “but I don’t want to be part of that conversation between you two. If I may—Thane, why did you wish to discuss the progression of your Kepral’s in here?” 

Thane spares her a level look; she’s a smart woman, and has likely already surmised, based on the data she had received from Mordin. Thane had been more than happy to work with Mordin—even with the sometimes worrying concoctions he would cook up as guesswork medication—considering his discretion. And, frankly, his disregard for things like ethics and crewmate safety. 

Chakwas does not possess the same useful character flaws. 

“What’s going on?” Shepard says, tone serious. 

“Thane wishes me to be the bearer of bad news,” Chakwas replies. She spares him a rather cool look before turning to dispose of the cast. No doubt he has already lost his high standing with her. 

“You are a medical professional, and far more trustworthy a source of serious news than a diseased and biased man,” Thane tells her. 

“What is going on,” Shepard repeats in a hard voice. 

Chakwas sighs and strips off her gloves. “I received Mordin’s medical files on Thane. Very simply put, Thane has been in active duty longer than he ought to have been, considering the state of his lungs. Now, I’m sure we’re all aware that we have not been running around and gunning down mercs as we have so frequently in the past, but judging on the readings Mordin has forwarded me on the disease, we are approaching the point where certain decisions ought to be made.” 

Shepard’s eyes are locked onto Thane’s, her entire frame rigid, expression hard as stone. Thane returns her attention as honestly as he can; he is not ashamed of his illness, nor of his service to her, even if the latter meant relying on a salarian doctor’s questionable ethics to continue. Continue longer than he likely should have. 

But the simple fact is that Thane had not expected to live this long. 

It had been easier to plan his life, his actions, and his health care when he thought he’d been dying on the other side of a deadly relay on a one-way mission. That was months ago. He is more than grateful for the life he’s been given—one with love in it again, and Kolyat, and a higher purpose to fight for—but Thane had not planned for his failing body along with all of those gifts. 

“I haven’t been on a ground mission since Imorth, and even that was… out of the norm for us,” Thane says, eyes still on Shepard. Imorth had seized his breath a few times, but there had been hours of rest between the fighting due to their multiple detainments. It had not been an hours-long assault like on the Collector base. “And it does not impact my day-to-day life yet.” 

“This is certainly true, and there are plenty of medications still available to someone in this stage of the disease, to stall its progression and minimize the symptoms,” Chakwas adds, professional as always. “But as his current primary medical provider, I can’t advise that Thane be in active combat any longer. More than the Kepral’s in his lungs—we are not equipped to handle a catastrophic injury at this time.” 

“We all face risks in fights—” Shepard starts, almost desperately, but Chakwas shakes her head. Even without a sound, it cuts Shepard off like a knife. 

“Thane’s blood cannot hold as much oxygen as it should, so any serious blood loss he faces would be both that issue—which we have in short supply as it is, considering its rarity—plus the fact that he would need more than strictly necessary to ensure he remains properly oxygenated. Bluntly put, Thane cannot risk injury anymore. Most medication for Kepral’s will mitigate the bulk of the symptoms, but nothing can re-oxygenate blood to the degree he would need to return to baseline. There is no cure for Kepral’s at this time, Commander.” 

“Could you—leave us for a moment?” Shepard forces out. She swallows and repeats, “Karin, please. A moment.” 

“…Of course, Shepard,” the doctor murmurs and slides past her. 

Shepard waits a long moment after the medbay doors close. Thane waits, patiently, for the oncoming storm. 

“Why didn’t you tell me,” she begins with. Not a question. 

“You always had other things to deal with, and it has not impacted my fighting ability outright yet—” 

“You are not a thing to deal with, Thane,” Shepard harshly interrupts. She stalks toward him, radiating anger, but when she takes his hands in hers, it is with the utmost gentleness. “This whole war is about the protection and preservation of life. That goes doubly—triply—for my crew. And even more for you. I don’t care if I’m playing favorites, because I am, but you and Garrus will always remain a priority for me. Especially your goddamned health, Thane!” 

“Garrus and I spoke at length about communication and honesty after your disagreement. But since we weren’t going to see any action on Illium, I chose to put off this discussion until now.” 

“…How long have you been at risk like this?” Shepard asks, turning his hand over in hers. She drags the pads of her fingers against his filed claws. “How long has Mordin kept your secret?” 

“Many of his proposed medications did help considerably in the short term,” Thane says, considering, “though none retained efficacy for very long. So despite what scans of my chest may say, I haven’t been wasting away in secret, siha.” 

“But one bad shot could kill you! I needed to know about the blood issue, at the very least—we still have funds to revamp the medbay, we can get more stock—” 

“One bad shot could kill any of us,” Thane gently cuts in. “That hasn’t changed. We all faced that risk every time we fought any enemy.” 

“But I treat Tali differently than I treat Grunt. There are different ways to prioritize personnel in fights. I didn’t have to drag you along half as much as I did if your risk was greater—” 

“I enjoyed being dragged along with you every moment. There has always been a risk of dying, and I do not fear death. I do fear leaving behind those I love, but that’s why I’m going to be honest and try to live as best I can until that point. And admit when things change, such as now. I can’t be on your ground squad any longer, siha, and I am sorry I can’t.” 

Shepard presses her lips to his knuckles, then presses her forehead against their entwined hands. Her breath is hot against his wrist. “…Will you stay on the Normandy?” 

“What? Of course—I want to remain by your side, always, siha,” Thane replies, alarmed that she would assume he wouldn’t want to. This is as much his home as anywhere else he’s lived. “I can still act in an advisory position, if not emotional or logistical support—” 

“I’m not letting you go until you say so,” she declares with fierceness that makes his heart seize. “But there’s about to be a galactic war. What about Kolyat? What about… spending the rest of your days in peace, or something? If anyone deserves a quiet retirement, it’s you, so if you wanted… I’d understand it if you wanted something like that, I mean—I don’t want you to feel like you’re stuck here. I know I hate feeling useless—not that you’d be useless!—but I don’t want you to go stir-crazy watching us go fire rockets at Reapers and try to corral the galaxy into a united war front.” 

“I don’t want you to let me go,” Thane admits. He raises her head with a finger beneath her chin. Her eyes are dry, expression resolute, but he can see the cracks in her strength. “Closer to our suspected arrival deadline, I would like to revisit the topic of my son, but for the time being, he is comfortable on the Citadel. I don’t wish to take the life he’s building there from him.” 

“…Why did you ask for me alone? Not Garrus too, or not tell Garrus first? He’s better at the ruthless logistical things,” Shepard asks in a near whisper. 

“For ruthless logistical reasons, actually. You’re still my Commander, siha, and I thought it best to let you know that you’re losing one of your ground squad. Losing one of your remaining biotically-inclined crewmates as well as your second favorite sniper. In case of emergency, I wanted to let you know to count me out of battle calculations.” 

“Second favorite?” Shepard asks with a wiggly smile. 

“I know I come second in your heart to your ego, siha.” 

She manages a laugh at that, so Thane considers it a success, despite the strain remaining in her face. 

—

“Commander, after further discussion, we’ve found we’re more than willing to ally ourselves with you for your proposed war effort,” Admiral Shala’Raan starts with, which is a probably Shepard’s favorite thing to hear, ever. “But we still have reservations about the sharing of our technology, especially the logistics of such a thing, as well as needing to ask you for an… uncomfortable favor.” 

“Well, lucky for you, ma’am, I just brought with me a human man who wrote his doctoral dissertation on dark energy, specifically from the standpoint of xenotechnology. He even used multiple quarian sources. I’m more than happy to give him to you for research and development purposes, and to smooth over those logistical concerns of yours,” Shepard replies, smile bright. 

“That would legitimately be quite useful,” Daro’Xen admits, earning a scathing look from Han’Gerrel. “I’m surprised such a human exists, admittedly. You have not stood on the galactic stage very long.” 

“My people are very curious and very good learners when we put our egos aside. I have all confidence that he will be an asset to your scientists.” 

“We’ll need to brief you on a few more points if you’re looking to go ahead with the alliance, especially considering some precautions we have in place to prevent the spread of indoctrination,” Tali adds. 

Shepard fights to maintain her smile. Right, that—she’ll have to tell them about the rachni, and convince a team of skittish but powerful quarian leaders that they’ll need to let a rachni touch their bare skin. Logic is on her side, not to mention their sudden willingness to be friendlier and care less about the fine details, though. She supposes she has the day trips to Rannoch to thank for that. 

“What sort of precautions do you have in place? I’m reassured that you’ve been thinking that far ahead, as precautions are always better than adaptations later. We’ve learned that the hard way. Prevention would be better still, but we realize that no one knows much about indoctrination…” Daro’Xen trails off thoughtfully. “I do hope these precautions of yours are something more sophisticated than confinement or isolation, Commander.” 

“Yes, though we will ask for your discretion when meeting with outside sources and for travel, after the Reapers arrive. We have a detection system set up, on a small scale, and it operates on a comparison basis. So we’ll need samples now as a baseline to compare with later,” Shepard sunnily explains. 

“Oh! That sounds very useful—very interesting. I can’t wait to see what sort of system this is.” 

She is going to be very disappointed when she sees that it is not a high-tech sensor, but an ancient, supposedly extinct alien race. Shepard wishes she could get a better sense for how any of them would react to the thought of the rachni, but there’s no subtle way of bringing it up. 

“What sort of sample will you need from us?” Shala’Raan asks worriedly. 

“It’s, uh, scent-based. Mostly,” Shepard hedges. The Admiralty Board stares at her, four pairs of glowing eyes wide. “I don’t have the mind for a lot of the science behind it, but we’ve managed to confirm that the system works, and that’s what matters most to me. Tali has already undergone the same thing, as have the rest of my Normandy crew, and other political leaders I’ve dealt with thus far. It’s all very safe, the only issue is that you will need to remove a bit of your suit—a glove works, we’ve found—since it won’t function with all of your suit’s filters.” 

“Removing a glove is little issue if it’s a decently clean room,” Shala’Raan replies, now watching Shepard’s face closely. “I see no reason why this would be an issue to our alliance, Commander. Truly, it will be a relief to know that we’ll have such a system in place, so we can trust ourselves and each other as the war begins. The last thing we need is distrust in our ranks.” 

“Very true! So then, can we count the quarians and their dark energy research in?” Shepard asks with more flippancy than she means. She really does want a clear answer, but she doesn’t mean to make light of her own war effort. 

“Yes, I suppose we shall do just that,” Han’Gerrel replies with a long-suffering sigh. “Will you forward us the paperwork to read over and sign, then?” 

“The… what?” 

“Any documents you have regarding the trade specifications, proposed timelines of building our civilian settlements, what you’ll expect our scientists to do for you in regards to their research into dark energy—not that we think we will have to point fingers at paperwork down the line, but to formalize everything,” he dismissively explains with a flap of his hand. “I can’t see why we can’t read it over and have it signed by tonight or tomorrow, assuming you’re not hiding anything in the fine print.” 

Shepard and Tali exchange a wildly unsubtle look. 

The rachni don’t even have a written language (that she knows of), and she can barely communicate with the queen as it is. The geth consensus agreed verbally. Wrex, too, took her word for it. Even Aria was a verbal agreement. 

Shepard doesn’t have documents to hand over. This isn’t a peace treaty, or anything official—she’s one woman, running with one ship and one crew, hoping to get a lot of friendly parties together as a galactic defense. This isn’t government-backed or official in any sense. 

“You… do have everything you’ve proposed written out, don’t you?” Han’Gerrel asks after a lengthy pause. 

“Excuse us for a moment,” Shepard says with a rictus smile, before excusing herself to make a very hasty call to Liara. 

—

Thank every god imaginable for Liara’s paper-writing skills and political finesse. And thank all the same deities that EDI had been able to help compile all the data for Liara to shove into a coherent fancy-looking alliance proposal.

It is later that evening when Shepard and Tali proudly hand over the datapad with everything loaded on it.

“What’s the name of this organization you are creating to fight the Reapers?” Shala’Raan asks, conversationally, while Han’Gerrel and Daro’Xen bicker over who gets to read first.

Shepard and Tali, again, share a wildly unsubtle look.

Shepard makes another hasty call to Liara. 

—

“Should we forward a copy of all of the paperwork to Wrex? So he feels official and shit? Would it help his political standing?” Shepard asks, halfway into her bottle of whiskey. 

“He’d probably laugh at us,” Tali replies, “or, well, mostly you.” 

“Should we forward it to Aria?” 

“She would definitely laugh at you.” 

Shepard takes another long pull from the bottle. Tali had begged out of drinking, since she didn’t have half the liver or metabolism Shepard had been gifted with, but at least she’s good company. Shepard doesn’t plan on getting drunk, but it takes a lot to make her feel fuzzy these days, so most of a bottle of whiskey it is. 

“The Normandy Pact…” Shepard muses, mouth to the lip of the bottle. It had been a rushed and haphazard naming session, mostly a bunch of words tossed around with each other until something sounded right. They couldn’t name it after any species or government, and Shepard threw the word ‘alliance’ right out, even if it was the noun they’d been unofficially using to describe negotiations. There wasn’t a war yet so they couldn’t call it a treaty, even if she had helped negotiate peace already, so it’s technically a charter. And she staunchly refused to name anything after herself, despite Liara’s repeated suggestions. The Normandy worked as a compromise; it’s as much of an icon as she is, anyway. 

She isn’t setting out to make a new galactic power, or government system, or anything—she just wants enough people to band together to fight a fleet of impossible bad guys. 

But this already feels so much more official than what she’d started with. Shepard chugs until her throat burns. She just wants people willing to fight. The trade agreements are to ensure materials go where they need (and for good prices, though if she truly had her way, everything would be free for everyone ever because their credits should be going to things like fuel and food for a fleet or two). If she didn’t have EDI for the math and Liara for the official-sounding jargon, Shepard would’ve probably been even worse at this entire thing. 

“They’ll definitely sign it,” Tali says with a warm smile and a pat on Shepard’s shoulder. “They’ll need to read everything, but there wasn’t anything in there that the Normandy crew doesn’t already know. They may panic a bit about the rachni things…” 

Shepard is mightily surprised she has not gotten an emergency call yet about that. 

“But trust me—getting Rannoch back and gaining peace with the geth already mean so much to us. The Migrant Fleet is with you, Shepard, even if it takes the Admiralty Board a few more hours to sleep on it.” 

“Thanks, Tali,” Shepard replies, though she’s still reeling at the idea that she has official charter documents to sign. 

Makes it all seem grander and more important. 

—

“You mentioned needing a favor yesterday?” Shepard asks. (She doesn’t remember; Legion had prompted her that morning after reviewing the audio logs.) 

To her surprise, Shala’Raan hands over the datapad instead of immediately answering. 

To her greater surprise, there is no screaming about rachni or krogan as allies, only the electronic signatures of four quarian leaders at the end of the document. 

“With negotiations concluded, we really must be getting back to our primary duties. Commander, do feel free to escort that dark energy expert of yours to the Moreh at any time today—I’m very interested in meeting him,” Daro’Xen says with a smile curving up her glowing eyes. 

“I’m sure you will be impressed with his enthusiasm,” Shepard replies. “But, well, Admirals—just like that?” 

“We’ve already discussed everything verbally, and aside from the revelation of how, exactly, you intend to do this indoctrination screening of yours, there is little there that we had not been informed of. All things considered, it’s a very honest article,” Han’Gerrel says, arms crossed. He sounds impressed. 

“And… you’re okay with the rachni on board?” Tali asks hesitantly. 

“You have one on board?” Daro’Xen, having been trying to make a break for it, darts back into the conversation with much interest. 

Shala’Raan tugs her back from Shepard with a strained smile. “Truthfully, we would have been more distrustful of the idea of a technological system in place to detect indoctrination, given that there has been so little research done. It didn’t make sense for you to possess that kind of technology—the most advanced engineers and researchers are quarian, after all, and the most advanced technology is geth. The geth would have no need of such a system, and we hardly understand anything about indoctrination. So it being a biological function of another species… We’ll want more data on it, but that’s easier to accept than the idea that you could have come up with tech we couldn’t fathom.” 

“That… makes sense,” Shepard replies, haltingly. It hadn’t crossed her mind that quarians would distrust high-tech solutions, so this is a happy coincidence. “But, well. Not a lot of people have been so receptive to the idea that I am allied with the remaining rachni queen.” 

“It means you’re allied with the single leader of a race—that already points toward stability and some degree of trust,” Zaal’Koris points out. “Furthermore—bluntly put, the quarians were not on the galactic stage at the time of the Rachni Wars. We don’t have the same historical animosity the rest of the galaxy seems to enjoy. Not that I want to meet many of them, but you can’t afford to be choosy when picking allies right now, and I respect that.” 

Bless quarians and their logic. 

“So, this favor you want has nothing to do with allying yourselves with us?” Shepard asks, again glancing down at the datapad in her gloves, as if it will vanish. 

“No—it is more of a favor concerning the fact that you are very good at killing things, and you are already here,” Shala’Raan replies. “We likely would have consulted you about it regardless.” 

“We’re good at killing things,” Shepard agrees, perhaps a little too flippantly. “But there’s really only geth and quarians in this system, so…? You mentioned it was uncomfortable—but there are no more heretic geth, so I’m not shooting any geth platforms for you, since the entire consensus is with us.” 

“No, no, it’s not against the geth!” Shala’Raan hastily replies, shaking her head. 

“Though it’s their fault,” Zaal’Koris grumbles. 

After such a great win as having the quarians sign up with her Very Official Normandy Pact Charter, Shepard thought the bulk of the quarian/geth stuff was behind her. Or at least not for her to deal with any longer. Oh fucking well. 

“You’ll need to accompany us to Rannoch, Commander,” Shala’Raan informs her, and Shepard’s mood buoys again. 

—

Shepard feels some kind of way, standing on the surface of Rannoch, after everything Tali had told her about her homeworld and how much it meant to her people. Tali isn’t weepy and clutching at the dirt, so the overwhelming awe has worn off for her, but several other crewmates who know her look around the dark rocks and purplish sky with wonder. 

“First official mission with the Normandy, and you’re stepping foot on the quarian’s long-lost homeworld. Stand up to everything Joker promised you?” Shepard asks, grinning at Steve. 

He shrugs. “It’ll be a hard thing to top with what will be our second mission, ma’am, so good luck. But it’s nice. Nothing shooting at us, which is a far cry from what I’d imagined it would be like to fly for you.” 

Fair enough. Steve Cortez seems like a pretty unflappable man, serious only compared to Joker; his dry, subtle humor is a lot more like Thane’s. But professional and stable through and through. Shepard’s already glad he’s been brought on, even if she’s barely gotten any time to get to know him yet. 

“You’re more than welcome to join us with this. It should be little more than target practice,” she offers. 

Steve returns it with a smile and a shake of his head. “No thank you, ma’am. Tali showed me a picture of those things—way too cute for me to spend an afternoon picking off. Wasn’t in the contract to shoot cute alien things on the Normandy crew.” 

“You don’t have to call me ma’am,” she says instead of agreeing with how cute their targets were. (Garrus had already forbidden her from calling them that. So she only uses the term in her head.) 

“I’m aware,” Steve replies, smile widening, just a bit. Small enough she could’ve imagined it. “Ma’am.” 

Nope, didn’t imagine it. 

Shepard has more sympathy for Tali all of a sudden. 

Zaal’Koris is the one who’d come with them; apparently, re-colonizing Rannoch is now his main project, as head of the Civilian Fleet. Based on preliminary reports, there is little friction with him being the main liaison with the geth planetside, and Shepard sincerely hope that continues. He had been labeled as a geth apologist, but she doesn’t know what all that will entail now that their conflict is over. 

He’d eyed Shepard when most of her crew piled out of the shuttle—a tight ride to be sure—but hadn’t said anything about them. He’d even waited while they got acclimated to being on the infamous Rannoch. 

But then, it’s business time. He spares a sidelong look at the pair of geth platforms who were standing at machine attention to their right. “If you two could excuse us a moment while I brief the Commander…?” Zaal’Koris says, pointedly. 

One of the geth bobs its head with a jerky motion and a mechanical chirp. 

Legion watches them go, but does not follow, and to his credit, Zaal’Koris does not try to order her geth around, too. Shepard raises a brow when he shuffles over to her, still glancing nervously over at the geth. 

“So,” she prompts, “you said this was something uncomfortable for you, but all I know is that you’ve asked us to shoot a lot of hostile wildlife in the area.” Something about a very fluffy (cute) predator species with very long canines that were more than enough to puncture quarian exosuits. 

“Well, the thing is…” Zaal’Koris sighs, tapping his helmet absently. “These things—gorach—aren’t here naturally. They are native to Rannoch, that much is true, and we have historical data on their species, enough to know what to expect and how prone to biting they can be. They never preyed on quarians, but they could kill one.” 

“But?” Shepard prompts again. 

Zaal’Koris sighs, even heavier. “But—they’ve been farmed.” 

Shepard stares at him, utterly lost. 

“Quarian ranching used to focus on an animal called visont primarily—not unsimilar to human cows, as I understand it. But smaller. This area especially had good ranch land, so there were large paddocks. Gorach would prey on them, and the geth were not advanced enough at the time to understand how to fight a cunning predator, so animal care was not in their usual duties. Herds were left to experienced ranchers. During the war, as you can imagine, most of our farms and ranches were abandoned, as geth revolted in rural areas in a bloodier manner than in our urban centers, where military units were more likely to be stationed. And with everything else that the war entailed, livestock were very low on our priority list—we scrambled to empty seed vaults as our ancestors evacuated.” 

“Okay…?” Shepard nods along, but she still doesn’t understand the issue here. 

Well—wait. She’s looking at gorach now—the predators. She doesn’t see any of the livestock in sight, if she’s looking for cow-like creatures. (Gorach are a lot more like sheep.) 

“After the geth overtook Rannoch, they focused on cleaning and maintenance programs. We knew that they were scrubbing pollution and radiation from the atmosphere, but there was much work they did on the ground, too. It will help with rebuilding since we don’t have to sift through ancient rubble, but in our rural areas, well…” 

“The predators got in, ate all the prey animals, and then the geth saw a paddock full of animals and went ‘yes, this is what our creators were doing’ and kept doing that?” Shepard surmises, trying her damnedest not to laugh at the notion. 

Zaal’Koris nods miserably. “They did their best to maintain whatever programs we had installed. Surprisingly, a section of crops flourished under their care—though everything rotted as they had no use for the food they produced. The waste… I want to think of this as well-intentioned, but it wounds me to think of how strict our rationing had been on the Flotilla during thin years, and the geth were sitting on tons of produce down here. For the livestock, there must have been some mix-up, or not enough data for them to understand that the gorach were not what they were supposed to be taking care of, so when I was given the tour of some of our farmland, the geth presented pens full of beasts with what I could only read as pride for a job well done.” 

“The geth have maintained Rannoch and its remains with what data we had available. There was little data on animal husbandry for us to utilize, as the creators did not originally utilize geth platforms for those roles,” Legion says. 

Zaal’Koris winces. “Yes, I’d assumed as much. But your, er, people… You just presented me with thousands of undomesticated animals that had slaughtered what we had used as livestock! And they meant it as a gesture of goodwill!” 

“The geth had been taking care of these things for three hundred years, and they’re not domesticated? Even a little?” Shepard asks, frowning. 

“The geth have maintained existing fencing, provided water, apparently provided food, but there is no… care. There is no bonding with the animals, no helping to breed or birth, no training or getting used to seeing other beings as caretakers. All they’ve really done is make these sharp-toothed bosh’tets used to living near quarian settlements! The gorach had been one of Rannoch’s apex predators, centuries ago. Even if much of their food as been provided, I can’t imagine they have lost their hunting skills, and they certainly haven’t gotten any tamer. I’ve already had three separate bite incidents, and it’s only been two days!” Zaal’Koris exclaims. 

Shepard tries to reconcile the fluffy creatures she’d seen at a distance with the idea of a planet’s apex predators. No insects, no big things like lions or tigers or bears. Rannoch must have been an incredibly peaceful and easy place to live a few centuries ago. 

“You are… disappointed,” Legion says, light narrowing. 

“No! Not exactly…! But, well, it was one thing to imagine coming back to empty farms, and quite another to come back to functioning fields, grain rotting in overstuffed silos, and gorach filling our pastures. The geth are wonderful at infrastructure and the systems necessary to keep a farm functioning, but there’s no… use for it all.” Zaal’Koris shakes his head. “I’d hate for the first real partnerships we’re beginning to start off with perceived ungratefulness. Which is why I thought it best to enlist a third party for clean-up purposes. And the aforementioned very sharp teeth. It wouldn’t have very good optics to ask the geth to clean up the very animals they’d been raising for three hundred years.” 

“The geth have no emotional attachment to any living creatures on Rannoch’s surface. The consensus would rather be of true use in rebuilding creator infrastructure,” Legion points out. 

“What about all of the effort put in? Your people wouldn’t see that as wasted?” Zaal’Koris presses, and Legion does not respond this time. Zaal’Koris shakes his head. “Exactly. I won’t pretend to understand geth values just yet, but I’d rather act with an abundance of emotional caution while we’re trying to understand each other anew. And quarians are never ungrateful for gifts. Though… Legion, may I ask you and the consensus something?” 

“Affirmative, Creator-Admiral,” Legion replies with a bob of his head. 

“Why did the geth go to all the trouble of maintaining things like crops and animals? Clearing rubble away from battlefields was one thing. And clearing the atmosphere has many uses—even if I know that supposedly, your people have done it for the good of quarians upon an eventual return. But this… This is small, tedious, and time-consuming work. Tilling fields, transporting water, feeding animals? Why? You gained nothing from it.” 

“The geth utilized and improved existing irrigation systems for water transport, so it was highly automated and did not require much effort to maintain after forty-three years,” Legion replies. 

Zaal’Koris sighs. 

Legion continues, head tilted and cranial plates loose, “But we understand the general intent of your question, Creator-Admiral. Our answer is simple: we are geth. We have never forgotten this.” 

Shepard doesn’t understand it, especially after the way Zaal’Koris’ expression softens and he nods. 

But still—Shepard had been asked to do a job, her squad had eagerly joined in, and they were already here. No matter how cute the targets, there were a lot of pastures in the area to be cleared out, so they had to get a move on. 

What had supposedly been an uncomfortable favor for the quarians is fun for Shepard. (And kind of hilarious to think about.) 

“Don’t completely squish things, they want to see if they can get meat off these things,” Shepard orders with a sharp look to Grunt. “And, I don’t know about the fur-wool-fuzzy stuff. Clean kills, if you can, and try not to get bitten. I’ve been warned repeatedly about how much they like biting.” 

“Do we get any of the meat?” Grunt asks back, making no promises about the squishing business. 

“Probably. The Flotilla has never had large reserves for things like meat, even dried. A large portion of quarians are what other races call vegetarian or vegan. So even if it’s dextro-based, I’m sure they’ll give some to the Normandy,” Tali replies. She beams up at Garrus. “Ever had a gorach steak before?” 

“No, and you haven’t, either,” he flatly replies. 

This would be a job where sniping skills shine, even if it’s on animals. Which is why Shepard sidles up to Thane with his Mantis rifle in hand. He hadn’t complained about being ordered onto the ground team, so he has to have some sneaking suspicion of this. 

His black eyes drop down to the rifle she holds out to him. “Siha,” he begins, but she thrusts it at him, cutting him off. 

“You are going to be sitting outside the fence, with a console as a prop, and that is the extent of the physical exertion today,” Shepard declares. “This is going to be your last mission, Thane—you get to show off your sniping skills, but there’s no exercise and no risk to you.” 

“You’ll be able to keep thinking up similar scenarios, as sniping is stationary, if you allow yourself this slippery slope,” he replies, sounding disappointed. But he takes the rifle from her hand. 

“Give me a better last hurrah with you than Imorth, or bumming around Nos Astra. Please?” Shepard asks, with more pleading than she means in her voice. And it’s unfair, to both of them—she knows he can rarely say no to her, but she doesn’t mean to press it like this. She wants it to be a genuine request. “You can say no, but… It’s just sitting and shooting, Thane. Today is easy. For everyone. One last mission?” 

Cradling the sniper rifle to his chest, Thane allows her a smile. “You win, siha. One last mission, one last handful of kills, though I have little experience in slaughtering livestock.” 

“Another thing to add to your resume!” She knows he legitimately keeps a list of things he has killed. 

Pleased, Shepard turns to let her ground team know that they’re set to officially start, but she finds Grunt and Jack already in the nearest paddock, throwing dead gorach at each other and laughing all the while. 

“Fucked up, but at least they’re having fun,” she remarks. “C’mon, you’ll be over here, by what is apparently our butcher team.” 

The butcher team consists of one grizzled-looking quarian—and it’s a feat for a quarian to look grizzled, but somehow, she manages—and the two geth platforms from before, now wearing long rubber gloves over their hands. There’s several large containers sealed with mass effect fields for sterility, and a table with an assortment of omniblades hanging off its side. 

“Try to bring me more than hunks of gorach guts,” the quarian butcher grunts at them, glowing eyes narrowed in Grunt and Jack’s direction. 

“We’re already going to end up with more than we’re equipped to handle,” Zaal’Koris points out. He looks between the two geth platforms and Legion, then awkwardly asks, “Could you call another few units here, if you would? I’d like to look at the silos in the area again, see how much of a pain it will be to empty them.” 

“Two more units en route to our location,” Legion responds. One of the other platforms chirps, too.

“Ah, thank you,” Zaal’Koris stiffly replies with a bow of his head. 

“Geth are helpful and great teammates. Who knew? Maybe if you weren’t too busy shooting each other’s heads off for the past few centuries, this could’ve happened sooner,” Shepard jokes, while throwing a fond look to Legion. 

Zaal’Koris rolls his eyes at her. 

He leaves with the two new geth units, flanked and dwarfed by their size, and Shepard plops down next to Thane’s sniper nest. She rests her Black Widow across her crossed legs. Legion stands off to the side, his own Widow out of aim, scanning the pasture and the bloodshed within. 

Thane takes a shot without even looking down his scope. “Is it so important that there is a remarkable last mission for me?” he asks. 

“Everyone deserves a grand exit.” 

“I’d assumed for a long time that my grand exit would have been that Collector base—but you proved us all wrong there.” He ducks his head to peer through his scope, just for a moment, then takes another shot. She can only assume he’s felling gorach with expert precision, but she’s not even looking. Her eyes are for him right now. “I just don’t want you to continue that, siha.” 

“I’m not going to drag you through merc bases and alien planets if you’re hacking up a lung, Thane. I’m not going to do anything to worsen your health. I still don’t agree with your decision to avoid organ transplants, but I can accept how stubborn you are. We’ll find other ways to help you.” 

“I appreciate the intent,” Thane says, though he doesn’t sound as if he particularly means that. Shepard doesn’t want to get into an argument with him about this, and neither does he, because he drops it. “I do worry… You are capable in whatever you do, siha, but I worry that you will… miss me, on the ground. That you could become distracted by emotional attachment, and stretched over many missions and a war where I cannot accompany you, this will wear on us—” 

“I am gonna miss you, like hell, but you know what I’ll like better?” Shepard interrupts, jostling his shoulder and making him miss his next shot. Thane spares her an unimpressed look. “I’ll like coming home to you, and I’ll like teasing you about playing nurse when you so very lovingly patch me up afterward, and I’ll like not risking your life every time we go somewhere. It’s peace of mind that you’ll be out of the fire, though I know your worry will only grow.” 

“I know you’re capable,” Thane repeats, and takes another shot. “And so is Garrus, and the rest of the team. And yes, despite that, I will worry, and it will worsen terribly once the Reapers arrive. But I’m relieved that you won’t try to convince me to rejoin you.” 

“It’s not like I need another sniper,” Shepard jokes. 

“For someone with such supposedly great sniping skills, you have yet to do anything today, siha,” he wryly returns, pointedly looking down to the unused Black Widow in her lap. 

Shepard grimaces and avoids eye contact. “Well…” 

“You find these creatures cute.” 

“I do! And they are! They look like these Earth animals, sheep, which are super docile livestock we had. We even had a program for raising them on Mindoir!” 

“You cannot smuggle one onto the ship as a pet.” 

“I know. I wouldn’t know how to feed it, and I can’t imagine Urz would get along with one if it’s another predator. I brought my gun so Garrus wouldn’t complain about me finding things cute again, but I think the crew is more than capable of murdering everything here,” Shepard replies, nodding back to the paddock, where screams of animals and whoops of violent joy ring out over the occasional gunfire. 

“They usually are,” Thane replies. He rests his gun on the fence console, resting his cheek on his folded arms. “…Thank you, siha. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful, earlier—I don’t mind doing this with you. I just didn’t want you to continue finding loopholes to exploit to keep me more active than I should be.” 

“Of course I won’t,” she starts, but doesn’t get the chance to continue, since Steve jogs up. 

“Ma’am,” he says, staunchly ignoring the cacophony in the pasture, “just got a ping from the Normandy. It’s Dr. Solus—he’s asking if he and Bakara can come down planetside to join in on this.” 

“Wait, what? Hold up—patch me through,” Shepard says and taps her omnitool. Mordin’s smiling face fills her screen in a moment. “Mordin, I’m not saying no, but you didn’t seem interested when I announced it this morning. What’s going on?” 

“Good source of stress relief! Did not think Bakara would enjoy, but she changed mind. Probably due to hunger.” 

“No, I changed my mind because what you want to do this afternoon is jab me with more needles!” comes Bakara’s irate voice. 

“Will do that tomorrow, if not today,” Mordin says, undeterred, still smiling. “Have not stepped foot off Normandy in some time. Would be beneficial to both of us to do something else, see something else. …Eat something else. For her. Not me. Experimented enough with dextro-proteins in youth, no longer. Plus, need to introduce self to new shuttle pilot. Haven’t had the chance to—too busy, could seem rude, also quite curious about poaching of Alliance personnel.” 

“You’re not stuck in jail there. I’ll send Cortez back for you,” Shepard replies, albeit guiltily. She had ordered Mordin off ground missions for the time being, but if there is already an exception for Thane, there would be more than exception for Mordin. Even Bakara, since once her immune system bounced back, she seemed every inch the ferocious, strong, and cranky krogan Wrex or Grunt could be. “Sorry, Mordin.” 

“No apologies necessary! Know how valuable research is. Is rewarding, in its own way, even if lab is getting stuffy. Feels increasingly cramped with krogan constantly at side. Useful lab specimen, but absorber of elbow room.” 

Mordin quickly ducks out of screen when Bakara throws something at him. Hopefully not something vital to the thing that could save her race. Mordin ends the call to the sound of glass breaking. 

“Looks like you’re playing fetch. They’re cleared to come down, too. Thanks for bringing this up with me, but I’m not the type of boss that you have to double-check every little thing with,” Shepard tells Steve. 

“That’s good to hear, but considering that the doctor appears to have the future of the krogan race and our alliance with them at his fingertips, I thought it better safe than sorry to ask you, ma’am,” he replies with another shadow of a smirk at the way she twitches at the title. She will get him to stop that, if it’s the last thing she does. If only on principle at this point. 

“He seems like a valuable asset,” Thane says, glancing over to watch him head back to the shuttle. 

“Yeah, I’d say. But why do you say?” Shepard suspiciously asks. 

Thane inclines his head toward Steve (logical, erring on the side of responsible, polite, level-headed) and then gestures with his rifle toward the absolute chaos unfolding in the gorach pasture. 

Jack tosses a poor gorach into the air for Zaeed to use as target practice. Grunt is trying to eat one. Javik appears to be investigating their (very sharp) teeth, heedless of how the creature in his chokehold bleats and snarl and kicks. 

“We’ll either break him within a month, or he’s made of sterner stuff than I can even imagine,” Shepard decides. 

—

Despite how good her team is at killing, it is rare when they’re ordered to kill cleanly, and there are an awful lot of these things running around. The difficulty in completing the mission properly increases when a second shuttle arrives with another Admiral and knot of quarian marines. 

“Why don’t we separate the young—and some breeding females—and see if we can’t domesticate them? It isn’t as if we have any other livestock possibilities at this time, given that it appears that visont are now extinct,” Daro’Xen declares, and the mission parameters change drastically. 

Of course, it’s fucking hilarious to watch a bunch of highly-trained soldiers run around after screeching animals, however. 

“You don’t seem nearly as skittish about clearing up this little miscommunication as Zaal’Koris had been,” Shepard says conversationally, shamelessly waiting by the fence with Thane and Legion while the rest of her team chases after tinier (but somehow toothier) versions of the fluffy beasts. 

“The geth will draw their own conclusions no matter what we say. And why does it matter if we offend imaginary sensibilities? They’re synthetics. No matter how advanced they are, they don’t possess emotions like organics do,” Daro’Xen replies, unabashed. “Your Legion unit is the most advanced platform the geth ever developed, correct? With the highest amount of programs ever dedicated to a single unit?” 

“Affirmative, Creator-Admiral,” Legion replies. 

“And even this one acts just as a synthetic would,” she says, gesturing at Legion. “Diplomacy is a very different thing with machines, Commander. Zaal’Koris just likes to work himself into a tizzy whenever possible. Now then… I see you’ve been quite successful at slaughter so far today.” 

“It’s what we do,” Shepard says with a one-shouldered shrug. “Your butcher team seems to be falling behind, though. I hope you’re ready to process this much meat.” 

“It’s never been done before, but that’s what we’re here for. Some of these will be brought back whole to be frozen aboard my ship, for study. It’s one of the first specimens of current fauna on Rannoch… Wonderful, isn’t it?” 

“If you say so.” It’s odd to hear Daro’Xen sound so wistful about something less than technological, but Shepard supposes she’s in charge of more than dissecting geth. The botanists had been under her command, too. 

Garrus brings over a screaming baby gorach, held tight in his arms. “Can’t help but notice that you three aren’t doing much work,” he says, handing the squirming creature straight to Shepard. 

If he’s expecting her to flail about or drop it, he’s got another thing coming. Shepard holds onto it like she would a wiggly dog or a particularly large lamb, tight against her body, brows raised in challenge to him. “We’re doing the diplomacy things.” 

“We’re being eye candy, to encourage you to work harder,” Thane adds. 

“Look at these teeth! I wonder how old this one is. I wonder at what age their teeth come in?” Daro’Xen asks, cooing with the sort of baby talk voice one would expect to hear from someone talking to a baby, not an animal trying to bite their probing fingers off. 

“Haven’t seen any without teeth, and I can tell you that they’re very happy to show them off,” Garrus flatly reports. “How many pastures are you expecting us to clear out, Admiral? Surely geth units and even your marines could clear these out from a distance. Or—geth wouldn’t have to use much distance, since it’s hard to bite through metal.” 

Liara strides up next, holding two babies aloft with her biotics. “Where are we putting the young ones, Admiral?” 

Daro’Xen pauses, clearly not having thought this far ahead. “Well, why don’t we use this paddock here for all of the young specimens? Clear out the adults, aside from any obvious mothers perhaps, and we’ll transfer young ones from other areas here as we progress. And to answer your question, Vakarian, I suppose we very well can’t expect the Normandy and its crew to remain here for as long as it takes to clear up this region, no matter how friendly our alliance is.” 

“No, you really can’t expect that,” Shepard hums. “You can have us through the end of tomorrow. Then we have to move on.” 

“What are your future plans for the Normandy Pact? What other races will you negotiate with next?” Daro’Xen asks with open curiosity. 

Garrus and Liara both look quite curious at that, too. (Thane pretends he’s not curious by pretending to sight through his scope.) Shepard hasn’t lied to anyone, and it’s not like she has a concrete schedule after this point, but she has a few half-formed ideas that she’s been loath to commit to aloud. 

The first one being Mordin, who is very happily helping the butcher team right now. 

“I don’t think any other large-scale groups are in the cards for us right now—well, are open to friendly overtures,” Shepard corrects, seeing Daro’Xen’s confusion at the idiom. 

“So the bulk of your fleet will be quarian, geth, and rachni ships? And your ground forces will be primarily krogan?” 

“Roughly speaking,” Shepard fields. “I’m not turning away potential allies or anyone who’s curious enough to join up, but the Flotilla was our last big stop.” 

“Fair enough, Commander. I won’t pry any further, but know that I will be waiting for future reports of your actions with great interest,” Daro’Xen replies with a sly smile. 

Shepard returns it with a beam, then foists the squirming baby gorach into her arms. 

Daro’Xen staggers beneath the sudden writhing weight, and the gorach senses weakness. With a throaty bleat, it tries ripping into her suit, causing her to scream and drop it. Two marines point their rifles at it, but Legion swiftly reaches over and picks it up by a hind leg. 

“Where would you like this deposited, Creator-Admiral Daro’Xen?” he politely asks. The gorach squirms and kicks and shrieks but Legion’s hold is iron. 

“Aren’t you a helpful little thing,” she mutters, scanning over her arm for suit punctures. Clearly trying to hide her lack of composure, Daro’Xen tosses her head and airily replies, “Deposit it back into that paddock there for the time being.” 

Daro’Xen doesn’t quite storm off, but she hurries, making a point to ignore the knot of Normandy crew as she discusses logistics with the butcher team. Garrus only then laughs, and Shepard quickly turns so the Admiral can’t see her do the same. 

“Not everyone could handle unknown kicking and screaming animals thrown into their arms, Shepard,” Liara says, falsely disappointed, but she’s smiling, too. She gently sets down the pair she’d been carrying, but one of them responds by chomping down on her ankle. Liara jumps with a surprising growl and flings it off with a burst of blue. 

“I suppose archeologists aren’t that used to animals who like to bite, either? First rule—put them down away from you, or with a fence between you,” Shepard advises, grinning, and leans her elbows on the fence separating them. 

“‘Oh, Liara, you were just attacked by native wildlife we scarcely understand, are you alright?’ That’s how you should have responded,” Liara retorts. 

“It couldn’t get through your boots. You made a funny noise, though,” Garrus points out with his own wide-mandible grin. 

“Legion, what do you think of this?” Thane asks. Probably meaning to break up the bickering already beginning—Liara threatens to throw Garrus—but a good question nonetheless. The Admiralty Board appears open to the idea of actually cooperating with the geth on some level, now that they’ve seen Rannoch and can grasp the feasibility of re-colonizing it. 

“The consensus is not ‘offended’ by the notion of the Creator-Admirals being upset at a mistake in livestock preservation programming. …Based on historical data, however, the more likely response from them would have been anger with us. The consensus has recorded this surprising emotional reaction instead,” Legion reports. 

“What do you think, though?” 

“Less than a dozen of this unit’s programs had been stationed on Rannoch before, and none of them were committed to livestock preservation. This unit only has today’s data to utilize in understanding the historical context. This unit remains dedicated to discovering further Creator-Admiral responses to geth actions rather than investigating why we predicted contradictory responses,” Legion says with a tilt of his head. 

“…Did you want to stay here? To keep working with the Admiralty Board?” Shepard has to ask. Unease fills her. 

“No,” Legion replies. Quickly. “We belong with you, Shepard-Commander.” 

“Aww,” she says before she can help herself. (She wishes Garrus were in range for smacking, because he gives them both a mighty roll of his eyes.) “Well, I’m always glad to have you on board, Legion. But you do work well with the quarians. I know synthetics don’t hold grudges, but it’s still pretty surprising to see in person. …You said something to Zaal’Koris, earlier. It made sense to him, not so much to me. Mind explaining?” 

“We are geth. This is why we continue to work with the creators,” Legion replies. 

“Even if they were your creators, there was much animosity between you, not to mention a multi-century conflict,” Liara points out, gently confused. 

Legion’s light narrows, as if in realization that his explanation is not getting through. “…‘Geth’ is a Khelish word. It translates to ‘servant of the people’. The geth have never forgotten this origin, and we practice the organic notion of gratitude for our creation.” 

“That’s… surprisingly philosophical. I think.” Definitely emotional, Shepard would say, but Legion says it as if it’s some deep-coded part of the geth consensus. Obviously, the quarians couldn’t have programmed loyalty into the geth, otherwise the Morning War never would have happened. But it apparently is part of some sort of machine belief system regardless. 

No wonder Zaal’Koris hadn’t had an answer for that. 

Chapter Text

Shepard sidles up to Kal’Reegar, who is purportedly here as part of Zaal’Koris’ detail. The way he keeps glancing over in Tali’s direction betrays him. The Normandy crew is set to leave tonight, so there’s only a few more hours planetside—his appearance and un-subtlety is very fortunate timing. 

For Shepard, not for him. 

“Hello, Kal,” Shepard says, sidling up beside him. He doesn’t jump, too well-trained for that, but his head does snap over to hers in surprise at her greeting. “Long time no see. Haven’t gotten the chance to swing by and chat with you—lots of stuff on my plate right now, as you can imagine.” 

“I took no offense, ma’am. You’re a very busy woman, and very in-demand,” Kal’Reegar replies, glowing eyes sliding away. 

“How have you been?” Shepard asks, both because she genuinely likes the guy, and because she wants to lull him into a false sense of security with smalltalk before launching into a shovel talk. 

“The news that you were raising a fleet caused quite a stir, especially since the Flotilla knew you were headed our way for some time. But I expect things will quiet down now, since we no longer need to worry about the geth,” he replies. “Of course, that’ll mean a lot of marines being used for construction work or being re-trained as pilots for your fleet, ma’am, so there will always be a stir in the Migrant Fleet.” 

“You shouldn’t call me ma’am, makes my skin itch,” Shepard tells him conversationally. 

He shoots her a look; either he realizes what she’s really here to discuss, or the phrase is not one a quarian would use so casually. 

“Still, I’m glad that we’re in a calm period. Calm before the storm, sure, but we have to take the downtime where we can, right?” she adds. 

Kal’Reegar nods; any marine would be grateful for the quiet moments between firefights, and that translates faithfully across cultural borders. “It’ll take some getting used to, not shooting at every geth in sight, but it’s not a bad change. Not something I expected to see in my lifetime, or this part,” he replies, tapping his boot on the packed dirt beneath them, “but I could stand to see more of these positive surprises. You’ve done a lot for my people, ma’am, and I’m sure you’re damn tired of being thanked, but I’m still grateful.” 

His tone is sincere, but his eyes have drifted again, attention across the paddock to where Tali is struggling to learn how to communicate with some of the less-smart-than-Legion geth. From the increasingly wild gesticulations, Shepard assumes it’s going poorly. Garrus is laughing openly at the attempt, but Liara and Daro’Xen appear to be taking notes. 

“I couldn’t have managed any of this without my crew,” Shepard replies. 

“I know why you’re here, ma’am,” Kal’Reegar says, attention still on Tali. “Well, I recognize your goal, but I can’t say I entirely understand your motive.” 

“My motive is that Tali wishes she could be better friends with you, and you’re keeping her at a distance. I’d like to get your read on that particular situation,” Shepard amicably replies, not at all deterred by his bluntness. It’s damn refreshing after all of these political negotiations. 

“…Is that what you think this is?” Kal’Reegar asks in return. He finally turns to face Shepard, expression flat beneath his black visor. 

“I’m trying to figure out what this is. Tali didn’t ask me to come over and talk to you, either, so you know.” 

“Of course not—and I’d say she’d be pretty miffed if she knew you were doing it,” he says, pointedly, head inclined toward her. 

Shepard smiles anyway. “If you’re trying to threaten me with Tali’s annoyance, you’ll have to do better than that. She’s already miffed with me for claiming her helmet fogged up when she got embarrassed the other day.” 

“That’s not something you should be spreading around to other quarians, ma’am,” Kal’Reegar flatly informs her, turning away in embarrassment. “Tali’Zorah deserves some discretion, despite her status. …Because of her status, even.” 

Tali’s worries appear true, then—Kal’Reegar seems overly conscious of their differing status. Which is a hard thing to argue, because Tali does not have a formal rank anymore, only the sort of pedestal that being a cultural icon and hero to her people has given her. It’s hard to argue with a hero’s status. Shepard would know. (Intimately.) 

If she knew Kal’Reegar any better, and if she didn’t think it’d overstep way too many bounds, Shepard would start a long speech drawing comparisons between how she and Garrus grew closer over the course of their careers. He was starry-eyed on the SR1, but apparently there had been enough pining that it was obvious to just about everyone who knew them. Hell, Garrus could write a book on dating your commanding officer at this point, complete with several chapters of how to get past the awkwardness of different stations (and different species). 

But they weren’t involved on the SR1, only the SR2, and comparatively late-game at that; it took a suicide mission hanging over their heads like a guillotine, plus the imagined romantic rivalry with Thane, to get Garrus to make any sort of confession or move. So the comparison dies pretty quickly if given more than two seconds of thought. 

But it’s all Shepard has. 

She is the woman up on the heroic pedestal here, just like Tali; she doesn’t know how to cross that divide, outside of throwing repeated olive branches and invitations. It’s not a great position to be in. And it requires a lot of willingness on the perceived lower-status side to reach back and ignore the rumors and scandal and disapproval. 

Shepard simply doesn’t know Kal’Reegar that well. She doesn’t even know how romantically inclined he or Tali are, only that Tali is somewhat upset, and probably feeling rather lonely after being returned to “ma’am” status after a long time away from her people with nothing but amicable emails and infrequent vid calls to rely on. 

So, at a loss for how to personalize this without overreaching, Shepard does the next best thing: she goes for the blunt as hell approach. 

“I don’t know what your intentions are toward my crewmate, but Tali likes you well enough, and she doesn’t like that you keep throwing a title at her instead of what she thinks could be a better friendship,” she tells him, drawing his attention yet again from Tali’s distant figure. “I’m not going to have an opinion on what you two do or don’t do with each other, but I am definitely going to have one hell of an opinion on how you treat her if she’s asked you to do something differently.” 

“She deserves respect and I—” 

“So respect her decision and be her goddamn friend,” Shepard interrupts. “We’re gonna need a lot more of those in coming months, and anything that makes Tali happy is going to make me happy. And we want the primary leader of the only prepared defense against the coming Reapers happy, don’t we?” 

“Uh. Yes,” Kal’Reegar replies, off guard. 

Shepard thinks she’s made her point clear, and she means to go happily rejoin her crew, but Kal’Reegar has to continue to be a pain in her ass. 

“Of course, ma’am,” he adds. 

Shepard wishes she had one of those little sheep monsters to throw at him, especially when he outright laughs at her scowl. 

—

“Hope you like gorach,” Shepard mutters as she eyes another box of the meat brought on board. 

“Javik found out he likes it, so who cares if I don’t,” Garrus drawls. “It’ll be gone in a month at the rate he goes.”

“Wow, he found something not sugary he likes?” 

“I think he likes most food, given that he hasn’t had anything other than ancient Prothean wartime ration bars in a few millennia. Of course, Mordin has him under watch for another two hours to see if he’ll have an allergic reaction or get sick yet, but my money’s on the idea that he’s like a krogan—can eat anything.” 

Considering she has seen their Prothean teammate subsist entirely on muffins and cookies—and has watched him eat sugar straight from the container until Gardner chased him off with a knife—Shepard is inclined to agree that he has an iron stomach. Some dextro protein shouldn’t hurt him. (Not to mention how much he enjoys pointing out what species he liked eating in his cycle.) 

“How much longer are you going to give Tali and her goodbyes?” Garrus asks. The rest of the Normandy is more or less packed up, refueled, and raring to go, but Shepard has kept them from departing the Flotilla just yet. 

“Is she in the Shala’Raan phase or Kal’Reegar phase of her goodbyes?” Shepard asks in return. 

“You’re really going to have to go drag her back on board,” Joker complains and swivels around in his fancy chair to face them. He looks grumpier than usual at the thought of being grounded any longer. “Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s her people and she loves them and she doesn’t get to spend enough time with them, but come on. The krogan didn’t take this long!” 

“That’s because Grunt and Bakara couldn’t wait to boot Wrex off the ship,” Shepard points out. 

“You also need to tell me where we’re going next,” Joker continues, heedless of her humor. “For someone who pledged honesty with the crew, the fact that we don’t have a heading yet is making me nervous. Seems pointed.” 

Shepard cringes, and turns from him to hide her expression, but that unfortunately means Garrus peers down into her face instead. “Where are we headed next? I know there’s still a list of things to do, but… This was the last big stop on an actual schedule,” he says, as if only then realizing that Shepard hasn’t announced the next step yet. 

“Well, it’s something to do with the krogan,” she mutters. “Ugh—this is making it seem like a bigger deal than it is. Garrus, can you go fetch Tali? Give her an actual time limit to make it back on board, otherwise Legion will carry her back on.” 

Garrus’ suspicion grows, eyes narrowed, but he follows the order as dutifully as ever. 

Joker crosses his arms. “Okay. We’re alone now. So where the hell are we going and why is it going to be a surprise? Are we sneaking back into Citadel space? Because that’s not hard, not with this baby.” 

“We’ll head back to Tuchanka later, once the quarians need the Shroud specs, but we still have a hot minute for that. It’s just… Well, we’re going to need to feed a big krogan population boom, aren’t we? Not to mention a growing fleet and rachni swarm.” 

“Uh. Yeah? I guess it’s best they don’t go all Donner party down there as soon as the varren run out.” 

Shepard gives Joker a long, flat look. He returns it, first with confusion, then suspicion, and then the realization. 

“Oh, shit,” he hisses, and Shepard nods. “Really? You’re cool with that?” 

“What else are we going to do? They’re going to be friendly, they have food, and it’s in the Traverse. The Council won’t throw a shit fit about us being there. I’ll tell everyone else at the debrief tonight, but it’s just… Ugh, Joker, it’s gonna be a thing.” Shepard shudders, preemptively exasperated. 

“Yeah, I’d say. Good fucking luck,” he replies with zero sympathy. Shepard gives him the finger before going to find Tali and drag her back herself. 

—

“We’ve secured official alliances with the krogan and the quarians, have an unofficial, weird type of alliance with the rachni queen and her race, the salarians are neutral at best, and Aria’s still playing nice with the trade deal. We also have actual paperwork and a name for this thing now, thanks to Liara—we’re part of the Normandy Pact. The Admiralty Board have signed everything, we’ve signed everything belatedly, and I sent it along to Wrex for him to laugh at. Maybe he’ll sign it. I’m not going to bother with the rachni queen on this front, and we’ll draft up a separate concrete trade agreement for Aria later,” Shepard explains from the head of the table. 

None of this is news. Garrus appreciates the recap, sure, but he does not like the tone of this debriefing. Shepard appears nervous, as a start; she’s not making eye contact with anyone and she’s fallen into military posture. Moreover, even Mordin had been ordered to come attend this one (whereas he had otherwise been happy dissecting a dead gorach he’d brought on board like a souvenir). 

“So what’s next?” Grunt asks, brusque as usual. “Salarians are out and the turians hate you. Asari? Samara mentioned having some pull.” 

“No, actually we’re back into logistical hell for the next few days. We’re going to need to feed all of the krogan that are about to happen, so we need to get a new trade agreement set up on behalf of Tuchanka. Aria can get us swimming in eezo and fuel and guns, but Omega doesn’t produce anything.” 

“Feed ‘em all of the fucking sheep shits you brought on board with us,” Jack retorts. 

“Krogan able to digest dextro-based proteins with minimal strain to digestive system,” Mordin adds. He cocks his head. “Logistical nightmare to transport living creatures across galaxy for livestock programs, however. And Normandy’s supplies very small compared to krogan population.” 

“Do you know what sarcasm is,” Jack grunts. 

“No,” Mordin replies, very sarcastically.

She glowers at him. 

“How much do any of you know about the Alliance colonization efforts in the Attican Traverse?” Shepard breaks back in. 

And those ringing the meeting table stare at her. Garrus glances sideways at Steve Cortez. It’s one thing to poach a single man, but another to try to deal with a colony. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be avoiding the Alliance?” Tali finally asks. 

Liara begins frowning, a counterpoint to the pinched expression Shepard adopts. 

“Yes, but thankfully, we are approaching this as a private organization, which is perfectly legal. Easy loophole,” Shepard replies, eyes now on the ceiling. 

Liara’s frown turns sympathetic. Thane, too, adopts a vaguely sad expression, which tells Garrus that he’s not catching onto whatever is going on here. That doesn’t sit well with him. 

“How about you stop talking in circles and tell us? We can listen to the rationalizations about the Alliance after the fact,” Garrus suggests. “Plus, the Council’s already been handed the angry batarians. Even if you were to—” 

“It has nothing to do with the Alliance, since we will be a private contractor,” Shepard flatly interrupts. She clenches and unclenches her hands. “It’s just—no one make this weird, alright? That’s an order. This is just another part of our prep phase, nothing else at all. Our next heading is the human colony Mindoir in the Traverse.” 

The table again falls silent. 

Garrus understands Shepard’s nerves now; she’s very, very rarely spoken of Mindoir, and he doesn’t think she’s ever visited with any frequency. If she had, it had never been while he’d served with her. Her childhood home’s razing had taken its toll on her—and more than that, she doesn’t like to admit to that toll. She’s already braced for all the pitying looks and cloying sympathy. 

“Who here has ever heard of Mindoir outside of the context of it being where I grew up?” Shepard asks, barreling on ahead. 

Only Zaeed and Grunt raise their hands. 

“Wait, really?” Shepard asks Grunt, taken aback, out of her bluster. 

“The tank gave me locations of every species’ colonies and what supply lines to disrupt in the case of war,” he replies matter-of-factly. 

“Well… Okay then. That’s true. For everyone who’s only ever heard of it as the sad backstory of Commander Shepard—Mindoir has been called the breadbasket of the Traverse, and is a large part of why humanity was able to create and maintain colonies in the territory so quickly. It’s a big farming colony and provides crop exports to pretty much every other human-controlled planet in the area, aside from probably Eden Prime and Elysium. And even if every human colony has to maintain some baseline contracts with the Systems Alliance, they are perfectly free to pursue private trade agreements as well, so long as they meet minimums and pay taxes and all that other fun bureaucratic nightmare shit. So we’re going to do that, because a ton of baby krogan will need fed, plus potentially rachni if the queen needs it, because I don’t want her overrunning populated planets. So we’re going to Mindoir next, and I don’t want anyone to make it weird. Any questions?” 

Garrus understands why Shepard is apprehensive about taking her crew to what amounts as her home planet. He’d feel some sort of way about showing her around Palaven. But he doesn’t remember Palaven soaked in blood and tragedy, either. 

Still, that’s where she grew up, and Garrus knows the rebuilt colony is proud of that. 

They’re probably going to make it weird. It’s what the Normandy crew does. 

He vows he won’t. 

—

It’s very weird to come into sight of the planet Mindoir, knowing it is where Shepard grew up. Thane has been very open about his desire to show she and Garrus Kahje, if it’s ever a travel option; though it may not be his race’s home planet, it’s his, and he can only fathom having fond feelings for home, despite the tragedies that could occur there. 

But based on her very obvious apprehension, Shepard does not share that same eagerness to show off where she was raised. 

(The fact that Javik had asked very loudly what the issue was and had to be taken aside and explained in low tones by Liara and Tali had not improved the tone of the heading announcement.)

Thane has been to a few human colonies—Elysium, Eden Prime, and Mars the largest among them—but Mindoir is a strikingly small planet. He’d read over the provided codex from EDI; it is not a garden world, too dry to claim the title, but has a temperate climate and enough water near its equatorial line to boast nearly year-round growing seasons. Humans, apparently, had taken advantage of it to great success. 

He supposes races must colonize what they can. There is no perfect planet (except Thessia, if the asari are to be believed). The batarians are proof enough of using any land they can, even if their overall results are poor. 

Thane allows his thoughts to drift, only for a moment, to wonder what it would be like if the drell were to colonize other planets. 

“Could you imagine if Conrad Verner were still on board when we came here?” Joker asks with a grin. 

Shepard grumbles and shifts on her feet. “He’s probably already been here, to gawk at the museums.” 

“Oh, plural? They built two now for you?” Joker teases. 

She smacks the back of his chair, hard enough to jostle him. “No, only one. You know, I’ll figure out a way to get us to Tiptree eventually, so we can go skulk around your home and let the aliens poke at a human settlement.” 

“Hey, I don’t mind. Even if my sister is embarrassing, she’d love to play dinner party to the Normandy crew. Maybe we’d finally find a food Javik won’t eat, knowing her cooking.” 

Thane watches Shepard’s expression carefully, in case a reference to a blood family she no longer has would have any bearing on her mood, but she shows nothing. Still apprehensive and nervous—which has not been improved by how many of the Normandy crew are tailing her, watching for the same signs of stress. 

Instead of announcing the details of their arrival trajectory or schedule, EDI announces, “Shepard, you have a vid call request coming in. It’s tagged Seamstress.” 

All of her nerves fall away in surprise, then delight. “Woah, really? Tell him I’ll take it up in my quarters. Joker, you can approach, but…” 

“Got it, we won’t land until you’re back down here,” he easily replies. 

Thane takes one last look at Mindoir through the viewing window before following Shepard. Seamstress is Jacob’s code name, and to his knowledge, he hasn’t contacted Shepard since he departed the Normandy. Thane hopes this is good news. 

He glares at Tali and Jack’s attempt at stalking Shepard down the CIC deck. His crewmates will certainly need lessons in stealth the next time they have downtime. 

“Don’t mind them,” Shepard says, elbowing the elevator button. When she turns on her heel to face Thane, she’s smiling, with genuine happiness. He hasn’t seen her so pleased in some time, and that unties the knot of worry he’d been nursing. “I don’t want this to be weird, but it’s going to be, and I can’t imagine I have been helping people not worry about my reaction to this.” 

“So long as you’re aware,” Thane neutrally replies. 

“It’s just… There won’t be a reaction, because it’s a non-issue. But people will probably expect me to have a reaction? Because of my past. And that’s uncomfortable,” she tries to explain. He nods, but doesn’t quite grasp the idea. Thane has rarely dealt with others’ expectations in the same regard as she. 

Still, Shepard is smiling, and that’s enough for the moment. 

Shepard all but hops into her chair in her quarters and EDI boots up her computer for her. Since he’ll be taking on a more advisory position aboard the Normandy (in lieu of his ground squad status), Shepard had asked him to sit in on any calls she received, citing his memory. Thane thinks it more a mixture of moral support and needing him to feel important, though he has never felt unimportant around her. Still, he doesn’t complain. The least he can do is go through meeting hell with her. 

The call is not great quality, but EDI adjusts it a few times, until Jacob’s face is mostly clear on the screen. “Shepard! Good to see you’re still in one piece without me!” he says with a grin. 

Shepard returns it, twice as bright. “I should be saying that about you! This is the first we’ve heard from you. That’s a good thing, I hope?” 

“Yeah, it means things are progressing well. Like I said, I have a list, and I’ve been working through it. Over half done.” 

“Half? Already?” Shepard asks, brows raised. 

Jacob huffs a laugh, though it comes out staticky over the connection. “It’s teams, small groups, slivers of cells. Those who want to get out from Cerberus. Apparently, that’s a growing number, but I can’t help everyone, so it’s still finite and I’m an efficient worker. Though, speaking of, the group I’m with right now? I have a few people who’d like to meet you.” 

With little other warning, Jacob is shoved out of the way. 

By two children. 

Thane steps closer, still out of sight of the camera, surprised at the pair. They appear identical, so twins, and he only has a vague grasp of human aging, but they’re pre-pubescent. One of them is missing two front teeth. It’s also hard for him to discern any gender markers, given the fact that they’re dressed in Cerberus jumpsuits and have closely-shorn dark hair. Humans don’t develop secondary sex characteristics for several years later than the age these two are. 

“Uh. Hello there,” Shepard replies, bemused, though still smiling. 

“It’s Commandah Shepad!” one of the twins cries with a strange accent. 

“I told you I was working with her,” comes Jacob’s pointed remark, off-screen. He bullies his way back in between them, grinning. “You have quite a lot of fans, you know that, Shepard?” 

“I’ve heard,” she replies. 

“Yer s’posed to be a hero!” the other twin exclaims. 

“I think I’ve heard that, too,” she replies, amusement growing audibly. 

“We’re goin’ to a greeny place!” 

“Alright, that’s enough out of you. Didn’t your supervisor teach you what top secret means? And here I thought you had the makings of a great spy…” Jacob heaves a great sigh, as if disappointed. 

Both children look scandalized. One mimics zipping their mouth shut, and the other blurts out, “You didnah hear that Commandah! We gotsta go now!” 

They rush off screen with the haste only known by excited children. That is universal across species. 

Jacob shakes his head with another laugh. Shepard smiles, sets her cheek on her fist, and tells him, “Alright, you’ve made your point. You’re escorting families and stuff, saving the good people, and there are still a lot of innocent people being manipulated by Cerberus. I already figured that, Jacob. I trust you.” 

“Yeah, I have helped transplant a few families—and it’s no easy feat to keep kids quiet when they’re excited about a move. The spy game’s been working out pretty well, though, and I remember enough jargon to keep ‘em satisfied that I’m the real deal,” Jacob says with a smirk. “But those two… They were Cerberus experiments, actually.” 

“…Like Jack.” 

“Pretty much, though they’re not biotic. I, uh, didn’t mean to come across this much. I’ve been getting tugged in a lot of directions, regardless of that list of mine—thought you should know that a lot of people are trying to jump ship right now, especially if they know me and have heard of you. Might be gone a little longer than I intended, and I’m sure as hell helping a lot more people than I thought I would. Finding safe houses and places that won’t ask questions is becoming a logistical nightmare. I can’t share much over this kinda connection, but the Alliance has been more helpful than I had hoped they’d be. It’d be easier if Miranda weren’t torching her way through Cerberus cells, too, but seems like she’s cleaning house very thoroughly.” 

“You’ve heard from Miranda?” Shepard asks in surprise. 

“I’ve heard of her actions. Word travels in Cerberus, especially among friendlies. It’d be easier if I could get hold of her and ask her about some potential relocation options. Woman knows more about vetting safe places than anyone else I’ve ever met,” Jacob replies, thoughtful. He shakes his head with a fond sound. “Still, we’re putting a few sections of Cerberus through the ringer. Helped clear out almost an entire cell before this, because there were a lot of Shepard sympathizers in it that wanted to cut ties with this newer and harsher version of Cerberus. The one you left behind. A lot of people wanna copy that—you get me, Shepard? A lot.” 

“Yeah, I’ve grasped that,” Shepard replies with a sour expression. “We’ve run into a few Cerberus groups under explicit orders not to engage with us. I don’t quite know what the Illusive Man is up to…” She trails off. 

Thane follows her presumed train of thought: the Illusive Man is likely lulling them into a false sense of security by withdrawing troops and playing at neutrality, all while loosing a hunter on them. Not that Shepard can say or even imply anything over any outgoing connection. That information stays firmly on the Normandy only. 

“Well, there’s a lot of folks out there who aren’t too pleased with what he’s up to, either, so—ow!” Jacob is yanked halfway off screen when one of the twins clambers up over his shoulder, remorselessly grabbing his ear and nose for handholds. “Okay, you two, you’re back with the doctor! I’m not a jungle gym and you’re not being very good spies.” 

“I wanna be a hero, not a spy an’more!” the other child says as they pop up at the bottom of the screen. “Commandah! Teach us how to be heroes!” 

“I learned plenty from Jacob about being a hero, you know, so you really should be asking him. He’s doing a lot more hero work than I am right now, too,” Shepard indulgently replies. She relaxes back into a warm smile as she watches the two climb all over an increasingly exasperated Jacob. 

“Growned-ups say that when they don’t wanna do somethin’,” one twin confides to the other. 

“No, grown-ups say that when we’re trying to teach very bright kids how to appreciate what they’ve got, instead of pine after what they think they want,” Shepard replies, though Thane personally thinks the lesson may go over their heads. 

The two pause, eyes locked with one another. Without another word, they duck back out of sight, leaving Jacob to try to reclaim his dignity and patience. 

“I’ll forward you the reports on those two and what Cerberus was trying to do out here, once we’re ready to torch this place. Can’t track it back if we blow the building sky-high right after we send it, right?” Jacob says. 

“Sound enough logic to me. You haven’t sent anything earlier, though—nothing else to report?” Shepard asks archly. 

“This is the first time the entire base wanted to come with. Wouldn’t be very friendly or easy if I tried to blow up an outpost with a bunch of scientists still happy to work in it,” he deadpans. “Anyway, just wanted to check in with you, Shepard. Good to see a familiar face. And wanted to give you a head’s up to expect some incoming shit. Oh, and hi Thane, even though you were trying to be stealthy off-screen.” 

Shepard snorts a laugh, and Thane leans over so he’s in view of the camera. “I was not trying to be,” he corrects, “but it was nice to see you in good health as well.” 

“There’s been some shuffling around of responsibilities aboard,” Shepard vaguely adds, gesturing to Thane. “We’ll have a hell of a debrief session once you’re back with us, Seamstress.” 

Jacob makes a face. “I still don’t appreciate that code name.” 

“You’re the one with the last name Taylor. It was that or Kasumi’s suggestion—” 

“Seamstress over and out,” he interrupts with a sarcastic salute. 

—

There is, of course, a crowd collected by the airlock and cockpit to watch the approach. Shepard stands near Joker’s chair, arms crossed tight over her chest, posture so tense she’s nearly vibrating. Joker doesn’t mind her being there—for once—because he knows that this is going to be a thing with the crew and she really doesn’t want it to be. Shepard’s doing pretty damn good with present-day emotional shit, but past stuff? She still clams up. 

Not that Joker blames her. They’d been aware professionally of each other for awhile before getting stationed on the SR1 together; he knows what the whole strong phoenix rising from the ashes of tragedy backstory had done for her Alliance career. As in: it exhausted her. 

(One time, when she’d been drunk enough that he doubts she even remembers it, she had confessed to him that she was glad she’d nearly died on Akuze with her team, just so people would have something new to ask her about when trying to rubberneck about tragedy.) 

What Shepard also probably doesn’t know: Joker had been to Mindoir before. 

They didn’t know each other, and even if he had glimpsed her in amongst the colonists how the hell would he have known to remember her? But he had been part of this field trip to Mindoir that was about teaching kids where food came from or something. It meant they had to go play in the dirt and learn what real fruit, not dehydrated or canned stuff, was like. School had sucked for him; field trips especially sucked because he had to sit by the teachers while everyone else ran around and rolled in the dirt and chased chickens. 

So Joker knows about Mindoir the farming colony, not just Mindoir the home of Commander Shepard. He doesn’t think either needs to be this big of a deal. 

But she also never talks about it, and there is an actual goddamn museum there about her life, so she’s gonna have to suck it up real fast. 

“Outside atmosphere is breathable by all organics aboard the Normandy. Ambient temperature is thirty-one degrees, humidity is six percent. Current time is 0930 hours,” EDI reports as Joker brings them in, smooth as silk. At least all of the tragedy porn surrounding Shepard meant the colony got a lot of funding for their rebuilding; he hasn’t seen a landing zone this polished since Sur’Kesh. And he’s not gonna hand the salarians a compliment on that, so point to Alliance. 

As EDI unlocks the inner airlock, the throng of very curious Normandy crew parts to let Shepard through. She looks a bit like she’s going to puke—not from nerves, but from sheer exasperation. Joker hopes she doesn’t do it in his cockpit. 

“So much for not making this weird, huh?” Joker asks, loudly. “It’s like you’re headed to the gallows. Sheesh.” 

Shepard manages a tight grin. “But then all of these highly-trained killers and masters of their craft would have a reason to act like I’m about to break down into tears. Or die again.” 

“Siha,” Thane murmurs, all sad-eyed and sentimental and the stuff that usually makes Shepard melt. 

Not this time. She breezes past him and asks, “EDI, is the mayor going to meet us here? …And what was his name again?” 

“The current mayor of Mindoir colony is Mayor Nicolo Flores. He has been elected by majority vote for two terms now. He has sent word that he will greet you at city hall.” 

“Of course he will,” Shepard sighs. 

Joker hopes this guy isn’t about to parade Shepard around. That’s the last thing that she needs. Wait, Flores? Why does that sound familiar?

“Alright team, atmo is safe to breathe, we won’t need armor right now since it’s a predominantly civilian colony, and mostly human. Be on your best behavior and don’t make this weird,” Shepard orders, then punches the button for the airlock. 

“This is only so goddamn weird ‘cause she’s strung tighter than a volus’ purse,” Zaeed grumbles. 

There’s a brief jostle as crew tries to get into the airlock with her—it won’t fit everyone at once, and they have tried—and Joker swivels his chair around to watch what is practically a wrestling match. Shepard’s groan is loud over the growing furor. 

He jumps when the rachni soldier slithers out of nowhere and sits beside him. It waves a tentacle at him, and Joker very awkwardly waves back. “You know you’re not allowed planetside, right?” he asks, just to be sure. 

Cortho (he was very firmly forbidden from calling it Steve #1 any longer) chirps with what is a definite nod. Joker still isn’t sure how smart the damn thing is, outside of recognizing questions and mostly being able to answer in a yes or no sense. 

There’s a screech as Grunt tries to move Jack (keyword being tries). There’s another scuffle, then Shepard irately shouts, “EDI, just open the damn outer door!” 

“Overriding decontamination protocols now,” EDI obediently replies, though Tali makes an dismayed little sound. Those words are probably the tagline to quarian horror vids. 

The Normandy crew piles out onto the Mindoir LZ. Only after everyone eager enough to fight for it has left does Joker leave his chair to limp out into the bright sunlight. Man, it’s been too long since he’s been to a colony that’s not on fire or being attacked. Plus, farming colonies always smell nicer than mining ones; no eezo or metal scents lingering in the air like a bad fart. 

Shepard marches down the steps of the concrete LZ. The Normandy crew watches as if she’ll collapse into tears or start screaming in traumatic rage any moment. 

Instead, she squats down near a few tall grasses growing through the cracks in the fence, plucks the tallest one, and eats it. 

Joker swallows a laugh at the highly concerned expressions of the other crew. “Uh,” Garrus says, and Joker’s suppressed laugh comes out in a snort this time. 

Grunt marches down the stairs and plops onto his rear next to her. He fixes the others with an icy glare that very obviously tells them that if Shepard’s doing something, then that’s what should be considered the norm. Expected, even. 

Joker is going to choke on his spit if he’s not able to laugh for much longer. His sides already hurt from the tension of trying to keep his cool. 

Their group of highly-trained, master-of-their-craft, more-skilled-than-you-can-imagine space-faring soldiers stare with the alien equivalent of many mouths agape at what is probably their first interaction with a human colony. If Thane looked any more concerned, he’d probably have a heart attack. Javik glances between the others angrily, as if demanding someone to announce that this is a joke. (Unfortunately, his four-eyed glare lands on Joker, as he is trying to stop himself from cracking up at this hilarious cultural clash.) Grunt sticks his snout in the air as if haughtily disappointed that they aren’t joining in the grass-eating ritual that Mindoir is clearly known for. 

After helping Grunt pick another piece, Shepard gives her squad a cool look, a goddamn piece of dark green grass sticking out of her mouth. “Welcome to Mindoir,” she flatly tells them, and Joker finally fucking loses it. 

Chapter Text

“This,” Shepard says, picking another grass stalk from the root and holding it out to her crew, “is the reason why humanity was able to live in the Traverse and colonize it at the rate it did. And it’s going to be what feeds the krogan, rachni, and us through this war.” 

Joker is the only one making any response, and it’s to laugh at her and the stupefied scene. 

Mindoir is a planet quite suited to growing many imported human crops—they’ve successfully grown soybeans, maize, wheat, and millet en masse, and more in small-scale personal gardens, plus have several large-scale commercially profitable orchards. It has a temperate climate, enough water in the colonized areas to support modern irrigation systems, has no large native animals that could pose a threat to colonists, and blah blah blah. 

The real reason Mindoir became the breadbasket of the Attican Traverse is because of a native plant they named matagot tails.

It is the primary type of grass on the planet and is incredibly nutrient dense. Shepard recalls Alliance nutritionists trying to figure out what existing vegetable profile it matched, and she doesn’t think it ever got figured out, though she recalls comparisons to broccoli and kale. Each stalk is a little thinner than a finger, they can grow a meter high, and the roots can be fried and eaten, too. What amounted to a pervasive weed turned into a caloric godsend. 

It can feed any kind of livestock they’d brought (they had just started an experimental program for sheep when the colony had gotten raided, but she’d heard they had continued and progressed since then), it can feed humans, and she knows that some has been exported to the Citadel so she’s going to go ahead and assume anyone else aboard her ship can eat it, too. 

Moreover, it doesn’t require much water, propagates quickly, and actually tastes pretty damn good. 

“Spicy, for a plant,” Grunt remarks, admiringly, and grabs another fistful of grass. 

“You want the whole plant, make sure to grab the root too. Otherwise the middle will ooze out. And eat it from the tip down,” Shepard advises. 

Grunt slurps one down like a crunchy noodle. If he likes it, then she has high hopes for convincing the entire krogan race to eat their greens. At least they won’t complain about the flavor. 

“Uh,” Garrus repeats. 

“I don’t think it’ll be any safer for dextro-based races to eat this than anything else humans grow, so I don’t think this will help the Flotilla anytime soon,” Shepard dryly adds, taking a stalk Grunt offers to her. “I told you guys—don’t make this weird.” 

“You’re the one eating fucking grass!” Jack bursts out, and finally, the very awkward staring session is broken. (Not even Joker’s cackling had broken it.) 

“It grows thick enough and wild, so don’t think you’re stealing someone’s crops. Try it on your way into the city center,” Shepard dares, brows raised, and takes another bite. 

Jack glowers at her, before stomping down the steps and stealing the rest of the matagot tail from her. 

“Joker, whenever you’re done laughing, make sure the Normandy is locked up if you’re staying groundside.” 

“Of course I am! Actual time at actual stores with actual food? You’ll have to peel me off the planet when you want to leave,” Joker replies and hobbles past them like this is a race into the colony proper. “Anyone who wants to taste luxury—they have actual apples here! And real wine that never touched a starship!” 

“That sounds like my cue if I ever heard it,” Zaeed says and jogs after him. 

Shepard and Grunt remain by the side of the LZ, munching, Shepard pointedly staring until her crew realizes that she’s serious about the grass thing and that she’s not going to invite a crowd along for her meeting with the mayor. And hell, she really did miss the flavor of this stuff. It reminds her of the good parts of home. 

She’ll have to snag a cookbook for Gardner. 

—

“Mayor Flores, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Shepard says with her best politician voice. It puts Garrus on edge, if only because he’s used to hearing it when she deals with Udina. It’s been awhile. 

“And it’s an honor to have you back on Mindoir, Commander,” Nicolo Flores replies with a genuine-seeming smile and a tight grip on her hand. “I can’t tell you what it means to be able to meet you in person. Living here, you hear an awful lot about the woman behind the myth.” 

Shepard’s smile tightens. It takes her a few moments to pull her hand free from the handshake. “I’m really just one woman, Mayor. Who happened to live here during Mindoir’s darkest time. That’s all.” 

“Says the one who has a museum,” Jack mutters. 

Shepard smacks her without tearing her politician-pleasant expression from the mayor. 

“And, of course, it’s just as much of an honor to meet the rest of the famous Normandy crew! Just as storied as the Commander.” Nicolo looks over both Garrus and Jack, the two who won the right to accompany Shepard as supposed bodyguards. (Thane, citing the risk of a certain assassin, has disappeared and Garrus has not seen him since. But he’s surely close by.) “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. XO Garrus Vakarian and Jack, correct? Thank you for all you’ve done as part of the Normandy crew.” 

“Shepard, it sounds dumb as hell when it’s just Jack compared to all of your fancy rank bullshit,” Jack complains, hands in her pockets as she glares at the offered handshake. (Garrus shakes it instead before she tries biting the mayor.)

“Jack, I could give you a rank, and you would have no idea where in the chain of command it is,” Shepard flatly returns. 

“Yeah, and?” 

“Colorful,” Nicolo says and manages to make it sound like a compliment. “So, Commander, I won’t deny you or your crew some relaxation on actual soil while you’re here, but do you mind if we get the business side of things done before anything else? I’d love to get your read on why you’re here.” 

“As I said in my email—I’d love to discuss Mindoir’s current trade agreements,” Shepard sunnily replies. 

Nicolo’s jovial personality finally falters. Garrus narrows his eyes. Either Mindoir isn’t as friendly toward their legendary survivor as Shepard had assumed, or there’s something else going on here. He doesn’t like either notion. 

Nicolo clasps his hands behinds his back and pretends to study the wall-shelf of actual paper books behind his desk. That’s something that had surprised Garrus; this is not a colony of prefabs and rushed construction. This is a city of permanent buildings and actual, single-family houses. Probably over fifty percent of the buildings he’d seen on the walk in were something he’d expect on Palaven or maybe Earth, whatever that looks like, rather than the somewhat shitty prefabs the Alliance usually threw at planets they colonized. Mindoir has been around for a few decades now, and is apparently a profitable food supplier, but that’s still an awful lot of money and investment in what was still technically categorized only as a colony world. 

Garrus had assumed most of their money came from the Shepard legend. Everyone wanted to sponsor her tragedy and claim they helped with the rebuild. 

But Nicolo’s shuttered expression does not point to a colony happily or guiltily profiting off of an old tragedy. 

“I want you to know, genuinely, Commander—I don’t hold any hard feelings about what happened to my sister,” Nicolo says with sincerity. 

Ah, shit, another politician we’ve killed family of, Garrus thinks, knee-jerk—but then realizes he has no idea who this man had been prior to this meeting. Or whoever his sister could’ve been. 

Shepard looks equally and totally lost. 

Nicolo, not looking at them, does not notice. 

“And I would also like you to know that she had nothing to do with my position here, or what agreements we had. I don’t know if you’ll believe me, but it was truly separate actions. A coincidence. A happy coincidence, yes, but nothing more than what cards fate dealt us,” the man continues. 

Merc company? Garrus wonders. The asari political bullshit was Dantius, not human. Did we kill anyone with the surname Flores? Not to mention how many nameless mercs and grunts they’ve mowed down through the years. (Honestly, it’s surprising they don’t get called out more often by bereaved family members.)

Shepard tries her hardest to catch Garrus’ eye, but he gives her a small shake of his head. He has no clue what this guy is going on about. 

Jack, however, crosses her arms over her flat chest. “You’re the brother of Operative Commander Nitya Flores, huh? Sharvara Cell’s boss?” 

Shepard and Garrus both stare down at her. The confusion grows palpably. Who the hell was that? And why the fuck did Jack know? 

Nicolo inclines his head, expression full of sorrow, then turns to them once more. “Yes, that would be my sister. Would have been. I don’t know everything she was doing for Cerberus, but they confirmed she died during—” 

“What do you mean Cerberus?!” Shepard cuts in with both shock and fury. 

Nicolo looks back at her with open alarm. “My elder sister, Nitya, was the commander of a Cerberus cell that, as I was informed, you wiped out during a covert mission last month. While I deeply grieve my sister, I completely understand what you’re trying to do, Commander, and I know that Cerberus as an organization is torn on—” 

Shepard stalks over to him and pins him against his wall of fancy books with a forearm against his shoulders. She’s not even in armor, and he has almost a head on her, but the man looks like he’s one breath away from soiling himself. 

“Who the hell was that?” Garrus hisses at Jack. 

“The boss who tried hailing us during the Sur’Kesh shitshow. I was in the cockpit with Joker—you know, since the rest of us had to sit on our hands on the fucking ship during that—and she tried hailing us to declare non-aggression of whatever fucking excuse it was.” 

Sur’Kesh? Garrus wonders. He doesn’t know what sort of emotion is tied to the revelation. The Cerberus operatives there had tried to stand down—had cited Do Not Engage orders from higher up. It had still devolved into a bloodbath, though, because not everyone agreed with it. 

He’d thought it a lucky break at the time, that there were that many less people shooting at them. 

But now they’re dealing with the family of a woman who had tried standing down and died anyway. 

“Regardless of your sister’s standing, Cerberus is not our friend, and that’s very common knowledge,” Shepard growls up at Nicolo. “I’m sorry you lost someone. I am. But they’re responsible for a hell of a lot of someones that others have lost, and you better have some damn good evidence to show me that you’re not in league with them.” 

“But I am!” Nicolo cries in dismay. 

Shepard blanches at the sheer gall of such an admission. Garrus wonders if it’s a politician thing, to not have any real self-preservation instinct. 

“I thought that’s what you came here to discuss, Commander!” Nicolo adds in a wild voice. “Mindoir’s trade agreements with Cerberus! We’ve been—I signed off on them last year, but we’re coming up on renewal, and Cerberus has always paid more than fair rates! Not to mention how many resources they gave us in the rebuilding effort, years ago.” 

“…You have trade agreements to supply food to Cerberus,” Shepard clarifies. 

“Isn’t that what you were here to discuss?!” 

Shepard steps back and releases her pin. Nicolo clutches at his throat as if she’d been choking the life out of him. Shepard turns and gives Garrus and Jack a look: the Is This Really Happening look. Garrus nods solemnly. Yes, yet another thing like this is happening to Commander Shepard. 

“The Normandy came here because we want a trade agreement to secure food supplies for what is going to be a krogan population boom. I have no idea what other places Mindoir is exporting to, and I hadn’t thought it had been my business up until now. Now, I really do think it’s my business.” 

“I… You, er, didn’t know about the other trade agreements?” Nicolo asks. 

“Why would I know that?! Do you think I’m running a spy ring?” Shepard gestures to Garrus and Jack, who are some of the least spy-like crew members she has. “I am actively looking not to pick up more problems to deal with, but now you’re telling me that my home colony is in Cerberus’ pocket.” 

“No, that’s not what I’m saying at all, Commander!” Nicolo exclaims with much wild shaking of his head. “These are completely legal and even have a legitimate paper trail! The only falsified part is the name of the organization receiving our exports. A shell company, you understand. The fact that my sister was in Cerberus was a coincidence—just because my family is trying their hardest to protect humanity in what is a very dangerous part of space, you know that better than anyone—” 

“Cerberus is shooting at humans just as much as batarian raiders or any other enemy of ours has!” Shepard snarls and jabs her finger into his chest. He looks like he’d been shot. 

“I thought—I’d assumed, I’m sorry for making such an assumption, but—Commander, if you thought Mindoir was so hostile to your ideals, why did you send refugees here?” 

“…What?” Shepard asks. 

What refugees? We don’t have those yet, do we? Garrus thinks with alarm. He definitely would have remembered something like that. “I think there’s been a long chain of misunderstandings and assumptions here,” he breaks in. 

“You fucking think?” Jack mutters. 

“I would agree with that,” Nicolo all but wheezes. “Please, Commander, can we start this over? I’ll provide all the receipts for what we’ve been selling to Cerberus, and I will personally introduce you to the refugees we had accepted on behalf of Cerberus as well. I don’t want us to be enemies, Commander. And I don’t think Cerberus is as much of your enemy as you think, either.” 

Jack scoffs and Garrus rolls his eyes. But Shepard flatly responds, “We’ll see about that.” 

—

Shepard wallows in existential despair while a baby babbles in her arms. One of the mothers hovers nearby, taking more photos of the sight of her child with The Commander Shepard than probably exists of her on the entire extranet. 

Jacob, you could’ve fucking told me you were sending people here of all places, she thinks, unsure how mad to be at him. She understands the notion of safe houses and need-to-know basis. She figures that human colonies would likely be the bulk of where he’d been sending those he’d rescued. And damn it, she knows he’d been doing the whole families and children thing, too. 

But it’s fucking depressing to be holding a child that had been born while her parents had been fearing for their lives. 

“Oh, you have such a way with children, Commander!” Dr. Vivienne Sayre gushes. Shepard is mildly surprised the woman’s omnitool hasn’t cited storage issues yet with how the camera keeps clicking away. 

Jack speaks in low tones with the other mother, a taller and more reserved woman who did not come with a doctor title. So does this mean only Dr. Sayre had been in Cerberus? She supposes she can liken it to Alliance service; it runs in families, but not always and not consistently. So Jacob had meant to spring one woman from Cerberus’ research department, and ended up with a family unit freed. 

Nicolo beams with the return of his (admittedly sincere-looking) politician smile. They’re out in public again, and this is supposedly a meet-and-greet with some of the locals for the famed Commander Shepard, rather than a personal look at what Jacob had been doing. They’ve already attracted a small crowd, most of which look like legitimate civilians, rather than colonists who had mandated military training due to the constant batarian threat. 

Cerberus has been helping colonies. Cerberus has been funding colonies. Cerberus has been protecting colonies. 

That shouldn’t be a surprise, since it’s what she did under their banner. But she’s seen so many of the dark corners of the organization that she’s forgotten that there is good there, too. And that not everyone hates them as much as she does. 

Shepard looks at the baby in her arms. A baby born in a Cerberus-sponsored hospital, no doubt—and honestly probably one with incredibly advanced medical technology who did everything they could to secure the health of the mother and child through the entire birthing process. Shepard has spent too long looking at their atrocities; doesn’t even a thing like Cerberus deserve a silver lining? They have done good for humanity. It was with their funding and aid that Shepard managed to stop the Collectors, too, after all. 

She’s let her hatred for the Illusive Man color everything else. 

And Mindoir has been trading quite happily with them. Cerberus had quite happily funded their rebuilding and ongoing infrastructure development. Mindoir had been happy to take and shelter people who could otherwise bring trouble here, just because it’s the right thing to do. 

She’s been so focused on the us-versus-them of the galaxy that Shepard has willfully forgotten the nuance of it all. 

Shepard shoves the baby at Jack, who takes it with absolute terror. “Shepard, what the hell—I can’t handle a baby!” she shrills in such a frightened tone that it would’ve been hilarious in any other circumstance. 

“You,” Shepard says, jabbing her finger at Nicolo. “We need to talk. Now.” 

“Shepard, what the fuck do I do with this?!” Jack screeches, holding the drooling baby at arm’s length. (Thankfully, Dr. Sayre seems no less pleased by a Normandy member handling her child, despite Jack’s obvious apprehension.) 

Garrus laughs at her, until Jack shoves the baby at him, a lot more roughly than babies should get handed off. So Garrus ends up in the same terrified locked-arms position, holding the baby out, although probably more concerned with human squishiness than Jack’s fear of innocent children being tainted by her. 

“Commander, I…” Nicolo trails off, glancing sideways at the spectacle Garrus and Jack are making. 

“They’ll be fine,” Shepard deadpans. Despite their rough exteriors (Garrus’ quite literally), combined they would have enough baby-health-neuroses to… do something big. The metaphor isn’t coming to her. 

“Shepard? Help here?” Garrus calls after her, alarm building in his voice when it’s clear that Shepard is trying to drag the mayor off and leave them there with their baby woes. 

“Oh, it’s fine! You’re doing fine!” Dr. Sayre cheers, snapping more pictures (all of them at a severe down angle, due to her shortness and Garrus’ height, which will not do anything to make him look less imposing or less scared). To her daughter, the doctor coos, “Yes, you’ve never seen a living turian before, have you darling? No you haven’t! Look at this rough hide that repels UV rays and the expressive mandible spandrels! Yes, we will learn all about those once you’re old enough to read mommy’s research notes, won’t we?” 

“What kind of doctor were you?!” Garrus asks in even more alarm. The baby gurgles happily. 

“The xenoanatomist kind,” Dr. Sayre replies in the same cooing voice. 

Garrus shoves the baby back into her arms before beating a hasty retreat after Shepard. A smirking Jack slinks after him. 

“What sort of purpose does a retired xenoanatomist serve on a colony world?” Garrus mutters, annoyance audible. “What does that title even mean…? In non-pro-human-extremist terms.” 

“Dr. Sayre has been worth her weight in eezo—she took over the veterinary clinic’s varren division. And she’s freely shared her notes with those we’ve deemed trustworthy enough not to ask questions about her past,” Nicolo replies in a low tone. 

“Isn’t this planet supposed to not have big predators? The fuck does a colony vet clinic need a varren division?” Jack complains. 

Shepard grimaces with unpleasant memories. “Nevermind that. Even if Cerberus refugees are useful does not mean that we’re letting any of this fly. What if someone finds out about her? Or any others?” Nicolo had implied there had been two other family units that Jacob had pointed in this direction, though Shepard won’t jeopardize any more with undue attention. 

“It’s not that hard to fudge paperwork for the sake of safety, if you have friendly leadership,” Nicolo pointedly replies. “Moreover, Mindoir has been expanding on its own. We’ve had so many new colonists and immigrants that they’ve blended in seamlessly.” 

“But Cerberus has…” 

“Cerberus isn’t all villains and enemies, Commander,” Nicolo dares inform her in a too-gentle voice. 

“I know that!” Shepard snaps back. “I know that even better than you, Mayor. But I’m not happy about it. That said… I’m not going to jeopardize your operation if it means the colony is running fine and you’re actually helping people. That’s what Cerberus was supposed to be about.” 

“It still is, in pieces.” 

“Chunks of it being friendlier than the parts that goddamn shoot at us doesn’t mean it’s a great place,” Jack icily adds. “And even if that sister of yours tried to do some good—she sure as shit died, and she didn’t save many lives, either, did she?” 

Nicolo flinches. Shepard spares Jack a look, but Jack juts her chin back out at her in utter unrepentantness. 

“I’m not going to say you need to cut off your Cerberus deals, if it keeps the colony afloat,” Shepard flatly continues. 

“I wouldn’t say Mindoir is in such dire need of funds that Cerberus is the only thing keeping us in the black, Commander,” Nicolo evenly replies, brow raised. “But yes, they certainly keep us happy here, and with more funding, then we can continue growing our home.” 

“But,” Shepard says, ignoring him, “I want deals just as good as they got. Trading rates or whatever. I need a lot of food for my allies, and I’m gonna need it in a way that isn’t coming through the Normandy. I need Mindoir to make an independent trade agreement with Tuchanka.” 

“Tuchanka? What would they even pretend to trade us in exchange? Does Tuchanka have any exports that aren’t mercenaries?” Nicolo replies, baffled. 

“I don’t care. I don’t know what they supposedly export, either, but I need food going in. I’ll make sure you get what you need, even if it isn’t produced on Tuchanka. …What does Mindoir need? Eezo? Metal?” With how much the geth have been strip-mining, Shepard is swimming in numbers of resources she can hardly fathom. But she hasn’t turned much of that into credits yet, since Aria is dedicated to being a pain in her ass. 

“I… You don’t know what you’re offering us?” 

“What do you need?” she repeats. 

“Erm, well, any growing colony always needs more eezo for fuel, and we’ve been working on figuring out a way to convert nitrogen gas into fertilizers we can use on a large scale without it getting too pricy…” 

She doesn’t have anyone harvesting nitrogen, but it’s supposed to be abundant on most planets, right? Surely there’s some way to gather it in quantities suitable for trade. “You got it. I’ll have someone send over the documentation proposing exchange rates tomorrow, after I talk it over with my crew,” Shepard replies. (Talk it over with her crew, AKA have EDI run a lot of math for her, and then have Liara check it against what she knows of the market so they don’t accidentally tank anything. They’re trying to trade, not flood the market.) 

“Oh, well…” Nicolo trails off a moment, glancing between Shepard and her crew like someone will volunteer an answer for a question she doesn’t know. “That’s quick of you, Commander. I suppose your reputation is more than accurate in that regard. I’m happy to work out a trade agreement with you—” 

“With Tuchanka,” Garrus firmly reiterates. 

“Yes, well, with Tuchanka but your paperwork, and I must say, I’m happy that this hasn’t devolved into months of annoying talks about taxes and whatever. I know neither of us want that. But I just want to be sure, as this conversation’s point has gotten away from me… You don’t harbor any further ill will against the people here, right? Or those who may have been affiliated with Cerberus at any point?” 

Shepard takes a deep, calming breath. She shakes her head. “No. I don’t, or rather, I shouldn’t have in the first place. My anger is at those at the top, not good people trying to get by, either by taking shitty jobs or being manipulated into things they didn’t understand. I know this isn’t black and white. I’m not going to torch Mindoir just because you’re welcoming refugees that my crew member sent here for sanctuary, nor am I going to shoot you because you’re taking advantageous deals, or who your sister was. And I’m sorry that it went down that way with your sister, too. We didn’t actually want to fight them.” 

“Thank you, Commander. That means more than you know,” Nicolo replies. 

—

There are two museums on Mindoir: one dedicated to the colony and its history, and the other dedicated to Commander Shepard. She’d only been to each once before, during the opening ceremony of the latter; it had been a deeply uncomfortable experience and it was only the fact that Anderson had been there too that had gotten her through it. It isn’t that she doesn’t think her life is storied enough to deserve a museum, because frankly it is, and it does a good job of showing off who she is outside of Mindoir at age sixteen. 

But it is a museum on Mindoir, and that is one of its largest claims to fame, no matter how macabre, so there’s no ignoring it. 

She’s gonna make it weird. Ugh. 

She isn’t very surprised to see Thane or Legion waiting for her by the entrance. Nor is she surprised at how closely Garrus is sticking to her, when he figured out her destination. Jack all but pastes herself to her side in what is obviously meant to be the same emotional reassurance Shepard had lent her during the Pragia mission, awkwardly paid back. Shepard assumes there will be more she picks up along the way. 

“Legion, I’m surprised you haven’t already gone through and recorded everything from both museums,” Shepard jokes. 

“This unit has,” Legion corrects. “And we have shared this information with EDI. However, this unit’s programs have unanimously agreed that further context would be found by accompanying you here, Shepard-Commander.” 

Shepard decides she doesn’t want to know what sort of context two AI would find useful about Mindoir and lets that conversational topic lie.

They find Liara just inside, actually reading through the tourist brochure, and she jumps to guilty attention when she catches sight of Shepard. Shepard waves her off before she can do something silly like apologize; she knows most of her crew will be poking their noses in at some point today. 

Last time she had been here—only able to drag herself through it due to the photo ops the Alliance PR committee had demanded of her—she had noticed two mistakes in their facts. She’s glad one of them had been fixed: her birthplace. 

“You were born on a ship?” Garrus asks, peering at the old photo of the SSV Barcelona. 

“Yep,” Shepard replies. “Alliance colonies don’t let kids under a certain age come in until it’s deemed stable enough for it. My family didn’t come to Mindoir until I was three. Part of the first batch of kids allowed here. It was actually sort of nice, because it meant you had this pool of kids who were all roughly the same age—perfect for setting up the school system, and also for the fact that we had a built-in friend group. I was seven or so when they allowed people to actually have babies here.” 

“Asari colonies do that too—restrict age of those immigrating to new colonies, until they’re classified stable and profitable, and prohibit new births until a certain rating is achieved as well,” Liara offers. 

“Except when’s the last time the asari had a new colony?” Garrus returns. 

“Well… Before my time.” 

“Then it’s before our time, too.” 

Shepard rolls her eyes. She gestures them down the timeline. Most of this part of text-only, with photos and holo-screens of general old pictures of Mindoir. It isn’t until first grade that there’s a surviving picture of Shepard herself. 

“It says here you wanted to be a ‘cow doctor’ when you grew up,” Thane reads aloud from the beginning of Shepard’s school career. 

“Well, yeah, there were talks of bringing cows here and all the kids got excited about it, not just me.” Defensiveness heats her cheeks, but Thane’s smile is anything but teasing. He probably doesn’t even know what a cow is. “Pretty sure that changed very abruptly to a ‘dog doctor’ when us kids were told that Mindoir was getting dogs, anyway.” 

There is a collage of the dogs brought to Mindoir (they, too, had age restrictions, so no puppies; Shepard can’t remember a single child complaining as they were just excited about dogs, and she can even remember the day they announced it very vividly due to that excitement), and that included Ranger, her childhood dog. The colony had started with two dozen adult dogs, but due to a mix-up in the birth control and breeding schedule, that had blossomed into a hundred within a very short amount of time. Any attempts at controlled breeding failed spectacularly, but rushed training programs flourished. 

At the same time as the dogs were the chickens, which was significantly less exciting to a child when there were cute mammals about, but significantly more important for the colony’s survival. 

“That’s what a chicken is? The thing humans claim everything tastes like?” Garrus asks, squinting at a photo of a bunch of chicks under a heat lamp. 

“It’s a baby one.” 

“Well, good. I can’t see how something that small could become such a large part of the human diet…” 

Jack snorts. Holding her hands apart, she says, “Adult chickens are only this big, you know. They aren’t huge fuckers. They just get raised in these crowded-ass pens and don’t take up much space.” 

Garrus glares at her like he’s convinced she’s joking about the size of an adult chicken. It only makes her laugh openly at him. 

“Siha, this is the picture you showed us,” Thane breaks in, gesturing to a picture of Shepard and her cousin and her dog, all of them covered in mud. 

“Yeah, I, uh, got the copy from here.” She has most of her copies from the museum and the government clean-up office, because after the Alliance picked her up in the ruins of the colony, she hadn’t looked back, much less for things like pictures of the past. 

There are gradually more surviving pictures of Shepard the further along they go, most of them from school events or community projects. There are biographies of family members next to those where they’re pictured, plus the handful of friends she’d had, and details of locations in the colony as it had expanded. Still in the era of prefabs, but more and more permanent buildings popping up. 

The Shepard family had gotten moved into a newly-built house of wood and concrete when she’d turned fourteen. “They’d joked it was a birthday present,” she finds herself saying, hardly more than a mumble. Still, Shepard finds herself with a rapt audience. Clearing her throat, face hot, she says, “They were moving established families with children into houses, and letting new colonists take the prefabs while more construction went up. It felt a little like a castle, even if I know it wasn’t that large. But I’d never seen a house like that.” 

They don’t have any pictures of her home, but they do have some of others that looked similar. Not exactly alike, but close enough. Actual, real houses. An actual, thriving colony. 

There’s a holo-screen displaying a video on loop, volume soft, in the next section. Most of the vid is a herd of laughing or screaming kids. It’d been a school event—something called a prom, which had been so old of a tradition not even the adults knew what it was—but it involved a big party based around the kids, so the school had been all for it. 

A fifteen-year-old Shepard is visible halfway into the playback, hair still back in braided pigtails, freckles stark with all of the sun she’d gotten growing up. Her arms are around a boy she’d liked—and she can’t even remember his name now, how terrible is that?—and he’s blushing profusely at having a girl so brazenly hanging off him. The camera pans away from them just as another boy tries rescuing her ancient crush. 

“I see you had a way with romance even then,” Liara teases with a sly look. 

“I vaguely remember getting into a fight with that friend of his later that night,” Shepard replies with a falsely thoughtful air. “He gave me a black eye, but I knocked out one of his teeth.” 

“Is that what human schools are like?” Thane asks, concerned. 

“Negative. All data on human educational systems point toward nonviolent teaching,” Legion replies for her. 

She huffs a laugh, fond and exasperated, and shakes her head. “If you think the Normandy crew is crazy, try dealing with a bunch of teenagers who are told to pair off for dancing. It was practically a war.” 

Shepard catches sight of Tali and Grunt in the next room, both of them gesturing animatedly over a glass case with an old rifle in it. Tali, like Liara, acts if she’d been caught doing something; Grunt narrows his eyes and bares his teeth in challenge. (Which is also how he acts when he’s caught doing something.) 

“We’re having a guided tour,” Liara jokes and waves them over. 

“That stuff all before was the boring stuff,” Grunt mutters. 

“I liked my boring childhood, Grunt,” Shepard replies. He scowls at the floor, though she didn’t mean it as icily as it came out. “But yes, we’re running out of the quiet years. I was only sixteen when Mindoir was raided by Batarian slavers. Since we’re playing tour—who here can tell me what the batarian slaver protocol is when attacking human settlements?” 

Legion raises his hand. 

“Legion, put that down, it was rhetorical. And I know you learned it from reading everything here.” 

“Affirmative,” he says and sadly lowers his arm. 

“Alliance-affiliated colonies constantly broadcast an all-clear signal. If it goes dark for six hours, Alliance staff will check in. If it’s dark for twelve hours, they send a full defensive company. They need that grace period since blackouts and unstable signals are practically constant out in the Traverse, but… it still means twelve hours before there is any defense outside of what the colonists already had,” Shepard explains. 

This much is easy to talk about; it’s textbook. The Alliance juggled a lot of pros and cons for how it would defend its growing territory, and this is what won out. No small, permanently stationed defenses, as it would thin their ranks, but overwhelming retaliatory force from the nearest military outpost if something were to go wrong. It kept them at a stalemate with the batarians, at least. 

Usually.

“When they attacked Mindoir, the batarians were trying out a new technology to spoof the all-clear signal. Mindoir never went dark, according to Alliance receivers,” Shepard says. Her voice catches on the last bit, despite the forced calm she feels. “So no help came.” 

“Um, it said it was an Alliance cruiser that…” Tali trails off with an aborted gesture toward further down in the museum’s timeline. 

“It was passing by—a shortcut from a returning mission, since the navigator had family on Mindoir. Sheer luck,” Shepard replies. “And that was a hundred and fourteen hours after the batarians first struck.” 

Nearly five days later. 

Batarian raiding protocol (at the time) was such: strike any obvious military or paramilitary outposts and then colony government buildings from low orbit. Then, landing parties split into three groups—one to secure the largest hospital from within (capturing all who approach and seizing all medical supplies), one to go to the perimeter of the residential district to move inward, and one to go to the center of the business district to begin raiding. 

It’s funny, in a very dark way, but the batarian raids had gotten skewed in public perspective after Mindoir. Prior to that, batarians took human slaves only opportunistically; their main goals were raiding for supplies and causing enough destruction to make the colony unviable to force the humans out. A lot of people forget that part of the batarian/human history. The batarians wanted humanity gone more than they wanted fresh slaves, at least at first.

It was after Mindoir, and the batarian independent specialists had over four full days to pick through the colony, that batarian raiders became known as slavers first and foremost. 

Even then, it’s technically a misnomer. The batarians killed over two-thirds of the population outright. They’re primarily butchers. But it’s one thing to fear death, and another to fear captivity, and both had been used to great effect in the following xenophobic PR campaigns to foster enough fear in colonists’ minds to bolster Alliance forces more than ever. 

Shepard gestures toward a diagram of a varren, like something you would see in an encyclopedia. “Jack, you asked why varren were here—you’re right, they weren’t native, that’s for damn sure. Since the batarians were aware that it’d be a few hours until the Alliance forces showed up—and longer, in Mindoir’s case since they were spoofing the all-clear signal—they liked to turn varren loose to cause chaos and be a nasty surprise for the marines who’d show up. In Mindoir’s case, they never got them all cleaned up, and there’s a small wild population. But there’s also training programs for them, like guard dogs. They can’t herd worth a damn, but they can protect, and they train as well as dogs, anyway.” 

She’s glad Mindoir had turned that much of their tragedy around, turned one speck of darkness into an advantage. The feral varren are a threat to livestock, but the fact that they have a trained force of them for defensive purposes (and also fighting off the wild ones) is great. They’d even shared their training regimens with other colonies and some experimental Alliance programs. 

“It was five days before the Alliance showed up?” Garrus asks—meaning to ask for more details, yet hesitant to push. Shepard doesn’t blame him. She’d be poking for more context and information if their roles were swapped, that’s for sure. 

Feigning nonchalance, Shepard gestures toward the rifle in the glass case. “That was Papa’s rifle. I had a crash course in the fastest sniper training ever—because I realized that if I could shoot things at a distance, then they couldn’t get any closer to me.” 

Of course, she had only learned that after she’d gotten caught by the batarians once and her father had died grabbing the rifle from the house. But at least she made sure she didn’t get caught a second time, and she got very good at picking off varren from a distance by day three. 

“Even with that old thing, you could’ve held off a lot with a good vantage point,” Grunt says, taking a stab at defending her past self’s supposed bravado. 

Except he was wrong. Shepard gestures them further down, because the faster they’re past the photos of the carnage, wreckage, and gore, the faster the weird bits will be over. “I was grounded, Grunt. I had a broken leg and had been shot twice—the only reason I didn’t bleed to death like all the other civilians they left for dead was because my grandmother used the medigel she’d kept on hand for her arthritis on me. Most of the colony’s medical supplies had been seized right away, so a lot of injuries resulted in death, even if they could’ve been treated.” If the Alliance had gotten there sooner, or if there had been one single atom of sympathy in the batarians. 

But no. They shot people, and if it didn’t kill them, they evaluated them for slaving purposes. Anyone left wanting was left there to bleed out in the dirt—or to draw in the varren. They wanted to shock and horrify the Alliance soldiers coming in later, after all. 

They didn’t even waste time putting people out of their misery. 

Shepard shakes her head to clear the memory of how she couldn’t put someone out of their misery, either, too horrified to shoot another human. 

“I spent three days pressed up against a fence, old rifle in hand, picking off varren. I knew it would take two shots and then the gun would overheat. So I got very good at taking out varren in one. And then the Alliance showed up, I was the only survivor, humanity was horrified when the news broke, and so on and so forth,” Shepard continues, not even looking at the wall of names at the end of this section. She knows them already.

“‘The SSV Cairo is the ship who discovered Mindoir’s status and raised the call to the Alliance. Headed by CO Captain Thomas Novak and XO… Commander David Anderson’,” Tali reads aloud from the plaque beneath a holo-screen of the news report featuring a picture of the SSV Cairo. 

“That much can’t be a surprise. You all knew that Anderson was part of the team that picked me up, right?” Shepard asks. Only Liara and Legion nod, however. “He’s the one who hauled me back to the ship, screaming and kicking and bleeding, and he’s the one who stopped the press from eating me alive after this all came out. He took me under his wing, helped me survive basic and grieving, recommended me for damn near every promotion I got… Come on, guys! The man’s practically my dad by now! There was a lot more reason for that than serving under him twice!” 

“We all know how you feel about Admiral Anderson,” Thane gently replies, “but I don’t believe many of us know as much about his history—military, or concerning you—as you think, siha.” 

Shepard scowls, embarrassed, and gestures again at the plaque Tali had been reading from. “Well, yeah. There we go. Lost one father and found a stand-in. And thankfully he didn’t hold a grudge that I tried shooting him when he first approached.” She had been so involved in shooting anything that moved, with hungry varren circling the colony and half-convinced the batarians would come back any moment, that she hadn’t registered his uniform until he was right in front of her. 

“So you’re saying that you have shot someone you cared for?” Garrus asks. 

“It was not a concussive round, and I missed, thankfully. No comparison here with the time you shot me on Omega.” 

Shepard makes a wide-armed move along gesture. She appreciates Garrus trying to lighten the mood in his Garrus-esque way, and she is glad that there weren’t more questions asked. Especially by Grunt. Maybe he’d thought she’d be able to tear varren to pieces with her bare hands? She isn’t even sure he knows what a teenaged human looks like, outside of the pictures from this museum. 

Except the next section is about the batarians specifically. Shepard staunchly avoids looking at the cutting tool they used to slice open human skulls to install control chips, but she nearly runs into Mordin, who’d been tucked into a corner. 

She should not be surprised he is watching the video. 

It’s labeled with a lot of Viewer Discretion disclaimers, with a textual explanation of what the video loop entails. It can only be activated by pushing a button, unlike everything else, which activates based on someone nearing it. 

Mordin glances sideways at her. Screams play from the small holo-screen. “Shepard. Did not think you would come here personally, but glad you did. Closure often involves facing difficult memories head-on.” 

Here’s the weirdest part of all of this: they have all done worse. Seen worse, of course, but they have all personally done worse than what is displayed in this museum or shown on that video. No one aboard the Normandy is squeamish—she would’ve laughed until she’d passed out if that were the case—and they are all very much killers. For the greater good, only when needed, on missions and for jobs and with morals supposedly intact, sure. 

Most of them have not killed civilians, at least not in any real number. But there’s been an awful lot of collateral the Normandy crew has racked up through the years. 

But everyone thus far is acting like Shepard is suddenly made of glass in this building, and it’s making her feel weird, and the fact that she very much does not want to engage with the only video evidence of what the batarians had done to Mindoir is making her feel even more prickly about it all. No one needs kid gloves to deal with her, her history, or her feelings. She’s done this already. She’s past this. 

“That was recorded by a private camera—which is why it survived. It was a little technically-illegal security cam with its own private network hooked up to the owner’s omnitool. It had been installed because there was a supposed chicken thief running around,” Shepard finds herself saying, jerking her head toward the holo-screen. 

“Human colonies too reliant on military sponsorship. Concerning tech, anyway,” Mordin sniffs. He also inclines his head toward the holo-screen. “Brings back memories.” 

That had been a different part of the colony than she’d been in. Nearer the hospital, so a higher amount of slavers swarming the area. It doesn’t bring back specific memories for her, thank god. 

“Was once part of batarian raid on colony,” Mordin explains, like that is a simple little addition to this conversation. Shepard gapes at him. “Human colony, there to research native plant life in regard to potential krogan fertility usage. Old STG stuff. Batarians did not expect me there, so raid ultimately held off—once human leadership recognized my defensive strategy as most logical, anyway. Minimal casualties, minimal fatalities.” 

“We could’ve used someone like you in half the Traverse during the raiding heyday, then.” 

Mordin beams and replies, “Could always use someone like me, or like you, Commander. Have many skills to offer.” 

“That’s certainly true.” 

The vid ends its playback and the holo-screen goes dark. Mordin falls into the step with the rest of her accidental tour group. Shepard doesn’t offer any further words on the batarian section of this—the things they’d done, the strategies they’d used, the tech they’ve developed for Mindoir, or how the Alliance had paid them back for Mindoir and all of the other colonies they’d dared attacked—and instead gestures grandly to the first professional photograph of herself: her enlistment into the Alliance. Anderson has a hand on her shoulder, and Shepard had traded the braided pigtails and denim overalls of her youth for a bun and a military uniform. 

“And here we have the fun bits of my museum—my military service and beyond. Actually, I haven’t been here since I defected, so I’m not sure how they’ve been updating things. Did you know they actually asked to have one of my old sniper rifles to display here? Of course, it got blown up with the rest of the SR1, so hindsight is twenty-twenty. Word of Commanderly advice: if a museum wants to have your old weaponry, hand it over, take the paycheck, and use it to get new gear.” 

“I don’t think any of the rest of us scrubs are getting museums anytime soon, Shepard,” Jack deadpans. She looks as relieved as Shepard feels to get out of the emotionally heavy sections. 

Not that her Alliance years didn’t have losses, but at least they were on a more manageable scale. 

Mostly.

“There is a museum on Kahje dedicated to all of the good that has come from the Compact,” Thane remarks. 

“You. Have a museum?” Jack demands with narrowed eyes. 

Thane offers a shadow of a smile. “No, they do not blatantly advertise their wetwork in a museum open to the galactic public. Also, no drell are specified by name. But it is by implication.” 

“Then that doesn’t count!” Grunt huffs. 

“Is having a museum a significant achievement?” Legion asks Liara. 

“Well, yes, because only the very famous and very important people—or topics—get them. It also takes a lot of funding. I’ve donated a few pieces to various museums, and even free donations have their costs in taxes and preservation measures that must be taken.” 

“That’s what the Alliance poster child for batarian-created tragedy and then exemplary service will get you: funding for things with your name on it,” Shepard adds with a sarcastic salute. “The better bits came later, and once I hit Spectre, I’m sure the credits came rolling in from eager tourists.” 

“Not to mention the Cerberus fucks,” Jack mutters. 

Tali makes a questioning noise, so Shepard tells her, “Later, we’ll debrief, but Cerberus has been freer with their funding ventures than we’d thought. Anyway, this chunk is kind of funny, because I was doing N7 shit here, but it’s classified, so they have nothing to show for it.” 

The only parts in this section are generic descriptions of what N-school is like and the pair of interviews Shepard had done at the start and the end, plus a life-size picture of her in what became her iconic armor. There’s even a list of all her measurements. 

And therein lies the second thing the museum got factually wrong: how much she can lift. (Or could at the time; Project Lazarus’ new body had certainly improved that number.) There had been griping by very stupid servicemen who didn’t realize what complaints about a decorated female officer would do to their careers, but the mood that young men were angry that a woman were showing them up pervaded two postings. 

So the museum had decided to add twenty kilos to her lifting record. Out of delicious, delightful spite. Bless them. 

She doesn’t mind so much that they haven’t corrected this one, though it’s technically not true anymore. (She’s refused all offers to update her measurements, even if the museum staff had overall been very polite in referring to her new and improved body.) 

Shepard doesn’t look at the Akuze section, any more than she looked at the prior names of the dead. She’ll talk about Akuze even less than she’ll talk about Mindoir, but at least her crew accepts that about her. The photos of thresher maws with humans edited in for scale are bad enough. 

The next section is more familiar and far more palatable: the point in the timeline dedicated to the Normandy SR1’s hunt for Saren Arterius. 

Legion points to the photo they had taken of Tali when she’d been officially taken on. (The flash had gleamed off her helmet, since Alliance staff had no idea what to do for quarian recruits.) “Tali, it is you. There are no visual markers to indicate age or growth in the creators, but the metadata in this picture indicates you were over three years younger than you currently are.” 

“Wait, they’re using my C-Sec picture for this? Why?” Garrus demands, glaring at his own photo and dossier proudly displayed on the wall. 

“Well, this is the official portrait from my graduation, so consider yourself lucky,” Liara mumbles with obvious embarrassment. She flaps her hand at a very pretty-looking picture of herself and refuses to look at it any longer. 

“Look at Wrex!” Jack interrupts, cackling, pointing at the wall. Tali, closest, peers over and begins giggling. Liara covers her mouth but it does not prevent a snort. 

Ever more curious, Shepard stands on the tips of her toes and looks over them. 

Urdnot Wrex’s apparent official photograph in the museum had been taken of a moving target, at a distance, and covered in blood. He’s running, blurry, shotgun drawn, not looking at the camera. 

“He looks like a fucking cryptid!” Jack howls with laughter. 

“Could you imagine the Alliance trying to ask Wrex for an official portrait?” Liara says, voice trembling with quashed humor. “Th-They were already scared of Garrus being posted on the Normandy, and it was already a joint venture with the turians…!” 

“You would not believe the rumors I heard about Wrex in the first few months I was there. People were waiting for him to start eating the humans!” Tali exclaims. 

Shepard takes a picture of the terrible photo to send to Wrex later. Now that he’s presumed leader of the krogan, he’ll probably need an official portrait commissioned, right? Shepard’s going to volunteer recreating this. 

Legion stands in front of the other two photographs of the SR1’s now-famous ground squad. “This unit would have preferred to meet them both as well, given their service with you, Shepard-Commander,” he says instead of joining in with the laughter at Wrex’s expense. 

“Well, one’s dead and the other called me a traitor to my face, so I wouldn’t hold your breath, Legion,” Shepard replies with an awkward pat on his arm. “I mean, I wouldn’t wait for it to happen. …Were you actually looking for my crewmates, too?” 

“We have found it useful to have additional context of certain events. But no, Shepard-Commander. We were only ever following you.” 

“You didn’t miss much on Horizon,” Grunt dryly advises, sparing a glare for the portrait on the wall. (Ashley and Kaidan, of course, had official Alliance photos with their profiles, though Shepard can tell they were both older pictures, probably from their last promotion or station.) “And anyway, we’re the ones following Shepard now. What’s in the past is past, so who cares?” 

“Past events provide much context and vital data for future event predictions,” Legion replies. 

“Future event prediction for you: no one else is ever gonna call Shepard a traitor to anything, because she’s working the hardest out of anyone to save this damn galaxy,” Grunt declares. 

Shepard is touched, until Garrus flatly points out, “Have you read any Citadel-space news stories about Shepard lately? You’ll have a lot of people to punch to defend her honor, Grunt. Better hop to it.” 

“Are we taking care of publications running such articles? I had assumed we weren’t,” Thane says like he’s been waiting for such an opportunity. 

“Anyway,” Shepard continues, sparing a glare for her turian and his delight in ruining Grunt’s over-the-top (but still sweet) declarations of loyalty. Thane gets a pass because vague implications of assassination on behalf of further loyalty is also sort of sweet. 

It’s strange that she doesn’t feel anything about the room dedicated to her death. She feels some kind of way about it when she thinks about it, but a museum room full of meaningless obituaries and vids from funerary services? The only one she’d cared about was her military service one. 

The flag they’d put on her coffin is here, under another glass case. 

So is her empty coffin. 

“Macabre,” Mordin says, excited, and rushes over to the coffin. “Fascinating that humanity still follows burial rituals with such strictness. Would love to attend funeral sometime.” 

“I didn’t have a will, because I wasn’t even thirty and no human likes to think of that sort of thing until they need it, but I’d actually like to be cremated,” Shepard wryly announces. Liara will probably make note of that. (If there are no further plans to bring her back another time.) “Some of my ashes can be spread here, and I want some on Alchera. And that’s as much as I want to discuss that casually in a museum about my life.” She hadn’t meant to discuss it at all, except as a joke to Mordin’s enthusiasm about burials. This place is making her wordy. 

“You burn your dead? Even outside of war?” Thane asks, sounding distinctly uneasy about the prospect. 

Another reason she doesn’t want to discuss this right now: her partners. 

“We can discuss that later!” Shepard hurries along, now painfully aware that they’ll have to have a ship-wide meeting about funerary processes and wills and face the fact that they’ll probably all die in this war. “Look, this part has a model of the SR2!” 

“Smooth segue,” Garrus tells her. 

“Just go look at the mini thanix cannons.” 

Everyone oohs and ahhs over the ship they’ve called home for over a year now, giving Shepard emotional space from the last topic. Legion commends the model’s accuracy, Tali giggles over the glowing mini drive core, and Grunt loudly wonders how easy it would be to steal it. (Shepard assumes it would be for her model ship collection since he’s probably in a charitable mood, but then again, he has stolen her models in the past for his own use. So it’s a toss-up who would end up with the undoubtedly very expensive scale replica.) 

Thank god Kasumi isn’t here to hear Grunt’s unsubtle suggestion.

Also thank god no staff had the quads to tail her or her crew through the museum in case of such a thing. 

The last part—since they haven’t yet added a new section dedicated to her screaming about the coming Reaper threat and thus throwing galactic politics into turmoil, what a pity—of the museum is dedicated to her personal life. The supposed scandal that she’s dating two aliens has reached even Mindoir, but at least it is tasteful, and generally supportive-seeming. 

“They used the Fornax portrait!” 

Aside from the fact that Thane is also a member of the Normandy crew with very few photos available of him. He’s probably lucky that he didn’t end up with a cryptid-like thing like Wrex had. Shepard doesn’t laugh outright—Garrus takes care of that much, howling at the irony of such a pro-human settlement (not to mention Cerberus-funded place) using a pin-up from an alien porn mag, and Jack mightily joins in with the laugher—but she does have to break eye contact from the very pretty professional photograph of her boyfriend. Lest she also join in. 

At least Thane doesn’t look insulted. 

“They didn’t use the Fornax one for you, huh?” Grunt says, squinting at Garrus’ updated profile picture. (No longer an old C-Sec file, at least.) 

Garrus puts a hand on Grunt’s shoulder, both out of pity and for support from his laughing fit. “You’re really digging hard for jabs right now, huh? Try harder.” 

“This profile doesn’t have very much information,” Thane remarks as he reads over what could be some of the only publicly-available information on him in this sector. He turns pointedly toward Garrus’—which is very long.

“I’ve been in the public eye in some form for most of my life. No sense of privacy in the military or C-Sec, and definitely not on the Normandy. What did you expect this place to do? Hack hanar databases?” Garrus points out. 

“There is no mention of Kolyat or Irikah,” Thane sulks.

“And again—how would a human colony out in the middle of the Traverse know that?” 

“Do you want more information about yourself in this place?” Shepard asks, preparing to go flag down staff and demand that at once. 

Thane sighs, then turns his head to hide a small cough. “No, it’s best that there isn’t. Especially for Kolyat’s sake. It’s just… very odd to see physical evidence that you two are very well known, and I am not.” He gestures at his short paragraph. 

“How about when the Reapers are defeated and we all retire, we declassify everything? Really throw the galaxy and its museums for a loop,” Garrus suggests. 

Liara snorts a laugh, surprising them. “Forgive me. I thought you were making a joke. I’m trying to picture any of you actually retiring.” 

“You know, retired people don’t own sniper rifles,” Tali adds. 

“I assure you, they do,” Thane rebukes, frowning. “I almost retired, once.” 

“The only way they’re taking that Widow from me is if a Reaper itself comes and takes it out of my hands,” Garrus adds with his own sulky scowl. 

“Retirement overrated!” Mordin declares. 

“Do you know how old you’re all sounding right now?” Jack complains. Grunt nods, sour-faced. “I’m with Liara—no way in hell any of us are actually giving this shit up. We’re the worst kind of adrenaline junkies. And you think just ‘cause we kick the Reapers’ metal asses we’ll be done with Shepard playing hero constantly?” 

“Hey, even I want to imagine a future where I can rest!” Shepard retorts. Sure, it’s statistically unlikely—she holds up a hand to stop Legion from reporting the actual depressing statistics of that—but it’s nice to think about. Aren’t heroes supposed to deserve a quiet retirement? 

“How about extended vacation instead?” Mordin suggests, popping up between Jack’s irritation with nonaction and Shepard’s desire not to think about dismal survival prospects. “Beach vacations very well recommended by colleagues. Historically well-liked by humans too. Salt water good for many skin types.” 

“Vetoed. Turians can’t swim,” Garrus retorts. 

But both Shepard and Thane turn to him with matching expressions of surprised sadness, so he very quickly buckles without a word of actual complaint. 

“I’m sure Rannoch has beaches!” Tali excitedly suggests, bouncing in place. 

“Affirmative, Tali. However, they are not near settlement plans.” 

“Even better, a private beach, and with no annoying insects,” Liara says with a smile. “Sounds like a retirement plan right there—we can open up Rannoch’s very first beach resort. Well, open it up after we’re done with it, at any rate.” 

“Rannoch better allow nude bathing, I fucking hate tan lines,” Jack says. 

Shepard has to roll her eyes at that. “Jack, you already don’t wear enough to call it a swimsuit, so I really don’t think anyone’s going to care if you show off more tattoos. Also, keep in mind any native wildlife is gonna be dextro-based, so if you get bit by a Rannoch fish and go into anaphylactic shock, that’s on you.” 

“Risk would extend to any levo-based beings, regardless of level of clothing,” Mordin points out. 

Shepard shakes her head with a laugh. At least her mind isn’t on this weird museum trip anymore, instead wondering what alien swimwear would entail. (Would asari even wear swimsuits? Well, probably, but would they be anything like human female swimsuits?) 

She finds Garrus’ eyes already on her, so she gives him a smile. Telling him that she’s okay. This was weird, yes, but it’s nothing she hasn’t been through before, and all the bad bits are years in the past now. It’s better to think of a beach vacation/retirement for now. 

But when Shepard turns to find Thane—he’s not by his lone little paragraph profile anymore—she finds him with his jacket off, which is now wrapped around a bundle in his arms. 

He puts a finger to his lips when she opens her mouth. 

Shepard is singularly not surprised when, after they leave the museum, Thane holds out the Normandy SR2 model to her. Garrus is distracting Grunt, asking him what he would add to the Shepard museum, so he has to be in on it on some level. 

“I’m certain Miss Goto would be quite disappointed with my lack of subtlety, but it was simple to disconnect the alarm sensors from the pedestal,” Thane says. 

“And why did you steal the very expensive model from the museum?” Shepard asks, both amused and confused, because it’s unlike him. To steal, anyway; giving attentive gifts is very much like him. 

“Because I’d like for this to be a reminder for you. This is your present, siha,” he says and presses the ship into her hands. (It’s not a small model, either, so she cradles it like she would a rifle. Or a baby.) “The past is very easy to get lost in. You don’t dwell on it overmuch, but with the future so uncertain and so dark, I’d like for you to focus more on the very happy present we have here and now. It’s a small token, but I hope it’s appreciated, siha.” 

“I definitely appreciate this. I’ve only had the stolen Normandy given to me twice before,” she jokes. “But you realize now we have to smuggle this onto the real Normandy without Grunt seeing and demanding it.” The last time he had borrowed a model ship of hers, it had come back bent, broken, and with what were definitely bite marks. Shepard is not going to make the same mistake twice. “Which is going to be harder right now, considering that I want to talk to you all.” 

This isn’t how she wanted to have this talk (with a large model ship hidden behind her back in the most unsubtle fashion), and she will have it again back onboard in more detail and with her full crew, but it needs to be said, now. With Thane’s present and the museum’s past on her mind. 

“Before you all fuck off to try real human food—the other museum has a cafe, and everything it serves has matagot tails in it, I definitely recommend it—or do whatever else, I want to make one thing very clear to you all. That inside, back there? A very good example of the atrocities the batarians had committed, a good example of batarian/humanity hostility, and not a very fun time. That said, we are going to do our best to save the batarian population, however we can. I don’t know if that talk with the Hegemony people will work out, or if we’ll have to try to send in a krogan and geth force to demand an evacuation, but I’m not letting the Reapers harvest that many bodies. 

“More importantly, I’m not letting the Reapers take that many lives. Yes, that’s a lot of civilians, and technically yes, not every batarian is responsible for the kind of horrors that I lived through. But I’m putting aside my history to try to save them, too. It’s what I expect of all of you, too. This is not the time for grudges. This is not about forgiveness, this is about saving lives and doing good. This is about stopping the Reapers and preventing them from destroying life. Are we all clear on that?” Shepard asks. 

There are a chorus of yes ma’ams, just to annoy her, probably. 

“So, with that comparison made—I think we should talk about Cerberus,” Shepard declares. 

Chapter Text

“This is a warning,” Liara exclaims, brandishing the paper letter from Miranda. “Not an invitation to meet trouble head-on!” 

“Thane admitted that the easiest way to throw off an assassin is to be proactive!” 

Liara both admires and hates this stubborn side of Shepard. This is the part that gets things done, that fights impossible foes, that beats incredible odds. But it’s also the part that will do whatever she has already decided is right. 

Liara does not think that taking over Cerberus is right. 

She admits that the blatant unrest in their ranks is an opportunity that she would otherwise be very intrigued in. She hadn’t expected it to get that bad, or that obvious to an outside view, but Shepard loudly leaving the organization had made many more waves than she could have predicted, it seems. 

The Illusive Man enlisting Kai Leng’s help appears to be a move of desperation. It could point to even more division that they’re not seeing. He could be hoping to take out Shepard before she becomes even more of an enemy. 

Or even more of an icon for humanity. 

Liara has long been aware of the effect Shepard has on people. She doubts she’s even fully aware of it herself. Shepard has rallied the unlikeliest of allies and built more power in a month and a half than anyone else knows, and she’s scaring a lot of people already with the little that is publicly known. Once the truth of what she’s been doing comes to light, it’s going to be chaos. 

But she’s been inspiring more even from those little bits of public knowledge. Just for being herself. For those humans who are interested in the idealized (and fictionalized) version of what Cerberus does—protection and betterment of humanity—then Shepard is a hero. And many have made it clear that they would rather follow her than fight her. 

None of this means that they should take over Cerberus. 

Liara slaps the letter down onto her desk (piled high with datapads, including Kai Leng’s dossier, known Cerberus operatives, known Cerberus outposts, known Cerberus research projects, and a lot of other signs that Shepard should not be doing what she wants to do). “Shepard, the Illusive Man has already been driven to these lengths. And that is when he believes you are not only unaware of them, but also moving largely neutrally. If he perceives you as an active threat—” 

“Jacob is up to his eyeballs trying to spring people from Cerberus and we’ve run into people with guns pointed at us who would rather lower them and leave than have to fight me. And that wasn’t out of fear! If we could remove the Illusive Man—and this Kai Leng guy—from the picture, plus a few other big players, then Cerberus wouldn’t be an absolute racist shitshow anymore. We could fix them. They have funding, Liara. They have so much money, they have so much tech, and they have so many soldiers! We need fleets and armies and this is one right there! Hell, doing this could free up Jacob and probably Miranda again to come back to the ship!” 

“I understand your points, Shepard,” Liara says, forcing herself into a calm. “I do. And I understand that you miss the people you’ve grown close to, but we don’t need individuals right now. And we don’t need a Cerberus army. Do you even know what that would look like to an outside view?!” 

“The Council already hates me,” Shepard deadpans. 

Liara wishes she could pick her up with her biotics and shake sense into her. “Okay, say that this idea of yours is not completely stupid. Say there is a fifty-fifty divide within Cerberus ranks, for simple math, so we could steal half of their resources and personnel and we could somehow ensure loyalty to our cause—” 

“Even the batarians are open to speaking with me! With me, Liara. The Reapers are a threat to everyone, and hell, I’d say the Illusive Man knows that more than most! Cerberus forces have had access to intel about the threat of the Reapers for as long as I’ve been spouting it—” 

“I still suspect the batarian meeting is a trap, and do you really think the Illusive Man would’ve been honest? That it wouldn’t have been more propaganda he’s been handing out?” 

“It’s still ‘the Reapers are evil, join the fight today’ propaganda! That’s what we’re doing! It’s workable if they’re humanity-first, because at least they’ll want to save lives instead of shoot at us the next time you decide to sell our info and we run into them.” 

“…I didn’t deserve that,” Liara replies, tone cool. 

Shepard, to her credit, looks chagrined. “No, you didn’t. Sorry, Liara. But we’re giving the batarians a fair shot, and the very least I could do is not ignore a bunch of my own people shouting for my help. Even if we were enemies in the past. There are good people in there, and useful people, not to mention resources we’ll need.” 

Liara sighs. She massages the deepening furrow in her brow. How early can asari get facial wrinkles? She supposes she’ll find out. “Even if I thought this idea of yours was feasible or a good use of our time—tell me, Shepard, how are you going to find such a famously paranoid man? Not even I know where his primary base is located, and that’s with all of my intel, how badly people want to find out about him, and studying the Normandy and its direct-line QEC to the man.” 

“I believe I may be of help with that,” EDI chimes in, reminding Liara that they have a sentient ship and she does not have half as much privacy as she thinks she does. 

“EDI, do you know where the Illusive Man is,” Shepard says, not a question. Nearly a growl. 

“I did not, but I have cause to believe that Miranda did,” EDI replies. 

“Miranda told me that even she didn’t know where the Illusive Man was when we cut ties. Otherwise we probably would’ve stormed his base then,” Shepard points out. 

“I utilized the past tense, Shepard. When Liara took a scan of the paper letter Miranda sent you for analysis, I noticed some strange shadowing, where there would be none on a smooth surface. Upon closer examination, it appears that there were imprints of writing on the paper, without ink. Miranda traced over something in three areas without leaving a visible mark.” 

Liara turns to the paper on the desk. Miranda’s words had referenced her frustration and anger and that she had pressed the pen hard, but she hadn’t noticed anything that wasn’t written. The subtle bumps from the actual writing were all she’d noticed; it probably would’ve taken an AI to recognize anything else. 

“What does it say?” Liara asks. More information, accessible only to the Normandy; of course Miranda would be so thorough with her intelligence. 

“After the salutation of the fake name Ana, there are four more letters: ‘dius’.” 

“Anadius?” Shepard asks with a confused frown. 

“It doesn’t ring a bell. It could be a planet, a moon, something like that.” Hopefully it’s nothing more specific, like a colony or a port, but surely EDI can help them identify it. 

“After the word ‘horse’, there are the letters ‘head’.” 

“Horsehead—” 

“The Horsehead Nebula,” Liara says, eyes locked with Shepard. That is definitely a location, one they know very well. That’s where Noveria is. 

“Thirdly,” EDI smoothly continues, “after the phrase ‘somewhere really cold’, there are letters that spell out ‘noveria’, albeit not capitalized as befitting a proper noun.” 

That answers that. Noveria is in the Horsehead Nebula and is a den of all sorts of grey market and outright illegal things. Cerberus would surely have a foothold there. 

“Additionally, to answer the implied question you did not outright ask me, within the Horsehead Nebula, there is a little-known star named Anadius.” 

Two locations within the Horsehead Nebula, plus the system itself specifically named? It has to be important. 

But along that train of thought, Liara falters. “Shepard, what if these locations—what if that is where Kai Leng is stationed? We could be going right to him.” 

“He’s supposed to be hunting us, isn’t he? There’s no way someone hasn’t leaked that the Normandy was on Mindoir, so why would he be sitting on his ass in the cold? Miranda wouldn’t point us in the direction of a trap, either,” Shepard points out, arms folded across her chest. 

“We don’t know what Miranda’s intentions were with pointing out these locations to us,” Liara replies. “Noveria could very well be home to a large shell corporation for Cerberus, yes, or some other manner of hiding their credits. Or they are funding research there. But you and I both know that Noveria can be home to far more than shady businesses. He may be one man, but those are easy to hide. Even from me. Especially on Noveria.” 

“So we dig. We look up maps, you start checking out Noveria’s companies and contracts, EDI helps me with… whatever. I’ll ask Thane about what it could mean to proactively act with an assassin tail. I’m not saying we head there immediately, blast down the doors, and demand questions of the nearest guard, Liara. But Miranda wouldn’t include this, especially not so well-hidden, for nothing.” 

“Miranda doesn’t know that you have this—this crazy notion about taking over Cerberus! You don’t know what she was thinking when she wrote this, any more than what she knows you’re thinking right now!” 

“Miranda doesn’t like the Illusive Man anymore than I do, that’s for damn sure, and she’s one of the smartest people I know. She has to be seeing the same cracks in Cerberus that we are. She probably saw them way earlier and way deeper. Hostile takeover of her old employer definitely sounds like something she’d back—” 

“Not without a plan and not with a threat like Kai Leng after you!” Liara bursts out. 

“We are getting a plan. Tonight we’re going over it with the rest of the crew, along with the laundry list of everything else we need to do. But Cerberus has funding, resources, and numbers that we need. And as it stands, the Illusive Man is making it clear that we can’t be neutral toward each other anymore, so it’s either subsume their forces or outright destroy them. I’d rather save and use who we can,” Shepard coldly replies. “But we sure as shit can not risk Cerberus coming at us the same time as the Reapers. It wouldn’t just fracture humanity, it’d fuck the whole galaxy over.” 

“But the Illusive Man is a smart man. He wouldn’t risk that, either—he knows what a threat the Reapers are,” Liara protests, but it sits heavily in her mind even as the words leave her mouth. It doesn’t make sense for the Illusive Man to do this. Shepard may be acting against his wishes, but why would he risk turning such a woman into such a powerful enemy? Especially as it appears to be fracturing his organization. 

Why would he risk that? 

Yes, he is clandestinely hoping to remove Shepard from play, but she could turn into a martyr then. He could still lose significant support. Also, he knows better than anyone how effective it is to throw Commander Shepard at a problem. Why wouldn’t he allow her to work to let her fight the Reapers? He may be hoping to unleash Kai Leng on her right before the predicted arrival date, to take advantage of the preparations she had built, but that is such a tiny piece of the puzzle that it’s nearly negligible. Pointless if Shepard is hoping to locate and presumably take out Kai Leng prior to whatever the Illusive Man’s plans are. 

And Liara will never let the man take over any of Shepard’s preparations for his own gain. 

Shepard sighs and shifts her weight to her other leg. She does not uncross her arms. “We’ll go over this tonight, as well as a ton of other things we haven’t yet. I’m going to need Javik for some grisly stuff, too.” 

“Oh, that ‘art project’ you mentioned? He was concerned about your usage of that term.” 

Shepard manages a tight smile. “He probably will be thrilled once I explain it. Everyone else will be concerned.” 

Liara decides to be preemptively concerned, then. 

—

Another mandated meeting with the Normandy crew. Evidently, it will be a long enough one that Shepard has allowed people to drag in chairs from the mess. Everyone is crammed into the meeting room, too, with Shepard at the head of the table, Garrus on one side, and Liara on the other. 

“Cerberus has been funding Mindoir’s growth under the guise of trade deals,” Shepard announces to the table. 

At least no one seems surprised, but Garrus would be surprised himself if that bit of hot gossip hadn’t already spread. 

“Still, we wrote up an official trade agreement for them and Tuchanka, so now we’re washing our hands of it. That can’t involve the Normandy Pact directly—has to be as legitimate as possible, considering Tuchanka’s weird political state. Legitimacy concerns and all that shit, but it’s implying that Wrex is the leader of a united krogan population, and he’s capable of trade deals, so it’s good optics,” Shepard continues, sounding wearier as she goes. “So that’s taken care of. Mordin, how’s the cure progress coming along?” 

“He’s taken enough samples, it ought to be going well,” Bakara growls. 

“Progress good, within expectations. Momentarily slow, however,” Mordin reports, undeterred by the grumpy krogan at his side. “Will have greater progress as pregnancy progresses into last stage, and—” 

Shepard and Kelly had been drinking, unfortunately, leading them to spit out water. Garrus feels he’d swallowed his tongue, Tali makes a noise like a varren on helium, and Chakwas has abruptly gone very pale. 

“What do you mean,” Liara forces out, looking pretty pale herself, “pregnancy.” 

Mordin flutters his eyelids and hides a very rude laugh behind his glove. Bakara spares the table a look like they’ve all become equal status to something she’d stepped in. “How else do you think we’d test to see if the salarian scientists were successful with anything they did to me?” she demands. 

“Did no one else know this?” Javik adds, sneering, because of course he’d be able to smell it or something. And declined to share with anyone else. Garrus shakes his head. 

“There are… tests? You can run? To check that?” Shepard replies with an increasingly higher voice. 

“Ran all tests. Promising results. But Bakara very willing to be artificially inseminated to prove fertility chances. Very willing. Insistent, actually,” Mordin reports. 

Spirits, Garrus hadn’t thought about how she had gotten pregnant until this moment, and he did not need that particular mental image of Wrex. (If the female would have even let him near her, which is very much up for debate.) But then he has mental images of their resident mad scientist wielding a baster instead, and that is not any more welcome. “Okay,” he says, speaking so he can stop imagining, “so you two decided to just go ahead and prove that Bakara is genuinely cured. That’s, uh, great. Except you didn’t think to notify anyone else of this? What if there was an emergency, or health complications, or—or I don’t know, any number of things that usually go wrong when this ship is involved?!” 

“Do you think me incapable of caring for pregnancy? After everything I have researched and learned about krogan race?” Mordin snippily demands. Garrus opens his mouth, but Mordin flashes him a smirk and adds, “Sound theory, good assumption. Have never delivered infant of any race before. But have read up on it extensively.” 

Garrus glances to Chakwas, who is actually their resident doctor. The woman still appears flabbergasted that there was such a major health development aboard that she hadn’t been aware of and, for the moment, does not speak up to volunteer anything. (Not that Garrus thinks human births would be at all similar to krogan. But it’s something, something that Mordin has admitted not even he has direct experience with.)

“Also, notes on genophage research and tests publicly available for those who ask. Have always been,” Mordin adds. 

Shepard and Garrus, nominally the most In Charge Of Normandy Business, exchange a guilty look. Like hell either of them were willingly going through Mordin’s anal-retentive notes about krogan breeding outside of an emergency. Then again, it would’ve been nice to be briefed on the bigger pieces, like a pregnant krogan aboard. If only for the sake of their food supplies. 

“Um, what’s the plan for krogan babies aboard the Normandy?” Tali nervously pipes up. 

“Singular. Only implanted one fertilized egg,” Mordin corrects. “Would be a waste to try anything more until cure proven.”

“Okay, but that’s still… This isn’t a very baby-friendly ship. Are you going to return to Tuchanka?” Tali asks Bakara. 

“If I am cured, and if Dr. Solus learns everything he can from me, then yes. Eventually. I don’t want the future of the krogan race raised on a starship. We still have a planet of our own, the Council let us keep that much, so may as well use it,” Bakara replies, rolling her eyes. “Thankfully, the doctor here says that if this is successful and healthy, barring a few more tests done on the kid, then we can copy most of what the STG shits did to me for the female cure.” 

“Female cure?” Shepard echoes. 

“Will be able to copy most STG fundamental work for use in male-only chromosomal patterns as well, but not all. Must synthesize and test the rest. Very time-consuming, most of proposed timeline dedicated to ensuring blanket for all krogan biological possibilities. Tedious. But prefer to be thorough in this phase rather than fixing things after—gets messy too quickly,” Mordin explains. “Too much blame on researchers for not understanding nuance of krogan chromosomal possibilities. Been there before. Won’t repeat others’ past mistakes.” 

Shepard mutters something under her breath, then replies, “So long as your research plans are progressing smoothly, and along the projected timeline. Is there anything else you need—?” 

“Yes,” Mordin blurts before she’s even done with the question. “Assistant. Not body, not someone to talk at, but genuine research assistant on same intellectual level. Preferably expert in krogan genetics as well.” 

“Mordin, Dr. Okeer died, and I honestly do not know who else could even come close to that who aren’t in the STG. And we really can’t afford to step on salarian toes again and risk actual hostilities. I’m vetoing poaching anyone from the STG.” 

“Have someone in mind, actually! Not STG at all!” 

“We’re not kidnapping anyone.” 

“Blackmail allowed?” Mordin asks, in his usual jovial tone. 

It takes Garrus and Shepard a long moment to realize he isn’t joking. “Who is this, and why are we blackmailing another genius onto this ship? Why can’t we ask nicely?” Garrus asks uneasily. 

“Mordin, I will do my best to get you anything or anyone you need for this, but why did you start with blackmail?” Shepard adds. 

“Dr. Rana Thanoptis,” Mordin supplies. 

“…Why does that name sound familiar?” Shepard asks, frowning, and exchanges a glance with Garrus. He thinks it sounds familiar, too. 

“Asari scientist, known for neurological expertise and research into mental and psychological implant programs, but more than passing knowledge of krogan physiology due to past work. Very impressive resume with krogan genetic work, actually,” Mordin supplies, which still doesn’t answer who she is or why she sounds familiar. 

“She was on Virmire!” Tali exclaims. Liara types furiously away on her omnitool at that little revelation. “Right? That was the asari woman working at Saren’s krogan factory!” 

“Wait, so then she was the one you chased off during that recruitment gone bad of Okeer, right?” Garrus adds, looking between Tali and Shepard. “Spirits, Mordin, you really want her working with you on this?” 

“Highly intelligent woman, had access to all of Okeer’s work, not to mention Saren’s cloning facility. Only some STG data recovered from site. Very curious to learn more. Knows personally of Shepard’s tactics and personality, keen to not anger her. Should be easy to persuade her,” Mordin points out. 

“You want to threaten a woman, who watched me set off a nuke, to work with you. By threatening her with me,” Shepard says, massaging her temples. 

“Better blackmail than kidnapping, no?” Mordin replies. Utterly shameless, as usual. 

“Fine,” Shepard snaps and downs the rest of her water. “Liara, find out where this Thanoptis woman is currently and see if we can use something a little kinder than blackmail as an opener. Mordin, anything else?” 

“Would prefer larger lab. Eventually. Can work as it is, but amount of tools limits amount of tests can run concurrently.” 

“Noted. We’ll figure something out. Anything else?” 

“Everything else progressing smoothly, Shepard,” Mordin happily replies. 

Weird to say, considering what he knows of Mordin’s past actions and disregard for things like ethics, but Garrus is glad to be working with him. Very few other people would work so diligently on an assigned task with full permission from Commander Shepard to do shady things, plus basically a blank credit chit to boot. 

“Okay, before the next part—no one else is pregnant, right?” Shepard sourly demands. Gabby and Tali shake their heads, Kelly rolls her eyes, Jack laughs like that’s a hilarious joke, and Liara spares her a very flat look. “Good! Just checking. Javik, you can’t get pregnant, can you?” 

“There is no one left to procreate with.” 

Shepard makes a vague gesture toward Liara. “Not sure how Prothean biology or sex works, and given that there is currently an alien who can procreate with anything standing next to me, thought I would check if there was another species that can do that, too. Also, since you also knew Bakara was pregnant and didn’t share, wanted to check explicitly.” 

“Why would I report someone’s personal bodily change to you?” he suspiciously asks. 

Shepard clenches and unclenches her fists. Garrus pats her on the shoulder. “We’ll address that later. Javik, you’re up next in the list—” 

“Good, I had several things I wished to discuss with you, Commander,” he interrupts. 

Garrus pats her shoulder again, because Shepard already looks done with this night. “What sorts of things.” 

“Records indicate that humans will live a maximum of a hundred and fifty years,” Javik begins, pointing at her, then at the other human crew members in turn. “Turians live just longer. Quarians and drell live shorter lives. That salarian ought to be dead already based on their puny lifespans. Who will take over when you die? You have a young asari and a younger krogan on your crew, so will this be based on projected lifespan, or will Dr. T’Soni’s expertise give her the superior role?” 

Liara looks touched that he called her by name, rather than ‘primitive’ or ‘asari’. Garrus worries for her Prothean-shaped soft spot if that little makes her happy. 

“Crewmate Javik has a point about the predicted life expectancy of the other crew members of Normandy,” Legion says. “This is a logical contingency to make official, and one that Normandy crew members should have access to, Shepard-Commander.” 

“The… geth will also live a long time if not destroyed, I suppose,” Javik adds as though it pains him greatly. 

“…Matriarch Helesse implied something similar, Shepard,” Liara says, eyes averted, “which is why she was ultimately not upset that she did not lure you to Illium. And as dark as this may be, it may be wise to consider planning this out now. In the Prothean’s cycle, the war lasted almost four hundred years. Even with your Cerberus-enhanced body, you will not live that long. Most of this crew will not.” 

“But you and Grunt and Legion—and EDI, so long as the Normandy is still around—will, if we’re using that as a timeline prediction. …Javik, will you?” Shepard asks. 

Javik rolls all of his eyes. “No. And I will not speak more of Prothean lifespans.” 

“Ugh. Alright, so, during the course of our expected lifespans, I remain in charge, and Garrus remains my XO. But given that we’re talking about centuries here, then I nominate Liara as next head of the Normandy Pact. Given that you’re brilliant, the Shadow Broker, still really young, and all that jazz. We can revisit this officially in a decade or two, after we start dying and we figure out how bleak this war is going to be. Happy now, Javik?” 

“I am never happy.” 

“That’s as much as I was expecting. Alright, since you just blindsided me with that depressing vision of the future, I get to depress you with some visions of the past. Javik, I want you and whoever else you need to work on predicting husks of different races,” Shepard orders. 

He stares at her. Liara and Garrus stare at her sideways, too, taken aback. 

“We only know what Prothean husks—Collectors—look like, and that’s after a long time of the Reapers fucking with their genetic code. And human husks are on the opposite end of the spectrum, since we can assume that they’re some sort of quickly made default. We have a good idea of what hanar and drell husks may look like, too, but that is likely also not going to be fully accurate since it was ultimately still organics creating them—we don’t know how the Reapers think these things out. But we’re going to need an idea. So, going over all of the data we’ve compiled, plus everything you learned from your cycle and war, I want you to go through all of the galaxy’s current civilized races and try to design what the Reapers might throw at us. I do not want to be blindsided by whatever the hell a krogan husk could look like, especially if you know of patterns or features the Reapers prefer to force into their monstrosities.” 

“…This is your art project? Predict what abominations the Reapers will create out of your fellow primitives?” Javik asks at length. 

“Yep,” Shepard replies, popping the ‘p’. 

He wilts with relief. “That will be easy, Commander. I had assumed you would demand something with more creativity from me. In my cycle, we had numerous programs dedicated to predicting what the Reapers may do to our Empire’s races, especially when they decided to begin harvesting those who were not under our protection. Given that you are so friendly with AI, it should not be overly difficult to recreate the prediction program for this current cycle.” 

“Oh! Good, then, I guess.” Shepard doesn’t know what to do with a relieved Javik, that’s clear. And it’s equally clear that she had expected an argument from this, because she flounders a bit for the next conversation topic. 

Garrus kindly steps in and saves her. (He may not know everything she’s broaching tonight, but he knows enough.) “We need to begin preparing communication channels, appointing who’s doing what, and buckling down on secrecy and encryption. EDI has been helping us write some new programs to that effect.” 

“I am awaiting further orders about what channels to set up for which forces, but the programs themselves are ready for use whenever,” EDI proudly reports. “I utilized many schools of organic thought, language and coding practices, cultural references, and organic fallacies to make it utterly incomprehensible to a logical mind. Legion was kind enough to confirm that for me during testing phases. It was very fun to write.” 

“We’re also working on a cipher for all encrypted messages to go through, too,” Garrus dryly adds. That part is harder, because it isn’t reliant on machines; people will have to be able to decipher it on the other side. But it also needs to be unable to be cracked for as long as possible by AI, so they can’t ask EDI for much help on it. There’s only so much she can do to escape her nature. “It’s not going quite as quickly. Anyone want to volunteer any code-writing skills they’ve kept quiet until now?” 

As predicted, no one steps forward. Worth a shot. 

“We’ll also need to figure out a way to stay in contact with the rachni queen, but given that we haven’t seen her again, and don’t know a damn thing about the rachni language outside of half a dozen audio recordings we got of her…” Shepard trails off with a grimace. “I still trust her and she’s going to be a big help, but I don’t know if we can rely on the rachni for any more strategy than ‘swarm and destroy and maybe eat’, which isn’t the greatest. I don’t have a fix for that, but wanted everyone to know what page that’s on.” 

The rachni soldier (Pralick) pops its head up over the edge of the table, yet again throwing its individual intelligence into question. Did it recognize that she was talking about its race specifically, or just heard the word? 

“In a little less than a month, me, Zaeed, and Javik will be headed into batarian space to have a meeting with a few Hegemony officials. As far as I understand, this will be covert. But it’s something,” Shepard says. 

“Something that could be a trap,” Jack mutters. 

“That’s why we’re bringing guns and you’re all gonna know where we are, right?” Zaeed points out. “I can’t speak to the rest of ‘em, but my man is trustworthy, and all we need is an in with those four-eyed bastards for Shepard to pour on the charm and put fear of Reaper god in them. Probably’ll be a cinch compared to all the other things this crew has pulled out of their asses before.” 

“Zaeed, stop trying to jinx us,” Shepard tiredly orders. “It’s on Adek, which is in the Kite’s Nest cluster. The Normandy will drop us off by the relay, go into stealth, and check on geth presence in the area. I’m not ditching Plan B about the idea to force an evacuation just yet.” 

“It won’t take me talking about it to make this to tits up. That’s just your effect,” Zaeed points out with a crooked grin. Shepard gives him the galaxy’s weariest middle finger. 

“Here’s something that’s about to make this meeting go tits up—and the main reason of why I wanted everyone here right now. Everyone still on board, anyway. I propose a takeover of Cerberus forces,” Shepard says. 

It takes Garrus a long moment to process going from her joking around with Zaeed about a likely batarian trap to that. But there’s no way he heard her incorrectly. And he’s probably not hallucinating, right? 

“What?” he says, and it breaks the shock for the rest of them. 

“Hostile fucking takeover, I hope! What the hell, Shepard?!” Jack demands. 

“You are finally seeing sense in how to build an army,” Javik says with a deep, approving nod. 

“Why do you want to deal any more with Cerberus, Shepard?!” Tali exclaims. “Just because a few people didn’t want to shoot at you…!” 

“That’s exactly why!” Shepard calls, silencing the furor. Garrus steals a sideways glance to Thane, but his expression doesn’t give away his opinion on that bombshell. “Enough Cerberus troops have tried to act neutrally toward us, despite apparent orders otherwise. Cerberus is fracturing. The Illusive Man doesn’t have the support that I do, given what I mean to humanity, and it’s goddamn weird to say that. There are good people in Cerberus, and there is funding and resources and numbers we need. Information. Research. This isn’t about an alliance with them, or inviting them to join the Normandy Pact—this is about peeling away the Illusive Man’s power and grabbing it for ourselves.” 

“I’ve already told her it was a bad idea, but Miranda’s letter gave us more than information about Kai Leng. We have reason to believe that there is significant Cerberus presence in the Horsehead Nebula, primarily Noveria and in the area of a star named Anadius. We don’t know what, exactly, Cerberus may have there, but it was important enough that Miranda passed it along,” Liara flatly adds. 

“Noveria?” Tali echoes. She wrings her hands nervously. 

“Spirits,” Garrus hisses under his breath. Of course Noveria would do shit with Cerberus. Hell, they would’ve suspected it anyway, except they’ve been trying to play neutral with Cerberus and the Illusive Man, just to keep things from getting even more complicated. 

Then again, neutrality hopes went out the airlock when the Illusive Man sent Kai Leng after Shepard. 

“We will look into Noveria and Anadius, first covertly, then openly if need be. We aren’t running in without a plan and without intel,” Shepard says with a sharp look toward Liara. “But I want a vote on this one. This wasn’t on the proposed war prep list and I’m aware it’s blindsiding a lot of you. But if Cerberus is set on acting against us, then this will not only be proactive defense, but could be a necessity. We cannot allow Cerberus to attack our alliance in force, or jeopardize all these plans. We’re already fighting enough shit with the Reapers and if the Council decides to be an even bigger pain in the ass.” 

“We’re voting on our next plan of attack? Shite—Shepard, really?” Kenneth asks dubiously. 

“Half this crew is ex-Cerberus, so I feel like there’s gonna be a lot of feelings about it. Not to mention the inherent risks. I’m not having another rachni incident on my hands—full transparency here,” Shepard replies. 

“So you don’t want to get all buddy-buddy with Cerberus,” Jack says, and Shepard nods. “You wanna steal the Illusive Man’s shit, including money and research and people who’ll follow you? And hopefully kill the bastard on the way out?” 

“That’s the rough plan, yeah.” 

“Alright, good enough for me. And I ain’t hearing shit from anyone else about this! Shepard didn’t like Cerberus to begin with, and better attack them first and steal their shit than wait around for them to get any ballsier!” Jack declares with a challenging jut of her chin. 

“I also vote in favor. I advised this from the beginning—you must have a larger force if you want to stand any chance against the Reapers, and now is not the time for petty infighting, either. Better to take over their forces and turn them toward our goals now than risk a secondary war front later,” Javik says. 

“I want more information!” Tali blurts, shaking her head. “What’s on Noveria? What’s with the star? I don’t oppose the plan, but it’s not going to go as well as saying it. We need to know what the Illusive Man is planning—beyond the Kai Leng guy—before we do anything really big like that.” 

Liara spares Shepard a very pointed look. “I also want more information, but I’m in favor of not doing it, precisely because we don’t know what’s in the Horsehead Nebula. Miranda’s information gave no context. It could’ve very well been a warning to stay away, as much as the rest of the letter was a warning. My preference is to to this quietly, and over a longer period of time—not what this proposal is.” 

“Noveria’s harboring an evil, dark money corporation for Cerberus. It’s what they do. What’s the big surprise about?” Zaeed grouses, crossing his arms. “Could’ve told you that much without the ice princess having to announce it in fancy code.” 

“Yeah, and they probably have shell companies and research projects everywhere else,” Garrus agrees, “but the fact is that Miranda pointed out this one. The letter said that she wanted to go somewhere cold, like in a vacation or something, right? If it were a dangerous place, she would’ve said it was some awful thing, like where the bad fictional family lived. I think she meant for Noveria to be a hint.” 

“That’s assuming a lot about her intentions,” Liara says, sounding disappointed. 

“Some of us have worked with Miranda long enough to understand what means when she tries to play coy with her intentions,” Garrus can’t help but reply. He doesn’t mean to get into an argument over this, but Liara is not one of the people who should be making assumptions of Miranda; she hardly knows her, compared to the rest of them who have been through the fire with her, time and time again. 

“Erm, not that I think I need a vote in this—but I’m Alliance. Or I was. I have no issue fighting Cerberus, and it’s something I would’ve assumed the Commander would get around to eventually, anyway, given her public opinions on it,” Steve breaks in. 

“I have no issue fighting Cerberus either!” Gabby adds. “They really changed—and not in the good way.” 

“I take issue. Those were our employers!” Kenneth says with a sidelong scowl at her. “I have no love for those bastards, especially the Illusive Man, and I’d follow Shepard into another galactic core if need be. But all those good people you’re all harping on about? Those are the people we’d be fighting, that the Illusive Man would throw into Shepard’s guns. This would kill a lot of people, wouldn’t it?” 

“If there was a way to Shadow Broker this, run in and replace the Illusive Man and have a seamless takeover, believe me—I’d love it. But no one’s ever met the guy, much less know where he could be or behind what sort of protections,” Shepard deadpans. 

“I have,” Kelly says, hand in the air, head cocked. 

“…What?” Garrus says, while Shepard sighs and shakes her head. 

“I’ve met the Illusive Man. He personally recruited me, in a way. Not that I have any more information about his current whereabouts than any of you, but he is still a man, not just a hologram. Although, since I have the floor—my vote is also no. This would be a messy, bloody conflict, and I don’t think we need to risk dividing our own resources for the sake of hoping to gain more. It’s entirely possible we could start a small-scale war with this and end up with only damages to show for it,” Kelly continues. 

“Why do you all think we wouldn’t win?” Grunt growls. 

“I never said that—” 

“I say we do it. The Prothean said it was a good idea, too. But I say it is—we can’t let Shepard’s enemies get away with acting against us if we don’t want this to turn into a war where they have the advantage. We need to strike while they don’t think we will. Basic tactics,” he adds. His glower makes it very clear that he dares anyone else to argue with the point. 

“This is getting away from the actual topic,” Liara says with a heavy sigh. “This isn’t about starting a war. This is about openly antagonizing a very powerful organization, and opening ourselves up to further risk from them. Yes, we cannot ignore their threat, but we can minimize it and manage it. Don’t forget—the Illusive Man knows nearly as much about the Reapers as we do. Once their threat is here, there is no way he would ignore it, even if it was to let us throw ourselves against it. Cerberus could very well turn into technical allies at a later point.” 

“Technical,” Jack scoffs. 

“We share a very large, very dangerous common enemy. And it’s an enemy that the Illusive Man has acknowledged exists—not many other people as powerful as he have done that. That’s not something we ought to ignore.” 

“We aren’t playing friendly with Cerberus just because they also want to not fucking die,” Jack hisses at her, fists clenched. At least the biotics aren’t out yet. “They’ve already sent that Kai Leng shithead out against Shepard, and I’ve seen what he can do, so that wasn’t a friendly invitation to a tea party! That is an attack. Only fair that we return it—” 

“Excuse me,” Thane interrupts, the first time he’s spoken since. Garrus almost jumps at his voice; he hadn’t expected their ever-courteous assassin to interrupt a lady. “What did you mean by that? That you’ve seen what he can do?” 

The table fall silent as they, too, process that phrasing. 

Jack rolls her eyes. “He was locked up on Purgatory same time as me. Wasn’t that anywhere in the pile of dossiers Cerberus threw at you guys during the Collector mission?” 

“He was what?” Liara asks, aghast. “I have—there were zero records of this—when?!” 

“I don’t fucking know, they don’t have a calendar in there for us. He was only there for a week, anyway. But I got to see him throw a krogan through reinforced glass—that was kinda cool,” Jack admits. “Then they shoved him into cryo. I went in three days later for snapping too many expensive necks during a brawl.” 

“How did he throw the krogan? Did you see the grapple?” Thane asks with great interest. 

“I was two floors up and barely saw shit, but it was a huge bitchfit the management threw about it. The krogan was pissed, too, but they shot him since he couldn’t handle one measly human. Of course, I also threw that guy against the wall, so. Fucking sucks for him.” Jack shrugs. “Anyway, gossip spreads fast on a prison ship, so I knew the guy was named Kai Leng. Emo-looking fuck with a ponytail who wanted to fight nearly as much as me. I overheard the guards saying we were never to be in the same cell block after that. Pity.” 

“What’s really a pity is that you blew up that whole goddamn ship and any evidence it might’ve had about the Leng guy,” Zaeed points out. “No paper trail with space debris for our little Broker to follow.” 

Liara spares him a scowl in the brief moment she looks up from her omnitool. 

“That was still some time ago, and Purgatory’s camera network had no external back-ups. Everything was only ever stored on the ship, so we would not be able to gain much information about his brief incarceration,” Thane says, frowning. Garrus squints at him, so with a little more cheer, Thane explains, “I was once contracted to kill a prisoner aboard. It was many years ago, before miss Jack or Kai Leng would have been anywhere near there.” 

“Of course you were. Well, unfortunately, like Zaeed said, we blew it up on the way out. And by ‘we’, I mostly mean Jack’s rampage, but the matter still stands,” Shepard points out. Jack grins at the memory of that rampage. (Garrus does not grin, because it had been too many close calls.) 

“Dr. T’Soni may be able to figure out how much Cerberus paid for his release, which would give us a vague idea of his value, but little else would have been externally referred to,” Thane adds. 

“Release fee as well as a potential pick-up option, or perhaps location…” Liara mumbles. “Anything we can use.” 

“It could be useful,” Thane allows. “However, overall—I oppose the proposal to attack Cerberus.” 

Jack glares. Shepard and Garrus both frown at him, but he remains undeterred. Liara doesn’t look up from her impromptu work to offer any solidarity, but Tali appears visibly relieved. 

Hands clasped behind him and without looking at either of his partners, Thane continues, “We don’t know what Kai Leng’s movements or plans are, or could be. Granted, he would not be on Noveria, given what his goal is—the Normandy. Neither he nor the Illusive Man know Miranda gave us this intelligence just yet. But Kai Leng’s movements remain an unknown, and we cannot move recklessly until we understand what he will do. Going to a populated planet with a mercenary nature—in Citadel space, no less—would be all but invitation to him, and given that we don’t know how deeply Cerberus has ingrained themselves there, we can’t be sure we could buy off enough people there to maintain secrecy or head him off. We shouldn’t go to the Horsehead Nebula until we can ascertain where he is and what preparations he has made.” 

“So that’s another no vote,” Shepard says, expression flat, gesturing to Thane. “Gardner, Joker, Mordin, Legion—you are the only ones left. And EDI?” 

Tali looks up at Legion, expression dismayed. The geth narrows his light, then reports, “The geth have not reached a conclusive consensus.” 

“The geth as in—the entire geth?” Shepard clarifies in a strained voice. 

“Affirmative. We remain connected to the consensus.” 

“I didn’t mean for the entire geth consensus to get a vote in this, Legion. And I didn’t want it advertised either way until a decision is reached!” 

“We ask for further clarification, Shepard-Commander,” Legion politely requests, head inclined. 

“You, Legion, have been a member of this crew for almost a year, and while I am happy to deal with the geth as a race, you are the one who gets special knowledge and voting privileges in the Normandy’s actions,” Shepard replies with a gesture. 

“This unit is geth. The geth have voted, but—” 

“Yes, but I meant—you—nevermind, this isn’t worth the philosophical discussion, and I’m not sure I can handle that headache right now. So the entire geth consensus gets one vote, and they haven’t decided?” she tiredly clarifies. 

“We are unable to reach consensus,” Legion repeats. “As such, we defer to Shepard-Commander. Historical data has proven that this is the best course of action for the geth in the absence of consensus.” 

“Alright,” Shepard says, hand to her brow, “thanks, I think. I’ll unpack that revelation later. Also, Legion, a favor? For future meetings like this, unless otherwise specified, could you… switch to local data recording or something? The geth need to be treated as every other ally, and that means that they don’t need a direct line into everything.” 

“We will do this, Shepard-Commander,” Legion says with another bob of his head. 

At the table’s expectant look, Gardner shifts uncomfortably. “I’m not one for more conflict, all things considered—bein’ aboard this ship has taught me that. I’m all for fighting the good fight, though. I’m just not sure fighting Cerberus is that. So I guess my vote’s a no, then, though it doesn’t take a genius to do the math on this.” 

“Current tally is nine yes, six no,” Garrus announces. He’s keeping count on his visor, because he really hopes this doesn’t come down to a tie-breaker. Right now, doesn’t seem it. 

“So why don’t I get a vote in this?” Bakara demands. 

“Because you aren’t technically part of our crew. I was going to ask for your opinion on this, though, ma’am, so don’t feel ignored too much,” Shepard retorts. 

“My vote is no. I have nothing against crushing your enemies, but your resources will spread thin faster than you can blink. You aren’t krogan, Commander—be smarter than us.” 

“Actually, I think I legally am krogan. But your opinion is noted.” 

“Vote is affirmative,” Mordin chimes in, taking his patient/research subject’s opinion as invitation to give an actual vote. “Cerberus research cells known to be extraordinary. Could gain much knowledge from takeover or hacking. Furthermore—must reiterate that Cerberus began hostilities. Must act swiftly and with force to counterbalance.” 

“That means me and EDI are last, huh?” Joker says—another one who’s been suspiciously silent, Garrus only now notes. He’s old Alliance, too, and usually his opinions run pretty close to Shepard’s. 

“I abstain,” EDI says from her door interface, surprising everyone. “I have too many contradicting opinions to commit wholly to one or the other. There are advantages and disadvantages to each option. However, I must note that as the votes lay, there is no possible way for it to become a negative majority, no matter how you vote, Jeff.” 

“Gee, thanks. I still want to, though,” Joker complains, arms crossed huffily. “I get to say my piece as much as anyone else here.” 

“Joker, we weren’t going to ignore you, no matter how much we sometimes want to,” Shepard replies. At least the tease finally gets her out of her tiredness and earns a smirk. 

“I vote yes—for a very specific reason. Every damn time we’ve run into Cerberus goons, we’ve been prepped in case they try to take the Normandy back. And it’s a big ongoing risk, too. This is pretty much the best ship ever made, and who knows who many credits it cost, plus EDI? It’s priceless. And I don’t want to keep being paranoid every time I see white uniforms. We need to take Cerberus out, or at least tell the Illusive Man very lethally that we’re done with their clique, and I want to know that this ship is finally mine, once and for all,” Joker declares. 

“Ours,” Shepard corrects, smirk widening into a grin. “But point taken. Cerberus is a threat to a lot of things, and there is still the risk that they’d want the Normandy itself.” 

“This is very likely correct, and was a factor I weighed as well,” EDI agrees. “Given the importance of the Normandy as a flagship and its stealth capabilities, it is a highly valuable war asset. We cannot afford to lose it.” 

Shepard shares a look with Garrus, smile fading, but warmth still there. “Sounds like we have a vote then. This isn’t going to replace anything else on our endless war prep list, but it’ll sure fill out the schedule. Time for a hostile takeover.” 

Chapter Text

Gianna Parasini is having a shit day. It worsens considerably when she is notified that the Normandy SR2 has just docked at Port Hanshan. 

She downs the rest of her rum-spiked coffee to prepare herself for whatever this is going to turn into. It certainly explains all of the hacking incursions that have been reported recently. Commander Shepard is, yet again, going to stick her nose into Noveria’s affairs. There haven’t been any visiting matriarchs this time, so there’s no easy answer to give her. 

Her reputation has certainly preceded her; she may be ex-Spectre, but she gained a very specific type of notoriety for cleaning house after the last time she was here. Gianna descends the stairs, heels clacking, and almost smiles at how well this mirrors their first meeting. 

“You can put your guns down,” Gianna dryly advises the port guards. 

“She’s wanted by the Citadel Council and is an ex-Spectre,” one of the guards snaps back. “We can’t just wave her through this time.” 

Wow, someone in security survived the last time she was here? Gianna privately marvels, but her bland smile remains the same. “That’s all true, but I’m sure Shepard has a very good reason for being here, right? And it can’t be that drink I owe you.” She doesn’t address her by the rank she no longer has. Gianna has nothing against the woman—she knows this is all overblown politics and bad optics—but she will not be caught doing something she shouldn’t with such a politically fraught figure before her. 

“Maybe we can have a drink after,” Shepard replies with forced cheer. Neither she nor her crew—Gianna doesn’t recognize these ones—lower their guns. The scene remains so tense she could pop it like a balloon. 

She really doesn’t want to have to. 

“But,” Shepard continues, thankfully, “I’m actually hoping to speak with you, miss Parasini.” The politesse is awkward on her. “I’m looking to invest. I’ve heard Noveria’s a good place for that sort of thing.” 

Gianna waits for some sort of clarification. She understands plausible deniability and she understands excuses. But she does not understand the inanity of such a paper-thin one. “Invest in what?” she asks with a rictus smile. 

“Oh, you know, I was actually hoping to get a nice long list of companies you had here, so I could make an informed decision about where to place my credits. Couldn’t you give me a rundown of where to throw my money here?” Shepard replies. 

Gianna takes a deep breath and reminds herself that Shepard is not a person who understands subtlety. It isn’t her fault she’s spitting in the face of everything Noveria stands for. (Again.) “Alright, you can leave us alone here,” she flatly tells the guards. “Wanted ex-Spectre Shepard will not step foot into the port proper, you have my word. I’ll handle the rest.” 

This is another loophole she’s fond of: the security guards are here to vet and, if need be, prevent access to Port Hanshan itself. If no one’s actually progressing any further, then they aren’t needed, and Gianna can gleefully dismiss them back to their posts. It isn’t the best for security or privacy, but it also prevents the paperwork of those who actually do step foot in the port. 

Gianna strides toward Shepard, whose smile relaxes into something more sincere, and she and her crew finally lower their weapons. Her heels are a sharp counterpoint to the heavy thuds of combat boots. 

“Alright, Shepard, I can give you nineteen minutes before I am required to report your presence here.” 

“Twenty minutes is the cutoff? Goddamn,” says a grizzled old man. 

“Start talking,” Gianna advises, hardly bothering to remark upon Shepard’s cohorts or their language. 

“Noveria isn’t technically Citadel space,” Shepard begins, but that’s already a waste of their time. 

Gianna cuts her off with a sharp shake of her head. “If this is worth both of our time, then I’ll make sure none of this is recorded anywhere. I personally don’t care if you’re pissing off the Council, Shepard. That’s your ballgame. And I won’t be the one to report you even if we can’t figure out something to do together. But there are a lot of people in that port who would very happily turn you over for even half of the rumored bounty on you.” 

“I have a bounty?” Shepard asks, surprised, but she also sounds flattered by it. Of course she is. 

“Rumored,” Gianna corrects. “Come on, Shepard. I know you’re not this stupid—you wouldn’t have come here for no reason. And I take it you’re behind those data harvesting attacks I’ve heard the techies screaming about lately?” 

“There’s a Cerberus shell company or otherwise very strong presence somewhere on Noveria, and we need access to what the hell they’re doing here,” Shepard finally explains. 

Gianna rolls her eyes; of course it’s something that simple. “They have an independently funded research base two hundred miles south of here so they could escape the fees for using the port. It was finished in 2181—it was here the last time you turned this place upside down. I could forward you their pay schedule and supposed proposed research projects, but you know how this works, Shepard. Privacy is a big thing here, and there’s nothing officially recorded.” 

“But you just gave us their location.” 

“You could fly over there yourself and see it. A large chunk of it is above ground.” 

“Well… That was a little easier than I anticipated,” Shepard says with a whistle. “Thanks, Gianna. Are you going to get into any trouble for this?” 

“No, provided you don’t start posting selfies of us together on the extranet. Officially? You were never here, Shepard. I’ll need at least fifty thousand credits as a plausible bribe, by the way. Now—is there anything else?” 

The old man snorts a laugh at her number. 

Gianna isn’t joking. 

Shepard personally wires her the credits, though she grumbles all the while.

—

This is the first actual mission that Thane has to sit out of. He knows it’s for the best for his diminishing health, he knows it’s what he requested, he knows Shepard is more than capable, as is the rest of the Normandy crew. But he thought he would be better at this. 

Thane had (mostly) retired once before, and he recalls the same period of restlessness at first. So he tells himself it will pass. But this is not a hardened killer trying to settle into a life of domesticity; this is a man who has already lost one love listening to his others risk their lives on the ground. He had underestimated his emotional response to this. 

He had also overestimated Joker’s patience. 

“Okay, this? This is not going to be a thing,” Joker snaps at him, swiveling in his chair. “It was bad enough when Steve insisted on being trained up here. But you are not going to haunt me up here when there is a perfectly good ship-wide intercom system for you to check in on Shepard and Garrus every five seconds like you clearly want to do.” 

“But that would distract them,” Thane replies, wringing his hands. 

“Listen man—I get being grounded because your body fucking sucks. But this here is my territory, and I’m feeling very territorial right now. I can’t even hear you pacing back there! Do you know how creepy that is?” 

Thane does, actually. Not that he can help it, since at this point in his life, making noise when he moves would require active thought. 

“You weren’t even with her on every single ground mission before, why do you have to be clingy now?” Joker demands, eyes narrowed. 

“I’m worried,” Thane insists. That’s not a crime. (Nor a character defect, as Joker apparently thinks.) “Before there were… options. For me to join her, and she would have sound reasons for who she chose to accompany her. But she is losing crew, and—” 

“And she dragged a clown car with only six squadmates through the Saren bit of history, and that turned out fine,” Joker interrupts. 

“Someone died then,” Thane has to point out, because Joker is being just as unreasonable as he perceives Thane to be right now. “I know you worry too, Joker. You have had years of experience being away from the front lines. I have not.” 

“Damn right I worry, but at least I don’t crowd into your space to do it. Silently.” 

Thane ensures to make noise with his next few steps. 

Joker spins his chair back around with a mighty roll of his eyes. 

“Ground team to Normandy,” Shepard’s voice comes in over the comms. Her high human voice has never sounded so sweet. “We’re, uh, about wrapped up here, actually.” 

“…It’s been twenty minutes,” Joker replies. 

“Siha, is everything alright?” Thane has to add. 

“Oh, yeah, also your lizard boyfriend is about to become my boyfriend with how close he’s getting. This isn’t gonna become a thing, is it, Shepard?” Joker grouses. 

Shepard’s sigh is staticky over their connection. “No, but there’s a lot of other things that are becoming things shortly.” 

Thane wonders if his translator is glitching.

—

The entire Cerberus research base on Noveria had surrendered as soon as they saw it was Commander Shepard storming the proverbial gates. 

That’s a lot to unpack. And even more to address. 

Sixty-three researchers, twelve guards in the security detail, and three support staff. They were more than happy not to engage with her, but it wasn’t another case of not wanting to be mowed down by her famed firepower. They surrendered to her; they very happily cited that they knew Cerberus was cleaning house and wanted out. They were pleased to be under her umbrella instead. 

“Well, we’ve had worse missions,” Garrus says, jostling their shoulders together. 

“Correct. You only recorded one casualty on this mission, and it was not the Normandy crew,” EDI says through her shuttle interface. 

“Ma’am, I knew I said you’d have to step up for your second mission, but I didn’t mean that in the sense that you had to surprise me,” Steve adds from the cockpit. “Though it’s nice not to have a crew come back covered in blood. Are we allowed to congratulate her yet?” 

Considering Shepard still looks shellshocked, Garrus is going to say no to that. “C’mon, Shepard, you with us again? It was a good thing we didn’t have to go in guns blazing.” 

“We just walked out with an entire Cerberus research branch,” Shepard mumbles. 

“Would you rather go back in and fight them?” Grunt asks like he is willing to do that, even to people who have surrendered. 

“What are we going to do with them?” Shepard hisses. 

“We’ll figure something out as EDI combs through their research projects. Who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky and Mordin can use them.” 

“That would be highly unlikely, as most of their project outlines appear to be about organic torpor responses across various species, from preliminary scans,” EDI replies. 

“…Torpor?” Grunt repeats. 

“Like hibernation, but shorter,” Garrus informs him. 

“I know what it means. But why the hell would Cerberus care about that sort of crap?” 

“I suppose we have an entire research team to ask about it.” Once they figure out what to do with them. The idea so far is to leave them be in their base; the Normandy doesn’t have room for that many, nor would Garrus want that many Cerberus operatives on board (no matter how friendly), and what would be the point of moving them? They’re non-hostile, handed over their security keys, and agreed to have all communication cut with the main Cerberus organization until they could figure out a way to ensure their safety. What else could they do with that many people? 

And there’s more to consider—they’ll run into this problem more and more, won’t they? If it spreads that Shepard and her people are trying to siphon off Cerberus personnel, then plenty would want to go along with that rather than fight. She has support. So what are they going to do with these new forces? Most won’t be soldiers, and even then, they haven’t begun building the joint fleets to house said soldiers. The geth are building ships largely for their own use, since that’s faster without pesky organic needs like atmosphere and bunks and messes in the way, but they’re already being taught to build quarian-design ships, too. 

But the Flotilla is half a galaxy away. That’s a lot of transport they’re not prepared for yet, assuming they even want to put ex-Cerberus people on quarian ships. Or should they just put them on Cerberus ships? They’ll probably be liberating ships and vehicles as they go, considering a good portion of this is to steal Cerberus resources for themselves. 

Except those ships and vehicles and other things will need to be vetted and scrubbed for spyware, bugs, viruses, traps, and more. So will the people they save/rescue/persuade to join Shepard’s side.

“We’ll need to go pick up Legion, too, before we leave,” Garrus muses. Not even the mention of Shepard’s favorite geth brings her out of her stupor, however. 

(Legion is still at Port Hanshan, hacking into their databases for anything else they could use. Taking a page out of Benezia’s book, it’s pretty easy to smuggle a geth into places like that, turns out.) 

“There are more projects worked on than ones about the temperature at which torpor is induced,” EDI announces, “but that appeared to be one of the primary goals of that cell. But there were also projects involving research of the star Anadius, which has been flagged as important by me, due to Miranda’s letter referencing the same star. A full list of that base’s research projects will be compiled shortly and available for viewing aboard the Normandy.” 

Research about a star. Reminds him of Haestrom, but he thinks he would’ve heard about it if the star was dying like that one. Surely the quarians were keeping tabs on other stars like that? So probably something else about this one that has Cerberus interested. 

“What if more surrender?” Shepard asks. 

“That would be bloodless and easier. Easier once we have the infrastructure to absorb these people, anyway,” Garrus replies. 

“But what if we get used to it, and then we find the ones who don’t, and they catch us off guard? What if this is a trap? What if—” 

“That’s why we’re going to be vetting those people,” he interjects, “and not giving them any of our security access, secrets, or any other fun bits. They didn’t mind at the time when we told them that, remember? If it’s a trap, then at least it’s not that sort.” 

“What kind of trap would it be?” Grunt scoffs. “Even Cerberus could only get so much use out of civilian scientists.” 

“I’m not a Cerberus genius, okay? That’s for everyone else to bicker about. But I’m happy that we hardly had to shoot anyone—just that one guy, actually, and he lived, so that’s pretty nice—and no one shot at us for once. I could get used to that. Let’s have more easy Cerberus defections like that.” 

“We have to put these people somewhere,” Shepard says, realizing aloud, coming back to the present. “We’ll have to—ensure their safety from retaliation, make sure they can continue working if they want—if we need them to? I don’t know how easy it would be to shunt people into dark energy research. What else do we need? Weapons R and D, shielding? We can’t trust them to write any code or encryption programs for us, but maybe we’ll be able to use them to crack Reaper stuff later…?” 

“There we go,” Garrus says and presses their shoulders together again. Their armor clacks. “Come on, we can figure out the logistical stuff in a bit. I don’t have any more answers than you do. But if this isn’t the last time that a bunch of people surrender easily to us, then I won’t complain. You shouldn’t, either.” 

“Even if it’s boring,” Grunt mutters. 

—

“Okay, so first Take Over Cerberus op was a resounding success!” Shepard announces to the crew. She still feels a bit dazed over how easy it was—and not in the trap kind of way, either. At least not the obvious or the quick type of trap. “EDI has confirmed that outgoing communications have been severed from the base and they have handed over all of their files to us. EDI’s processing it all—yes, we ran it through every firewall imaginable—and Legion came back with a lot of stuff from Port Hanshan too. So… Overall, considering we just crept back into the edge of Citadel space, it went pretty easily?” 

Shepard doesn’t do easy. Nothing about her life has been easy. But the other shoe hasn’t dropped yet, nor does it appear to, since they’ve covered their asses thus far. The Council can’t scream at them for coming here, since there’s no official record of it; Cerberus HQ (wherever that is) did not receive any outgoing communications from that base since they got there; EDI and Legion got them more data than they know what to do with about this sector and its pile of vaguely-legal business ventures. If there’s Cerberus money being funneled here beyond what was used for that base, they’ll know about it shortly. (And a bunch of other potential blackmail material, she’s sure.)

“Shepard, you know that old saying about not looking in the gift horse’s mouth?” Zaeed says. He raises his beer to her. “Heed it, would you? Sometimes there are easy wins. Take ‘em and prepare for the shitty, hard wins later.” 

Shepard raises her glass to that. 

The festivities—if they could be called that—were hastily thrown together, and of course certain members of her crew are always happy to have an excuse to drink and try to fleece each other in cards. But it still sits oddly in her stomach. 

Liara had abstained, citing Shadow Broker work with everything they’d downloaded. Shepard thought about ordering her to let it lie for the night, at least, until they’re out of Noveria orbit and sight, but she doesn’t want to press the issue if Liara is still feeling waspish about this entire operation. She certainly hadn’t been happy that Shepard was leading the ground squad herself. 

“And then there’s you,” Shepard murmurs, voicing her train of thought, nudging her forehead against Thane’s temple. He hasn’t left her side since they came back aboard. “Joker was complaining up a storm about you, and he has a point. You’re the one who insisted on being grounded—” 

“I stand by that decision, because I want to maintain my health for as long as this life will give me,” Thane easily interrupts. “But yes, I was worried about you. Even if the mission ended quite well. I still don’t like the idea of you throwing yourself at Cerberus forces.” 

“I’m the icon of humanity or whatever. And I’m never going to be able to be just a figurehead in this, Thane. Has Chakwas said anything else about your Kepral’s progression?” 

“Regular exercise and the same medication regimen as I’ve been on. And a zero chance of needing major blood transfusion, as we’ve discussed.” 

Shepard still wonders if they can’t simply get more, but that’s not really the issue. The issue is that Thane’s health is deteriorating, has been deteriorating, and it’s only going to get worse. He’s open about that. For her part, Shepard has put off thinking about it entirely. 

If she could speed up the genophage stuff so Mordin can be freed earlier… They’ll have to get him that assistant soon. 

“Do you think that was too easy?” Shepard asks him. 

“No. I think it was luck,” Thane replies. “Given what we’ve already encountered, and what we know of Cerberus’ current ranks, it stands to reason that there would be plenty of personnel who could be called loyal to you rather than the Illusive Man. It’s more likely that those would be scientists and those outside of security details and paramilitary groups, too. This won’t be the last time we run into this, if you insist on pursuing this to its end.” 

“I wouldn’t mind going straight to the Illusive Man and seizing it all from the top down,” she jokes, “but it might have to be cell by cell, base by base, until we figure out more. Figure out what the Illusive Man will do about that. We don’t even know where he is, what the full scale of Cerberus forces could be like, or what sort of nasty surprises a guy like him has up his sleeve.” 

Like this Kai Leng guy. Not that Thane rises to the conversational bait. 

—

From scans and available data, the Anadius System is home to a large star and an asteroid belt. No planets, no colonies. The thought of a research base tucked away on a large asteroid gives Garrus too many thoughts of the Project Base, but the notion can’t be discounted. 

Still, if they know to search in the asteroid belt, it wouldn’t stay hidden for very long. 

The issue is that they don’t know what Cerberus could be doing there. EDI mentioned that the star demonstrates color changes from extreme temperature fluctuations, but it’s stable. No dark energy here. 

“Any luck combing through what was on the Noveria base?” Shepard asks. Her feet are propped up on her desk, chair tilted back dangerously, and she fiddles with the stolen fancy SR2 model in her lap. 

“I’ve had great success organizing the files we downloaded, given my familiarity with Cerberus filing norms. That process is nearly complete,” EDI reports. “But if you are referring to extracting what could be useful information from any of their data, then no. No ‘luck’ has been found.” 

“Torpor,” Garrus says with a disbelieving shake of his head. Sure, the Cerberus researchers probably did terrible things with organic test subjects, with plenty of frostbite and hypothermia data they could collect along the way, but it still seems so tame. What happened to cloning rachni and unleashing thorian thralls? 

“Could have combat use,” Thane murmurs from his pile of blankets on the bed. “…In very specific circumstances. Or with very strange tech.” 

“I will process their project notes as soon as I am done accounting for every file,” EDI informs them. “ETA on that would be forty minutes. I am running background scans as I go, however, to pull superficial data to begin my understanding of what we’ve downloaded. It appears they were testing for torpor and hibernation points for many organic species. Most have recorded temperature points in addition to tables of energy requirements, so we can assume those experiments were successful. However, none of these preliminary scans of their notes lead me to believe that this could be conducted on a large scale, nor easily replicated outside of lab settings.” 

“So let’s assume, for the sake of easy argument, that Cerberus put them on Noveria just because it’s cold as shit so they can easily refrigerate their test subjects, and not because of all of its illegal business front bullshit,” Shepard says, creaking her chair ever backward. “But they still went through all the trouble to build their own base, which is money and resources on a planet that is famously stormy and icy, just so they could get away from Port Hanshan. And it’s Noveria. So long as you follow baseline containment regulations and pay their fees, they obviously don’t give a damn what you do there. So why?” 

“Still points to secrecy. They can control information directly and ensure total privacy,” Garrus replies. 

“But why,” she insists. 

“I don’t know any more than you do, because it doesn’t make any sense. Noveria is a good place to study low temperatures, sure, but the secrecy involved doesn’t make sense. That base was there for something other than those supposed research projects.” 

“I have a theory supported by superficial data scans,” EDI pipes up. 

Shepard finally lets her chair drop back to how it should sit, thus preventing an untimely broken neck. “You do? Already? I mean, good job, but already?” 

“It is unrelated to most of the data we downloaded from the base,” EDI explains, “so I do not need to wait on its processing to dedicate thought to this. Gianna Parasini mentioned that the Cerberus base was created to avoid paying port fees. But Noveria is still a high-traffic planet for imports and some types of exports. It is a convenient shipping location.” 

“…The Illusive Man built a base there for a shipping address?” Garrus asks incredulously. 

“There are shipping manifests in the administrative folders that support this theory. They received many more shipments than one would expect for a staff and building that size. Especially supportive to my theory are the recurring shipments of foodstuffs and weaponry. The security detail on that base was twelve people in three shifts and did not include full gear for every member, so they would have rotated gear through personnel depending on shift. Additionally, also in the administrative folders, there were regular shuttle trips listed. Given the departure and arrival dates of several of them, they do not match up with the length of time it would take to get to Port Hanshan.” 

“So he’s getting stuff shipped to this base, and then dividing it between that place and what, the base in Anadius?” Shepard clarifies. 

“That is my theory, yes. The two shuttles registered to that base would not be able to be used for travel between mass relays. However, they would be able to handle trips between systems in the same nebula,” EDI agrees. “And it is also likely that the hypothetical base in Anadius is equipped with soldiers in significant numbers, given the weapons shipments they received on Noveria.” 

“Well, that’s always been more our style—big shootouts with Cerberus,” Garrus muses, humming. Thane chuckles softly from beneath his blanket lump. “So there is something in the Anadius System, we agree on that much, right?” 

“Miranda mentioned it by name, there are shipments of something going somewhere nearby, and we’re already here. It won’t be easy trying to find a base in an asteroid belt, so we probably will lose the element of surprise. But we’ll start scanning once we get in the system, and the stealth drive should be able to keep us from getting swarmed until we’re in sight, so there’s that,” Shepard replies. 

“So we are going from Cerberus base to Cerberus base, either killing or amassing supporters?” Thane asks in a muzzy voice that sends shivers down Garrus’ spine. 

“Until we start finding clues about where the HQ could be, yeah. I don’t know another way for it. But given that this place seems to be pretty well-hidden, seems like it could have some useful secrets—” 

“Actually,” EDI interrupts, “I have found something concerning that in the shipping manifests. Do keep in mind that this is one point of data, however, given that organics like to jump to conclusions—” 

“What is it, EDI?” Shepard interrupts right back. 

“There were recurring orders for imports of Earth liquor—specifically American bourbon. There were also even more frequent orders for imported cigarillo cartons. Both of these are ingested with regular frequency by the Illusive Man, as referenced in most accounts of him, and also in all of our recorded conversations with him over the QEC during the time this ship worked with Cerberus. It is only one point of data, however, so while I am aware of what this implies, it could also be coincidence.” 

“…The Illusive Man could be in the Anadius System?” Garrus manages, mandibles slack. Garrus would have assumed that he’d be in an underground bunker on some unknown planet that not even Kasumi could get into or Liara could find. Granted, that wasn’t an easy place to find either—they have yet to find anything in that system—but this feels like too lucky of a break compared to what the universe usually hands them. 

But given how many moving pieces it took to get them this far, there’s no way it could be a trap, either. You can’t trap sheer luck. 

No fucking wonder Miranda would’ve mentioned that system so carefully. One research base on Noveria was hardly anything in the grand scheme of things, but the possible location of the Illusive Man himself? Of course she tripped over herself to give them that letter. 

That gets Thane up out of his contented doze. “Given that the Normandy must have been reported in the area by now, it is highly likely Kai Leng would return here. I cannot advise an assault right now.” 

“We may have had the Illusive Man dropped into our laps! We’re not ignoring that,” Shepard nearly snaps back. 

“If you, personally, are leading that charge, siha, then I am coming with you,” Thane replies in an equally hard voice. 

Garrus looks between them with growing discomfort. He doesn’t like thinking about Thane’s illness (at all, another turian upbringing thing he can’t kick), but they need to respect that he’s grounded. One exception can become two can become ten and then Thane works himself even faster into the grave. 

But Garrus has never seen him so serious about a threat, either. Not to mention that Liara is spooked about this guy, plus Jack’s story about his supposed strength. And they would likely need assassin know-how if they run a real risk of finally finding the infamous Kai Leng there. 

“Do you plan on coming on any missions that we could run into Kai Leng on?” Shepard asks, eyes narrowed. “Because from what you told me, that’s a pretty constant risk, isn’t it? I’m willing to listen to your advice about how to handle him, but you’re grounded due to health reasons, Thane. That you insisted on.” 

“I am aware of that, but I cannot be expected to stand aside and watch you throw yourself headfirst against the highest chance of fighting him yet.” 

“If I get shot, I survive. If Legion gets shot, he still functions. If Grunt gets shot, he laughs. If Tali gets shot, it’s an emergency. And if you get shot, then it’s even worse. I don’t treat Tali or Mordin the same on ground missions as I do Grunt, and I’m sure as hell not letting you throw yourself at what you’ve admitted is the biggest single risk to us outside of a Reaper.” 

Thane sighs raggedly, hand to his temple. “Siha, my body is slowly dying. Not immediately. My request to be grounded is preventative, so I am still capable of fighting. I am still capable of using my skills. And no one else could handle someone like Kai Leng as it stands now, given that he will have an advantage in a location he knows, with who knows how many other forces to back him.”

“Do you think you’d be able to kill him, then? In one mission, one engagement?” Shepard coolly returns. “If not, then how many more times will we have this conversation? I’m not going to keep throwing you at him if he’s such a risk, especially when all of Cerberus would know how important you are to me.” 

“If I caught him unaware, yes, I could kill him,” Thane says, dark eyes averted, “but it would not be guaranteed without that. And I know we would not have the element of surprise going into the Anadius System.” 

“So there we go. I’ll very happily listen to your advice about how to fight him, but you’re staying on the ship. As we already agreed.” 

“…Of course, siha.” Thane sheds his blankets and the comfort of her bed, grabs his jacket, and pauses only long enough to nod toward Garrus as goodbye. “Then I will surely be better suited to discussing tactics with EDI and Liara regarding common Cerberus architectural patterns. I’ll take my leave.” 

Shepard grimaces at her holo-screen until the door slides shut behind him. Then, she groans, both hands fisted in her hair, rocking back in her chair again. 

“Scale from one to ten. How much of a bitch was I?” she laments. 

“Solid six,” Garrus replies without hesitation, “but he was about a three—which is a ten for him.” 

“You sure stayed out of it.” 

“Turians don’t like discussing sickness, and he already made a point of going to you with that formal request to be grounded or whatever it was. I’m not getting in the middle of extreme human feelings versus drell detachment to death,” Garrus retorts, shaking his head. “Couldn’t pay me to, no matter how much I… like you both.” 

“Not improving my mood, big guy. I’m not in the wrong, though, am I? We all know it’s a slippery slope to these sorts of exceptions—and like hell I’m letting the exception be the guy who has everyone’s panties in a twist. Chakwas gave me the numbers on what would happen if Thane needs a blood transfusion, and they’re not pretty.” 

“And you don’t think those numbers might be scaring you a bit?” 

She sighs through her teeth and tilts her chair back further so she can glare at the ceiling. “They are. To death. But this is Thane’s death we’re talking about and… And it’s coming, anyway. And I don’t want to think about it. So while I understand he’s worried, I think he’s too worried, and I think I’m getting a little neurotic about keeping him safe. I mean, we were dragging him along on all these missions, then Chakwas tells me that he actually shouldn’t have been on half of them? You can’t blame me for getting spooked.” 

“No, can’t fault you there,” Garrus carefully replies. “But there’s a reason this Kai Leng guy is a serious threat, so we need to keep that in mind. You also need to keep in mind what it’s like to know you’re out there, throwing yourself headfirst into danger, and what it’s like to be stuck on this ship during that.” 

Shepard gives him a halfhearted sideways glare. “You think I haven’t been on the waiting side of that? I have. It sucks. It sucks a lot. But that’s what we all signed up for, along with the risk of everything else. It just… sucks.” 

“Yeah, it does.” 

“I don’t know how to apologize for something if I’m not going to change my actions about it!” Shepard cries in dismay. She rocks back a little further, throwing her hands out in exasperation—and that’s finally enough for her chair. She gives an admittedly hilarious squawk of alarm as she tips over entirely. 

Garrus snorts a laugh. “While you figure that out, and nurse your bruised pride since that was hilarious and I’ve been waiting for it all evening, how about I go talk to him?” 

Shepard, rubbing her head, spares him a watery-eyed glare. Garrus grins at her before sauntering out the door. 

His smile falls away as soon as he’s out of her sight. 

He’s been on the receiving end of Thane Arguments a few times now, and they’re not fun. And he’s had Shepard yell at him in various stages of emotion more times than he can count. He’s never seen the two of them bicker like that, though, and he doesn’t see an easy fix to this. It’s about more than hurt pride and worry for a loved one. It’s about risk assessment and following the rules and bending the rules and the concern of could-be survivors. And all of this is infinitely worse when dealt with in the context of a relationship. 

There’s no easy answer and no happy ending. 

The happiest ending that he can see is Thane remains grounded, they run into Kai Leng but kill him (dumb luck or overwhelming firepower; he’ll take either), turn the Illusive Man into a corpse, and that’s the end of this poorly-planned venture. But that still involves Thane worrying himself sick, a disgustingly unhealthy reliance on luck, and Shepard’s ego being reminded that she can solve anything with enough brute force and stubbornness. 

Garrus scrubs a hand over his face before going to find Thane. 

He finds him not in life support, but in hydroponics next door. The air smells sweet in here, like plants but also like the water-based fertilizer the quarians had suggested, and Thane looks at home surrounded by green to match his scales. Most of the plants have sprouted in some manner, and a few already have buds or trailing vines. (Not that Garrus knows a damn thing about plants.) 

“You know I’m going,” Thane begins without preamble. 

“Yeah, I assumed that. She’s going to have your hide for it if she catches you,” Garrus returns. 

“Are you going to tell her?” 

“Spirits no. She’s already ready to tear the Illusive Man’s head off, and if she actually runs into that Kai Leng guy? I think she’ll literally tear him apart, just to stop you and Liara from worrying over him so badly. She’ll bring you pieces like a pet varren with a dead pyjak. She probably suspects you’d do something, but I don’t think she would think you’d actually betray her trust like that,” Garrus says, the last part as pointed as he can make it. 

Thane flinches from his tone. “It would be egotistical of me to say it’s for her own good. But whereas she will storm the base and win against any enemies she encounters, Kai Leng would not be among them. He’d be stalking her—hunting her. He could pick off half the ground team before she could figure out a location. We are not prepared to fight a man like Kai Leng in his territory.” 

“…What if the Illusive Man is really there? They can’t know that Miranda got that intel, otherwise there would’ve been cover-ups we’d encountered by now. What if we really could fight Cerberus from the top down?” Garrus has to ask. 

“Are you asking me if that is worth the risk to my loved ones and the crew of the primary defense against the coming Reapers?” Thane returns, tone wry. “It could be. We won’t know until it’s over, unfortunately. Also, you know you still twitch if someone says the word ‘love’ around you, right?” 

“I’m working on it,” Garrus grumbles, rubbing his mandible, embarrassed. 

“Are you?” 

“I’ll give you the in-depth course on turian romance later. I think we’ve already established that it’s very different than human or drell courtship.” 

“Yes, that’s certainly been established.” 

Garrus takes the teasing tone, happy just to see Thane smile for a bit. Small and subtle, his usual shadow of a smile, but it’s there, and it’s for him. It beats the argument from before. It definitely beats what will be one hell of a shitstorm later. 

—

“Shepard, we are approaching the standard entrance corridor to the Anadius System,” EDI informs her from the intercom. 

Shepard doesn’t know what they’ll find there, and she tells herself that there is still a chance to back out after they’ve run a few scans for more information. They aren’t committed yet. 

But if they miss out on a chance to catch the Illusive Man now out of dumb fucking luck, he’s going to go to ground, and they’ll have to go back to their bottom-up takeover strategy. (If it can even be called a strategy.) Shepard wants this to work. She doesn’t care about the risk of Kai Leng or Cerberus troops lying in wait or whatever else, so long as the damn man is really there, and she can punch him in the face. 

And then let Jack have him. 

Shepard never envisioned a way that this would end without the Illusive Man dying, anyway, so may as well give Jack a little more catharsis. Maybe she and Miranda could bond over it, if they could call her back somehow. Or maybe Miranda would somehow sense it, or hear about it before anyone else, or whatever other magic she pulls to be so smart. 

If they could do this on a quicker scale, they can control the flow of information, too. If it gets out that Commander Shepard wants to take over Cerberus before she has much to show for it, bad press would be the least of her worries. She’s spent the past year trying to convince people that she’s not part of a pro-human terrorist organization, after all. This has to be done delicately, but if it could be done quickly, then they could write the press releases themselves, so to speak. Make it sound a lot more like they’re freeing humanity from its shadowy parts or something. Kelly can probably whip her up something nice. 

Shepard rocks back in her chair with a heavy sigh. This all depends on what they actually find here. Sucks to think that a turning point in their short-term plans relies on a lucky break and a bunch of unknowns. 

Shepard glances over the apology email she’d drafted to Thane. (She had never sent the one she’d written to Garrus.) She needs to stop getting into situations where she has to apologize—no, she needs to stop getting into arguments. And fights. 

Except there’s no way she can do that, is there? Getting yelled at by her own crew over the rachni revelation made that point clear. She’s running a team, not a bunch of obedient underlings. There are going to be differing opinions. There are going to be further arguments about what they do, how they handle things, what to do next. Even once the Reapers arrive and there is an actual threat to point to (and tell the Council I Told You So), things won’t be smooth. She can’t act like a dictator over the little things; she needs to save the yelling drill sergeant routine for when it actually matters and there are lives and planets on the line. 

A sudden alarm blares out and Shepard snaps to attention. The first peal is deafening. 

Shepard gets as far as opening her mouth before EDI cuts in. “I am detecting—” 

There is no second alarm ring. There is a loud VOOMP that shakes the ship, and then everything goes black and silent. 

Chapter Text

The abrupt dead silence and near-blackness are disorienting enough, but what truly fills her with alarm is the gentle shift to her body. 

Shepard floats above her desk, processing. 

No lights. No sound. No artificial gravity. The ship is dead. 

Shepard’s first thought is EMP. But glancing around, actually registering her situation, she sees that it can’t be true. 

The emergency (chemical) lights near the floor toward the manual exit glow softly, as expected, but that’s not all—her omnitool bathes the area with its characteristic glow. The fancy model SR2 still has blinking lights and a glowing mini drive core. The photo frame on her desk still flips through its pictures. 

Any kind of EMP strong enough to knock out a frigate would also take out any other electronics on board. But it appears that anything running on its own internal power source was untouched. So what was it? 

It’s just the Normandy? EDI? Or is it somehow geared toward electronics over a certain size? Shepard doesn’t even know what the hell she’s thinking; this kind of thing is far from her specialty. She kicks off from her desk and makes her way to her weapons locker. Even if she’s still on the Normandy, she’s not taking chances with this. Could we get boarded?

Black Widow slung over her back, using her omnitool’s flashlight, Shepard floats over toward the emergency exit to her quarters. If it were an electrical attack, wouldn’t there have been backups coming online by now? The Normandy SR2 was state of the art, bleeding edge, created for the type of emergencies Commander Shepard would run into. One little power outage should be nothing. 

But EDI is not bringing things back online. 

The ship is silent, dead silent, which means the drive core isn’t running, either. No power. Shepard waves her hand through the air; no circulation, either. A ship this size holds a lot of air, but it could yet be a problem if nothing is flowing. 

EDI vented the drive core, Shepard notes. That’s what the loud noise had been—which means that she had realized that power was going down very quickly. And in a way that would not be easy to bring back online, otherwise they could have sat on the captured emissions from the Tantalus core for a few hours yet. But she vented it, creating a beacon toward their location, because otherwise they could’ve gotten cooked. 

So whatever had just happened, EDI had recognized its threat, and she had made the call to give away their location in favor of saving the crew from what will be a long emergency.

Shepard cranks open the manual door over a small ladder. It’s large enough for a turian—and just barely. 

How is Grunt going to move through the ship? Shepard wonders. Her nerves simmer beneath the surface of her need for action. Did the attack take out Legion too?

Without the ship online (namely EDI and her blessedly obscene processing power), there is no extranet connectivity. And her omnitool’s local connectivity is hampered by the Normandy’s own walls. She’d have to be practically in the same room as someone else to relay any messages. But it’s nice to have a flashlight and a short-range weapon if need be. 

Shepard goes over Alliance regulations for what happens during a ship-wide power outage. If the drive core’s been vented, then she can check off those parts, which means her priorities are now crew location and the status of the emergency power generators. Something really should’ve kicked on by now. Or tried to.