Chapter 1: Getting off on the Wrong Foot
Chapter Text
Chapter 1. Getting off on the Wrong Foot
Commander John Shepard was standing in the front of the QEC (“Quantum Entanglement Communication”)—the blue and white dots of a hologram swirled around him, shaping the stern figure of Admiral Steven Hackett—all-business, unable-to-read expression.
John instinctively crossed his arms, his eyebrows furrowing. His commanding officer glanced over him before saying just one word—Shepard—in a manner that would make anyone’s blood run cold.
“Admiral”.
“Commander, I received your report about the operation on Mars. Good work,” he paused, rubbing his chin. “But I’ve heard about Lieutenant Commander Williams. It’s going to take weeks if not longer for her to recover and be fit for duty again. I am sending you a replacement—Lieutenant Erica Brown, a former cop from Earth. She had served in the Alliance for several years before joining the police. I’ll share her dossier with you over email.”
Shepard frowned.
“A cop, sir? A fucking cop, are you fucking kidding me? What is she gonna do? Arrest a Reaper? I don’t have time for jokes; I don’t have time to babysit her—”
“Shepard,” Hackett cut him off. “This is an order. You fight the wars with the army you have, not the army you want. We’re stretched thin; you should be grateful for volunteers joining your crew to help, not turning them down.”
“Yeah, right, whatever,” he muttered. “It’s your order, I’ll follow it, but don’t expect me to be fascinated by it, that’s for damn sure.”
“I don’t,” Admiral Hackett said with pure steel in his voice. “Just get the job done, Commander. Focus on Turians and Krogan right now. We need their support. And the Crucible.”
“Yes, sir,” Shepard saluted the Admiral. The QEC went dark, leaving him alone with his responsibilities, landing heavily on his shoulders.
“Commander,” EDI’s ever-elegant, gentle electronic voice sipped through the door to the vidcom.
“What is it, EDI?” Shepard said irritated.
An annoying headache started forming in the back of his head as he was thinking about dealing with the turian generals on top of obtaining krogan support—mission impossible. Despite the war raging across the galaxy, other species continued fighting with each other over ancient, petty conflicts that made no sense in the current disposition of the forces of fate.
Shepard, being a soldier that he was, was forced to act as a politician and a diplomat, caught in this unnatural crossfire by sheer bad luck.
“Lieutenant Brown has arrived. I brought her to meet you—” he did not even give her a chance to talk, interrupting her.
“Gotta stop you right there,” he barked. “I don’t have time for Hackett’s bullshit. I don’t have time to deal with useless cops on my ship. I have a war to fight.”
His voice was low and dangerous.
“You. What’s your MOS?”
Erica shifted in front of him uncomfortably—this was not what she imagined when she signed up to join the Normandy—she thought Shepard was a prominent war hero, a living legend among the Alliance officers. It was a dream job, and she won the jackpot.
“Maybe he is just busy, you know, tired? There is a war going on?” she thought, deciding not to jump to conclusions.
“I’m a jack of all trades, sir. I’m skilled in intelligence and reconnaissance, special ops and stealth tactics,” she reported with a dry, respectful voice.
He looked over her again for a split second—she was a normal, average build woman, rather attractive. She was about 5’7’’, 155 lbs, amber eyes, white on the darker side skin; her chestnut brown hair was tugged in a messy bun on the back of her head, with a few sloppily placed bobby pins sticking out.
She also had an old and faded black and yellow tattoo, barely recognizable on her left bicep, that showed a small sharp corner of it from under the rolled-up sleeve of the Alliance blue fatigues.
“Yeah, right, I bet you caught a lot of scary, terrible enemies, like the Reapers, for example, while sitting at your desk all day, picking your nose,” he waved at her dismissively. “Hackett already told me who you are. I didn’t choose you; you have zero value to add to this ship. I’m simply stuck with yet another useless burden in the middle of the war,” he turned to EDI now, his hands in the pockets of his leather N7 jacket.
“Show her around the ship and don’t bother me with stuff like that. I gotta go to Palaven now,” he barked, determined to leave.
“Excuse me, Commander,” Erica stopped him.
“What is it?” he hissed, annoyed.
“As my commanding officer, you have to assign me a job on the ship,” she said quietly, willing to get out of dodge quickly.
“Whatever,” he whispered more to himself than anyone before responding. “I don’t know, don’t care. I have no real use for you. I guess you can take one of the intelligence terminals by Traynor in the CIC, over the Galaxy Map. Dismissed,” without any more pleasantries, he strode out of the War Room.
“If you follow me, please,” EDI said, giving her a somewhat sympathetic look.
A minute later, she was standing in a small breezeway between the conference room and the CIC, waiting for the piercing light blue security grid to finish the scanning process. Two privates greeted her, sharing their knowing smirks at her grim expression.
“Already met the Commander, huh?” one asked, leaning against the weapon rack.
“I bet that was rather cheerful,” another added, taking a sip of her coffee.
Erica glanced at them, registering their words in her mind but decided not to dwell on them.
Commander Shepard didn’t seem to be a pleasant individual. He’d earned his ruthless reputation for a reason—he was a war hero, an effective Commander who led the best team in the galaxy to save the world.
By sheer luck, or misfortune, stars aligned just right to allow her name to be thrown into the hat. He may not have been a nice and polite person, but he still may have been a great leader to fight by his side.
When she sat down at one of the terminals after a brief introduction to Sam Traynor, Erica picked up a pair of military headphones, tuning into the Alliance comms channel frequency to concentrate on the current intelligence reports.
In a few minutes, the elevator door opened with a loud whoosh. Commander Shepard walked out in a hurry, determined to reach the cockpit while barking orders.
“Maintain the altitude at all costs!” he turned to one of the navigators. “Hover over the area with stealth shields engaged. We’ll need immediate extraction for the Primarch.”
“Yes, sir!”
John turned to Traynor.
“I’m deploying in a shuttle. Holler T’Soni and Vega to the shuttle bay in 5 minutes.”
Traynor tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
“Commander, Liara said she’s busy with the Crucible schematics.”
Erica’s heart started beating faster. This was her chance to jump on his squad, improve her standing on the ship. “Nothing worthy ever comes easy,” she muttered.
In a few quick strides, she reached Commander Shepard, taking a good look at him as well. She hadn’t had a chance to take notice of his appearance before.
He was a handsome, well-toned man with piercing ice blue eyes and a scar on the right side of his face. Despite his tough and condescending attitude, he was still attractive; his gaze was intelligent and focused, and a barely noticeable hint of pain could be noticed in his posture.
“Excuse me, Commander?” her voice yanked him out of his conversation with Traynor.
“Yeah? What is it?” he barely looked at her.
“I may have heard Dr. T’Soni is busy, so I thought I could help you with the upcoming mission on Palaven. I have combat training and seven years of experience in—” She was about to reveal some details about her service in the Alliance before she had left the military, but he cut her off.
“First of all, did I ask you to speak? No. You are being insubordinate to a superior officer. Second, even if I was to entertain this ridiculous idea—Liara is a powerful biotic, almost as good as an Asari commando. Lieutenant Vega is a seasoned veteran, a very effective grunt. You are a completely unknown entity—you are just a desk jockey who sat behind the counter for the last ten years while my team and I have been on active duty. I don’t have time for these jokes,” he said with a hint of poison in his voice, and noticing her confusion and pain, only doubled down on it. “We are at war. I have no desire to train you when we are facing the Reapers, ma’am, not your random low-level wifebeater, the only enemy I bet you ever dealt with in your entire career.”
She squeezed her hands tightly around the hem of her uniform.
“Now, stop wasting my time and return to your station,” John barked. “Traynor, get me Liara. I need her, now; her schematics mumbo jumbo can wait.”
“Of course, Commander.”
***
In a few hours, Erica yawned, her eyelids heavy as she continued staring at the yellowish screen. Her eyes kept looking over the walls of code and data, scanning through routine communications between the Alliance ships, when suddenly something caught her eye.
She leaned forward, pressing on the bridge of her eyeglasses to push them up. A strange message.
Grissom Academy sent a distress signal—a passerby Turian vessel supposedly responded to it, reporting it as false. Something about this short message felt off—Erica copied the Turian signature over to her developer console. She’d seen a similar syntax before.
She pinged EDI over the ship’s intramail, asking her to run a query against the Normandy’s database.
“1 match found, Lieutenant. Commander Shepard was lured by the Illusive Man onto the Collector ship using a very similar fake distress signal. The syntax pattern you identified is an exact match.”
Erica’s eyes widened in shock at her discovery. She jumped out of her seat, heading to the conference room where Shepard was talking to Primarch Victus.
John noticed her bold appearance. His eyes narrowed.
“You give me the krogan, Commander. I’ll give you full turian support. The fleets, special forces, scientists for the Crucible, whatever you want,” Victus leaned against the table, his gaze unwavering as he bored into Shepard’s eyes.
Commander Shepard wasn’t someone to yield.
Garrus shook his head. Two hot-headed soldiers were about to set the gunpowder around them on fire.
“Victus. You’re asking me for the impossible. I’m certain Wrex won’t move an inch without the genophage cure.” his voice was low and dry. “I just saved your ass; my best soldiers risked their lives and this ship to pull you out—”
“Exactly! Pull me out, pull me away from my people, from Palaven! My planet is burning, Commander! My son is among the people fighting—” Victus shouted.
“I couldn’t care less about your son,” Shepard hissed. “I saw the child burnt alive by the Reaper beam. I held dying civilians in my arms when I was leaving Earth. I’ve been trying to warn everyone, including your dumbass high command of the Reaper forces coming, but no, Commander Shepard’s a delusional lunatic!”
“Don’t you dare—” Victus was about to jump into the fight—his hand clenched in a fist when Garrus stepped in between the two.
“Enough! You idiots,” he growled. “We are not enemies. We’re all fighting against the Reapers. Quit the toddler tantrum and start acting like adults!”
“I will not give up my forces. I can’t. Without krogan, Palaven will fall.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Shepard yielded. “But if it fails, I still expect turians to deliver; we won’t have a choice—the whole galaxy is at stake, not just Palaven or Earth.”
Victus grimaced at the last sentence when Garrus decided to distract them. He gestured for Erica to come forward.
“Hey, you are new here, right? I don’t think I’ve seen you before on the Normandy,” he said with half a smile. “Garrus Vakarian,” he extended his hand for a handshake.
“Lieutenant Erica Brown, sir. I’m here to replace LC Ashley Williams while she is recovering,” she reported. “I have something very important to talk to Commander Shepard about. Privately.”
“What is it you want? What is this habit of yours barging into my meetings to which you weren’t invited?” Shepard barked, placing his hands on his waist, gripping his belt. “What do you want?”
Despite his intimidating presence, she wasn’t afraid of him.
“Commander, I have a reason to believe that Grissom Academy is being attacked by Cerberus forces. I discovered a fake Turian report—”
“You? Discovered something? Bullshit,” he dismissed her again. “Possibly? Maybe? Is it the best you can offer?”
“John, she might be onto something here, a fake Turian signal—” Garrus tried to defend her, but Shepard ignored him.
“We will be docking at the Citadel shortly. Do something better with your time than playing detective. Get me a coffee, for example,” he scoffed.
When she disappeared behind the door with a loud click, Garrus shook his head again, clattering with his tongue.
“Shepard, why did you have to be so rude? She was trying to help you,” Garrus tried to talk some sense into John’s stubborn head.
“I don’t trust her. She was forced onto me by Hackett. I don’t have time to babysit a cop. We’re in the war, Garrus!” he shouted, a heavy fist landing on the table.
Garrus opened his mouth to say something when suddenly Traynor’s voice crackled through the ship’s PA.
“Commander, I need to talk to you, immediately.”
“Roger. Catch you in a few.”
***
Specialist Traynor’s elegant thin fingers were flying over her console next to the Galaxy Map, typing a few commands to pull up a report onto the holoscreen. Commander Shepard stood by her side, his arms on his chest.
“And this is how we discovered that this signal is fake, this report is fake, sir. You gotta save these people!”
Erica watched the whole scene from the back, anger boiling in her veins.
“Good work, Traynor. This is an important find. I’ll look into it,” he nodded, walking off to the elevator.
“I can’t fucking believe it!” she muttered, punching her chair with a fist in frustration. The same work, all the research she had done, when presented by Sam, was valued and noted, but when Erica tried to do it, she got brushed off and sent off to get him a coffee. A damn coffee.
Just as she thought to ignore it and head for the mess hall to clear her head, an already familiar deep masculine voice called for her out of the closing elevator doors last second.
“Brown! You are still here! My damn coffee. Two sugars, one cream. Don’t fuck it up.”
“Yes, sir,” she responded through clenched teeth.
“And fix your hair, you are supposed to be an officer, not a sleepy teenager in her pajamas,” he added the final nail to the coffin before disappearing behind the elevator doors.
“What a prick,” Erica whispered. “Years of service, experience… It means nothing. My desire to make an impact, to help Earth, means nothing. What am I even doing here?”
***
Commander Shepard was sitting in his cabin—feet on the coffee table, a cold beer in his hand as he observed various alien fish floating in the aquarium like they were birds in the skies of the long-forgotten Earth. Home. A white picket fence with large grape-like vines wrapping around it; a large, netted trampoline in the back yard right next to the fence. Careless jumping and laughing. Chirping birds. Crazy squirrels weaving around the nicely trimmed bushes chased by the neighborhood cat.
“Shepard, you have a meeting with Councilor Udina in half an hour,” EDI interrupted his peaceful moment.
“Son of a bitch,” he cursed. “Just when I thought my day couldn’t get any better than it was already.”
A curt knock on his door. A female head with a perfect glossy bun peeked around the door, extending her arm with a paper cup of coffee in her hand from the Apollo Café.
“Ah, that’s you. Come in,” he waved at her. He grabbed the coffee from her hand without thanking her, taking a sip.
“Meh, that could have been better. I think you may have forgotten to add sugar. And it’s cold,” he faked a grimace just to humiliate her.
“Hold on, Erica, right?” he said suddenly in a softer tone.
“Yes, sir.”
“You want a real task, right? To prove yourself? Is it why you have been pestering me the last two days since you arrived?” he asked half-jokingly.
“Well, if that’s the case,” Shepard got up, his expression turning serious. “I have a very important mission for you then.”
She stepped forward.
“I want you to represent me in a diplomatic negotiation. Councilor Donnel Udina is expecting me in half an hour in his office in the Embassies sector of the Citadel to discuss the current state of affairs and what is needed for Earth in the galactic war.
“Affirmative. Will report back once done.”
“Outstanding,” he said coldly. “This is your chance to prove you are worth something. Hopefully this is going to go better than your attempt at getting me piss warm coffee.”
She sighed heavily, turning to leave when he added, “Good luck.”
He glanced over her one more time, noting her curves and toned, appealing body, smacking his lips for just a moment before she disappeared behind the doors to his cabin.
***
“Who is this?” Udina grumbled, annoyed, turning around to meet the unexpected visitor; his arms behind his back, his fingers intertwining with each other as he took a step forward.
“Lieutenant Erica Brown of the Alliance Navy, sir,” she saluted.
“I don’t recall inviting you here,” Donnel barked, furrowing his eyebrows. “What do you want?”
“Commander Shepard sent me—”
“Commander Shepard?” he narrowed his eyes, studying her expression intently as he took a step closer to where she was standing. “He is too much of a coward to face me himself? Too busy getting drunk at Purgatory or picking up hookers outside when our homeworld is burning to the fucking hell?!”
Erica’s shoulders trembled slightly from the intensity of his yelling.
“Does he know that city after city, town after town are being wiped out, erased—poof— and everyone is gone. Women, children, the elderly—all these innocent people, while all he’s been doing is getting us a vague blueprint for some unknown device nobody knows how to build!” his voice dropped, picking up a dangerous edge.
“I need action from Shepard. Right here, right now. I need him to start caring about Earth, about humans, and drop his alien games. He’s forgotten what it takes to serve humanity’s best interests, not his ass getting entangled in alien orgies.”
Her eyes widened at his harsh words; Erica got speechless for a second but quickly regained her composure.
“I understand your frustration, sir—”
“My frustration? Frustration?!” he shouted, almost ripping his hair off. “He has been nothing but a nuisance to me ever since I met him. Appointed an incompetent martinet to handle fragile diplomatic relations; cut off the Council over the vid comm so many times that I’ve forgotten just how much prescription migraine medicine I needed to take after the Councilors yelled at me, for his reckless behavior, forcing me to clean up the political mess he created with his own hands.”
“Sir, just tell me what you need. I will relay this message to him immediately,” Erica replied calmly, even though Udina, of course, managed to get under her skin—while she had her fair share of criminals she dealt with, she had almost always been on the other side of the equation—she represented the law, protected the innocent the best way she could, she still had some sort of superiority over the scum. This time around it was legalized scum, the ever-living weed of the galaxy.
“He knows what I need. Him pulling his head out of his ass and starting to act like a human for once! And stop being such a damn coward, sending a lowly Lieutenant to speak to me. This is a disgrace,” he hissed. “Tell him exactly what I said, word for word. It’s an order.”
“But—”
“No buts. I refuse to talk until he shows up here himself.”
Her shoulders slumped as she trudged out of Udina’s office.
“This is just getting better and better, isn’t it?”
***
“What do you mean he refused to talk to you?” Shepard growled, arms crossed. “What exactly did he say?”
A long pause. An uncomfortable, thick-as-fog tension formed quickly.
“He said he wants you to pull your head out of your ass and start acting like a human. And for you to stop being a coward by sending me to talk to him,” she replied sheepishly, bracing herself for another outburst from him, but this time John remained dangerously calm.
Barely hiding his sarcastic grin—of course, he knew Udina would say that; that was why he had sent her there in the first place—he cleared his throat, enjoying the show in a mock annoyance.
“So much for your diplomatic charm,” he said with a fake sigh. “I have no use for you on this ship. No matter what I ask you to do, you just keep fucking shit up.”
Erica could feel her blood boiling again; she could sense her approaching the line she thought she would never cross—shout at Commander Shepard, calling him out on his bullshit.
“You know what, Commander?”
“What?” he said provokingly, almost daring her to try him.
“It was me, me who discovered the Grissom Academy! You ignored me, choosing to listen to your friend instead. You knew this Udina guy was going to be a dick, and don’t try to pretend like you didn’t. I can see it through your smug face!”
He did not falter, raised a brow, finding her boldness oddly attractive.
“I signed up to volunteer, to help people on this ship, to make a difference serving on the great Normandy, but all I get now is disrespect and condescending assholism,” she huffed, a blow of air spreading the loose strands of hair on her forehead around.
“Are you done?” Without waiting for a response, he continued, “This is exactly what you don’t understand, Ms. Brown.” he notably ignored her military rank.
“Know your damn place. Learn to respect your Commander and his orders. Don’t get in the way with your stupid fights and tantrums when the galaxy’s fate is at stake. Now,” John paused, sighing heavily, getting tired of this embarrassing power play game himself.
“Go to the mess. Double check their inventory. I have a suspicion they never did it right. Count every paper straw in every box. Then report back to me once you ensure the data is accurate. And trust me,” his gaze intense. “I will know if you lie. Dismissed.”
“Yes, sir.”
In a few minutes, she was kneeling on the floor by the greasy kitchen counter, emptying the boxes and counting each straw out loud, inputting the numbers into the datapad Shepard gave her.
Two privates from the security station she had seen earlier walked by, giggling—yet already knowing smirks on their faces.
“How is it going?” Private Westmoreland asked sarcastically, sipping on her milkshake.
Erica did not respond, trying to focus on the task at hand, not to lose count.
“First time, sweetheart?” Private Campbell added, barely holding her laugh off. “Welcome aboard the Normandy, the best and brightest ship of your dreams!”
Chapter 2: Cinderella Staff
Notes:
Recap of Chapter 1.
Lieutenant Erica Brown, a former cop with Alliance ties, is assigned to the Normandy by Admiral Hackett while Ashley Williams recovers. Commander Shepard, resentful and skeptical, sees her as a joke. When Erica uncovers intel about Grissom Academy, he ignores her, favoring Traynor’s word and sending her for coffee. Shepard later uses her as a pawn in his meeting with Councilor Udina, expecting failure. After she botches it, he punishes her with menial inventory work, earning quiet sympathy from the crew.
Chapter Text
Chapter 2. Cinderella Staff
“Excuse me, Commander, may I speak to you?” Erica asked, knocking on the glass door of the Normandy’s conference room.
Commander Shepard sat at the head of the table, going over paperwork, working at his portable personal terminal, handling multiple communications from the Alliance Command and the Council all at once. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, sighing when he heard the knock. He quickly glanced at the unexpected visitor before waving her in.
Lieutenant Brown took a tentative step forward, her gaze studying John intently. He was a walking mystery to her, just like she was for him, even though he did not realize it just yet.
Her first week of service on the Normandy had been rather disappointing and unsettling—she rejoined the Alliance—against her best judgement—to help humanity fight against the Reapers. Nevertheless, she felt honored to be chosen to fight side by side with the distinguished heroes of the galaxy, including Commander Shepard himself.
He was a rather attractive man, inspiring, mentally and physically strong. She tried to give it her best shot. Not to judge. Try to understand. The war took a lot out of him—Council meetings, dealing with Hackett daily, dealing with the crew, jumping on combat assignments in the middle of the night.
At the same time, he treated her like a secretary instead of a highly professional Alliance officer. She came to try to clear the air between them.
“Come in,” he muttered, not moving away from his work. “What is it? I don’t have much time for a chit chat.”
“Commander. I wanted to talk to you about my role around here. We didn’t have a chance to discuss it when I first joined. I thought you were busy and—”
He raised a brow, just slightly, briefly noting how unusually beautiful she looked in the dimmed lights of the conference room—her chestnut locks sparked in the yellowish glow, highlighting her strangely elegant cheekbones, eyebrows, even a hint of a scar she was trying to hide with a collar of her uniform, tugged neatly behind her neck.
John shook his head, shaking off these thoughts. He convinced himself it was just another attractive woman whom he had seen plenty of. His expression hardened. He was exhausted, ready to explode.
“I thought we already talked about it, Brown,” he growled, his voice low.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I believe you asked me about my MOS, sent me off to Specialist Traynor, and loaded me with various secretarial tasks! And when I came back to you with results, the Grissom Academy incident, for example—you chose to listen to her instead of me. I am a Lieutenant of the Alliance Navy. An intelligence specialist. I have serious combat experience. Special Forces. I came here to help you fight the Reapers. I was hand-picked by Admiral Hackett himself—”
He frowned.
“You were forced down my throat. I never picked you. I would’ve never picked you. Your dossier is less than impressive—a low-level grunt service, then dishonorable discharge and hiding behind the cop desk for the last ten years. Don’t lie to me about being special forces. Not exactly the greatest resume to me, Ms. Brown,” Shepard said sarcastically, omitting her rank on purpose.
“W-what? Is it what my dossier says?” she asked.
“Yes, would you like a copy?” he looked at her without amusement, expecting her to talk her way out of it, bullshit her way through.
Instead, she took a step back, holding onto her head.
“I can’t believe it… They just… erased everything,” she muttered under her breath, so quietly that he barely could make it out.
“I don’t have time for incoherent mumbling,” he pushed a stack of papers aside. “Your job here is what I tell you your job is, just like everyone else. If I tell you to make me coffee, then so be it. If I tell you to count straws—then that’s what the war effort requires. This is what you’re qualified to do, and this is what I’m using you for. Is that clear, Lieutenant?”
Her heart clenched at his words—her true employment history with the Alliance was gone; she was accused of insubordination and thrown out of the service with a dishonorable discharge clause. They betrayed her. A deal. They had a deal. You quit—you get to walk away clean. They lied. Of course they would—the Corsairs always lie.
But Shepard was not someone who would strike her as a listener, as an advocate for her. He was an abusive micromanager, not a mentor to look up to.
He was nothing like other people described him. But who were those people? His friends. His All-Star Normandy crew. Garrus. Liara. James. Ashley. The superstar soldiers featured in TV broadcasts by Khalisah Al-Jilani on ANN. Maybe he was this person to them, but not to the rest of the crew?
“It’s just… I can do so much more, sir. Using me as a secretary is like using a microscope to hammer a nail into the wall. Please, give me a chance to—”
“Listen, I don’t have time for your whining because you hate my orders. Given you’d already been discharged for insubordination in the past, I’d bite your tongue in my presence and do something useful around here if you don’t wanna go down that route again. Now, is there something else?”
“The inventory report is in your mailbox, sir.”
“I’ll review. And Brown,” he stopped her as she turned to leave. “Don’t forget my suit from the dry cleaners. I have another meeting with the Salarians and the Council tonight. Don’t be late. Dismissed.”
She clenched her jaw but remained silent. She had already lost the battle before it even started.
***
Erica returned to her terminal by the Galaxy Map in the CIC and started typing out an email to the Alliance Command, requesting a transfer to a different ship. She started the draft and deleted it several times, unsure if she should proceed. It was just one week. A week with Commander Shepard and it was a pure hell already.
When she finally finished the draft, her hand hovered over the “Send” button for a little longer than necessary. Should she give him another chance?
“Hey,” Private Campbell suddenly tapped her on her shoulder. “You, uh… Got a second?”
“Sure,” Erica smiled, turning around in her chair, happy someone distracted her. “What’s up?”
“Well…Mess Sergeant, Rupert Gardner. It’s his birthday tomorrow and we thought it’d be great to organize a nice surprise party for him. His family… Is MIA on Earth. Ever since the Reapers attacked, we wanted to cheer him up. Was curious about your opinion on something.”
“Of course, I’d be glad to help. What do you need?” Erica leaned forward, looking at Sarah curiously.
“Well, there is a bit of a tricky part. We want to invite Commander Shepard. And we even have a few people willing to chip in for a cake that he’d like, but we don’t know what he likes, you know?” Sarah said pensively.
Erica nodded.
“That… does sound like a good idea,” she replied politely.
“The thing is… I thought maybe you could find it out and get just the right cake that Shepard will enjoy, luring him into attending the party. What do you think?”
Sarah was leaning against Erica’s desk now; her feet were tired from standing the whole day on guard duty.
“Uhh… why me though? Surely someone else already knows him more than I do. I just joined the crew?”
“You are an intelligence officer, Lieutenant. Outside of his inner circle. I think… I think you may have just the right set of skills to do that. For the rest of us.”
Erica shook her head, rubbing her forehead. It was a terrible idea, given how John had been treating her since day one, but he was still a walking legend on the ship. An undeniable authority. Gardner would be honored if the Commander himself would attend his birthday party.
“That’s going to be tough. I’ll see what I can do, Sarah.”
Campbell nodded.
“Thanks. I knew you were the right person for the job. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
“Well, I am an intelligence officer, after all,” she whispered to herself, getting up from her seat and leaving the reassignment form in her “Drafts” folder.
***
“Commander, your suit,” Erica handed him a large plastic bag with his formal Alliance wear—the golden threads and buttons shone brightly even through the packaging in the luminescent lights.
He nodded curtly, not saying a word before hitting the elevator button.
“Shepard!” Garrus yelled. “Dressing up somewhere, huh? All looking so… fancy.”
“Vakarian. You again. With your snarky comments,” he smirked at him, narrowing his eyes. “You didn’t come to just comment on me wearing my Commander uniform tonight?”
Garrus almost choked on the ice cream he was enjoying before a bark of laughter blared across the Normandy’s atrium.
“No, Shepard, don’t get it in your head. Although… I am curious as to what you’re doing with this uniform. You hate uniforms. You always wear your jeans, cargo pants, and that darned N7 hoodie. What changed now?”
John let out a bitter half-a-smile.
“Hackett, that’s what happened. Scolded me for wearing comfortable clothing. Said it’s an order to look ‘presentable’ at diplomatic negotiations or whatever. I hate this bullshit. I hate pretending to care about their grand scheme of things, fragile balance of power when people are being burned alive by the damn Reapers on Earth, across the whole galaxy!” he ran a hand over his face. “I just… Everything is pissing me off. And everyone. Except you, maybe.”
“Except me, huh?” Garrus scoffed. “I’m honored.”
Shepard just rolled his eyes, not saying a word.
“I hear you there.” Vakarian swallowed the rest of his treat, taking a step closer. “Maybe we should go shooting again, just like last time, at that Presidium rooftop, remember?”
“I’d love to, but the Alliance wants me to go check out a potential lead on a Cerberus lab on Sanctum. This shit just never ends—”
“Excuse me, sir,” Erica said tentatively. “Any further orders? You haven’t dismissed me yet.”
Shepard raised a brow, turning to face her. He forgot she was still there as he was so used to paying attention only to his friends. Everyone else on the ship was just unimportant fluff. Background noise.
“Nothing right now, return to your station,” he barked.
She sighed, rubbing her eyes before trudging out of his way.
Garrus shook his head—he wasn’t happy with the way Shepard took his frustration with the war and exhaustion out on everyone else; being rude to people, many of whom willingly signed up to be on his ship, went against his own beliefs. And Garrus knew it went against Shepard’s too; he was just too stubborn to see the truth.
“John, I don’t understand. What is your problem? Why are you so snappy?”
Shepard’s expression darkened.
“I’m fine,” he brushed him off. “Just…”
“You know what, Vakarian? Since you seem to be particularly nice to Lieutenant Brown, surely a talented marksman,” his voice bled with overt sarcasm. “You should take her to the shooting range. Neither of you has anything better to do right now anyway while we’re docked here—you’re not going to calibrate the Normandy’s guns in a million’s time, are you?”
“Normandy’s guns always need calibrations. It’s never enough calibrations, Shepard,” he grinned. “But fine, why not? I still don’t understand why you’re so dismissive towards her. She just joined your ship. I doubt she did anything wrong.”
“She did nothing right. An Alliance outcast sent to replace my Ash on the ship. How else am I supposed to react to this? Look, I don’t have time for this,” he muttered, looking over his shoulder. “Brown! Get your ass back over here!”
She froze, her shoulders trembling. She was sick of this. The thoughts about sending that email quickly made their way back into her mind.
Erica was a strong, independent, and resilient woman who went through hell during her military and law enforcement career, carrying a heavy and sinister secret buried deep inside her very being, her soul. Bending to the will of an emotionally abusive and unprofessional Commander brought back some of the worst memories she tried to forget.
“Yes, sir?” she replied emotionlessly.
“Garrus Vakarian here is a terrible shooter,” John could barely hide his smirk. “He always fails a challenge against me. Surely you can beat him in a friendly competition. Besides, you wanted to get on a squad with me during one of the N7 assignments? Here is your chance. Prove it by beating him and we’ll talk. Understand?”
Garrus shook his head in disbelief, knowing where this was going. He was trying to humiliate her, using him.
“Sir, I have a question,” she said suddenly.
He raised a brow. Something in the tone of her voice piqued his interest.
“What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream?”
“W-what?” he gasped in utter shock at her random question asked in a very innocent, gentle tone, his composure faltering.
Garrus, watching the whole scene from the side, chuckled, barely hiding his grin at John’s flustered reaction—she had some special effect on him, even though he was too blind to see it.
“It’s banana split with dark chocolate on top,” he said sheepishly, still shocked at himself for even answering.
“My mother always bought it for me after school. Before she…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “Why are you asking me this, anyway, Brown?” his voice was still soft but with a hint of poison in it now.
“No particular reason, sir. Was just curious. Mine is mint. Vanilla mint. Plain and elegant at the same time,” she responded calmly, her irritation and defensiveness dissipated for just a minute as she looked into his beautiful blue eyes.
Commander Shepard cleared his throat, trying to move on from this awkward interaction with her.
“Dismissed,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Don’t mind him.” Garrus took a step forward towards Erica after Shepard left. “He may be an utter ass at times, but he is kind deep inside. Vulnerable. He is just afraid to show it.”
“I don’t know about that, Garrus,” she shrugged her shoulders. “Every time I try to be nice, to approach him, to ask for simple respect, he breathes at me with such venom as if I’m a Reaper myself.”
Vakarian sighed heavily, knowing how difficult Shepard could be.
“Look, let’s just have some fun at the shooting range this afternoon. We can have a friendly competition and just chat. I’ll report to him about it afterwards, so you don’t have to deal with his stubborn ass,” Garrus smiled at her; his expression was disarming.
“Sure,” Erica nodded. “I’d like that, Garrus.”
“See you later then, Erica,” he winked.
***
Engineer Donnelly, along with his friend, Gabriella Daniels, were standing at the engineering deck, next to the Normandy’s core, working in sync with each other at the console.
“Gabby, what happened to the last report you sent to Commander Shepard on the engine’s shielding vulnerability? Did he ever get back to you?” Ken scrolled through the data on his computer.
“Nah,” Gabriella sighed, tugging a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I asked Traynor to follow up, but he seems to be too busy to look over his emails.”
“He does realize that if we don’t get resources we need, any minor electrical problem and this ship is going to light up on fire like a Christmas tree,” Donnelly gripped the console with his fingers. “He never even comes down here anymore. Remember how he used to play poker with us, back when we were with Cerberus? Back then, he cared. Shit, I risked my entire career to defend him when nobody believed when he said the Reapers were real. When the Alliance wanted to just discard his body when he died. Damn, what happened to him?”
Daniels flipped a few switches, turning to one of the diagnostic monitors.
“I don’t know, Ken. Maybe there is just too much going on. Maybe he’s tired,” she assumed, looking over the graph. “There’s another problem, though. I don’t like the scanning results. We should tell Adams about it too.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Ken waved her off dismissively. “He will take credit for our work as he usually does. Look, I know what’s happening—Shepard cares only about his friends now. He is a superstar of the galaxy while we’re just peasants running his ship, keeping it in working condition. That’s why you get your emails ignored.”
“Don’t be so judgmental, Ken. Commander cares about us, even if we don’t see it often. He just has a lot on his plate.” Gabby still defended him. “I don’t know. I have faith in his leadership.”
Ken just scoffed, turning back to his computer when the doors to the engineering deck opened with a loud whoosh. Erica and Private Campbell stepped inside, smiling mysteriously.
“Ken, Gabby, you guys got your share?” Sarah asked.
“Yes, we do,” Gabby smiled, pulling her credit chit out.
Ken raised a brow.
“It’s for Gardner’s birthday,” Gabby explained. “We’re getting Commander’s favorite cake so he can come to support him. He just lost his entire family to the Reapers.”
Ken frowned, slightly nodding and handing his portion off to Sarah.
“I already ordered the cake from the bakery on the Presidium,” Erica said softly. “It’s an ice cream cake. A banana split. Shepard told me that’s what his mother liked buying for him after school when he was a kid.”
“He spoke to you?” Ken’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Surely did. He was even nice about it,” Erica chuckled. “Everything should be ready for tonight.”
“Very good,” Sarah chimed in. “I already asked Traynor to let him know he’s invited to the crew quarters. We already have decorations in motion—Bethany’s working on it as we speak. Gardner’s busy with the food shipments on the Citadel, so it should be a complete surprise for him.”
“Very well, we’re all set then. I have to—” Erica spoke when suddenly the doors opened again, letting Chief Engineer Adams and Commander Shepard onto the deck. They walked right past them, talking about the Normandy’s engines. Gabby took a step forward, determined to speak to the Commander, but Adams glared at her with clear disapproval.
“Thank you, Adams. This is a valuable discovery,” Shepard nodded at him. “You’re certainly a talented engineer.”
Everyone in the room expected the Commander or Adams to acknowledge their presence, recognize their efforts in finding this vulnerability. Instead, Adams straightened out and said, “Happy to serve the Alliance, sir.”
Shepard knew it was not Adams who did this job—it was a high-intensity, complex project that required a lot of people’s collective effort. He just did not care.
“Very well,” he patted him on his shoulder. “Dismissed.”
Shepard looked over the others briefly, and without saying a word, he left the deck as quickly as he came.
“Wow,” Gabby scratched the back of her head. “Not even a word to us. Not even ‘hi.’ Just… Wow.”
“I hope he’ll come for Gardner’s birthday tonight,” Sarah sighed.
***
The door to Spectre’s office on the Citadel opened after a short click and a whoosh. Commander Shepard let Garrus and Erica inside before turning around and heading to Councilor Udina’s office right across the hallway.
“Wow,” she whispered, looking around a rather impressive installation—a personal QEC, a high-tech communication terminal as well as the Spectre requisitions station—anything a regular soldier could only dream of.
“This way,” Garrus could barely hide his amusement, his mandibles flaring at her reaction. “You haven’t seen the best part just yet, Lieutenant.”
They turned into a large hallway leading into a personal shooting range, accessible only by Spectre authority. Inside, it had all the possible weapons available in the galaxy, as well as multiple VR simulation modes and configurations allowing anyone to reconstruct any possible combat scenario. This room alone was a state-of-the-art, almost as impressive as the Normandy itself.
“Okay, so what do you want to do, Garrus? What’s your weapon of choice?” Erica asked, getting ready for a competition.
“Mantis, of course,” he smiled gently at her, lifting his weapon. “I prefer to snipe my targets at a distance. As one of my former C-Sec colleagues used to say: ‘I’m the last thing you never see.’”
“Poetic,” Erica replied curtly, her elegant but calloused hands quickly picked a Black Widow.
“A Black Widow, huh? An interesting choice. Why this one?” Garrus asked, raising a brow.
“It’s an upgrade to an M-98 Widow—I used to serve with an old version of it. It was reliable, pulled me out of hell more than once. Since they don’t carry this relic here, the 1st gen, I’d prefer BW,” her voice concentrated.
“Nice,” Garrus nodded. “Let’s see what you’re made out of.”
Garrus stepped to the console, adjusting the targets.
“Let’s start with something simple. 350 yards,” he placed his rifle on his shoulder. “Let’s make it fair. I’ll take off my targeting visor too,” he took it off with his left hand, tossing it aside.
A shot, straight to the head of the mock target. As expected.
Another shot. Clean, quick and precise.
Garrus raised a brow.
“Wow, that was a nice one.”
“She must be just lucky,” he thought.
The shooting continued—Erica shot every single target, even the moving ones, with deadly precision.
“Not bad, not bad, my friend,” Garrus said encouragingly, realizing that once they moved onto a larger distance, she would probably start missing, and that’s exactly what Shepard wanted—to prove she was a garbage warrior.
“Okay, let’s try something a bit harder. 650 yards. This is on average the maximum distance most snipers operate on,” he adjusted the shooting parameters again. “I’ll start with a fixed target.”
He raised his rifle, training it at the head.
A shot. Missed, just by an inch.
“Damn it,” he said in mock annoyance. “Doesn’t look like I’m making it.”
Garrus missed the shot on purpose, just to give Erica a chance to win, so she’d go with Shepard on real combat assignments. Even if she was a lousy sniper, she still deserved a chance to prove herself.
Another shot. Perfect precision.
Moving targets, lasers, smoke—she beat it all.
Garrus slowly started to realize she wasn’t a lousy shooter as he’d assumed. She was a brilliant marksman. He decided to challenge her to do the impossible. No pretending. Just a real challenge between the best snipers in the galaxy.
“A thousand yards. You get three attempts. The targets will be moving, low visibility. You need to shoot them both in the head and heart. Understand?” Garrus asked, turning to glance at her—she was focused and collected. Her deep amber eyes were beautiful and intelligent. Confident. She didn’t look like a lost kid. She looked like a cold-blooded professional.
“Roger that,” Erica placed her Black Widow onto her shoulder.
“Ready?”
The distant ping of a target hit echoed through the cavernous range, bouncing off polished steel and synthetic sound dampeners. Garrus adjusted his shoulders, looking through the scope—taloned fingers tapping in idle rhythm against his rifle’s casing. He exhaled, lined up his final shot at the 1000-yard mark, and squeezed the trigger.
Ping.
Bullseye. Naturally for an Archangel.
Across the lane, Lieutenant Erica Brown holstered her Black Widow without fanfare. She was a completely unknown entity, not a superstar Normandy crew member and yet her scores matched his—minus a few fractions of a point. She glanced up at the digital tally, lips quirking as the final data populated.
Brown – 99.7% Vakarian – 99.2%
Garrus blinked. He grabbed his visor, pulling in diagnostics to confirm what he refused to believe. The math did not lie. She was talented. She beat him in a fair and square competition.
“You used iron sights?” he muttered, voice low, mostly to himself.
Erica turned as if on cue. “Wasn’t about tech. It rarely is. Just focus and breathe.” She had seen it all before. Too many times. And not on the shooting range.
Behind a maintenance pillar, beyond the armored glass, half-shrouded in dim overhead light, Commander Shepard watched the scene unfold. Arms crossed on his chest, stance—relaxed and curious. His eyes tracked Erica with a quiet calculation. Not many outshot Garrus Vakarian himself.
Garrus stepped beside Erica, the competitive flame behind his stare tempered by reluctant admiration. “We really gotta do a rematch sometime.”
Erica smiled, chuckling softly, “I figured you’d say that.”
“You did good, Erica. I honestly didn’t expect that. And trust me, I’ve seen a lot during my years of service at C-Sec. You should be proud,” he said with a tired but friendly smile.
“Thank you, Garrus. It was a pleasure. Thank you for… being nice,” she said almost whispering.
“Don’t say that. You’re gonna make me blush. Where did you learn to shoot like that, anyway?”
Erica sighed, putting the weapon she already grew to love back onto the rack.
“It’s a long story. I was a Corsair once. Don’t tell Shepard. This conversation never happened.”
“A Corsair? That’s a load of crap. She is just trying to flirt with him, nothing more,” Shepard thought, scoffing. He slipped away quickly, boots silent against the durasteel floor.
***
The Normandy’s crew quarters buzzed with happy preparations—Campbell was distributing paper plates and cutlery; Westmoreland—conical blue party hats—various people from across the ship were coming in—engineers Donnely and Daniels, armory support, janitors, maintenance crew. Slowly but surely, the venue was filled with the hungry and the excited for some positivity in the middle of the war.
Then Rupert came—eyes bright with shock and a hint of happiness as people chanted: “Surprise”!
“Where’s the cake?” Sarah asked, making some room at a small coffee table in the cramped quarters.
“Erica is on it. Saw her in the mess by the refrigerator.” Bethany turned her head, placing a stack of galaxy-themed napkins onto the table.
Meanwhile, Erica Brown was making last tune-ups for the cake—her fingers gently placed two candle numbers—53—on top of the banana covered in dark chocolate sprinkles. The cake had already started melting. She quickly lifted it and moved onto the plate, licking the vanilla ice cream off her finger.
Her heart was pounding as she carried the main attraction to the party. She silently prayed Shepard would come—the chances of that were slim. Rupert had been depressed over the lack of news about his family; most people reported no survivors in that area of San Francisco where he used to live.
The room was ready as she stepped inside—balloons, confetti, and rather loud but cheerful tunes from the Flux playlist played in the background. People were already drinking and enjoying the happy hour even before the cake arrived. Even more so, the whole crew wanted to lose themselves in the moment, not to think about the war. About not coming back.
“Is this for me?” Rupert’s gruff voice broke through the background of chatter and murmurs.
“Yes, it is,” Erica smiled, presenting the cake, placing it on top of the coffee table Bethany cleaned out earlier. “The candles are not lit up yet, but I got a lighter here.” She pulled an old, busted-up Zippo.
“Nice, looks like everything is ready,” Sarah came forward, eyeing the cake.
“There is only one thing remaining,” Bethany added. “Commander Shepard.”
“W-what? Commander Shepard?” Gardner turned around, his eyes lighting up in anticipation. “He’d come to my party?”
“We invited him,” Erica nodded, her lips curled in a tentative smile. “He should be here shortly.”
“I can’t believe it,” Rupert rubbed the back of his head. “Commander Shepard himself. I… I talked to him only once, during my time with Cerberus. He was very caring for the crew. Bought us all exquisite, high-end produce an average Alliance soldier would never even dream of seeing. Those were the times…”
“Hey,” Gabby interjected. “That was Cerberus. We’re on the Alliance ship now, remember?”
Rubert almost choked on the pop he was drinking, and he laughed, “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m glad to be here. I’m glad the Alliance gave me a chance to stay.”
“You know, this is the first time I’m seeing him laughing or smiling ever since his wife and daughters disappeared,” Ken whispered into Gabby’s ear.
Gabby nodded.
“I know, Ken. This war took a lot from us. This is why I’m glad we organized this. Take our minds off things. Keep fighting, no matter what.”
As the time passed, more people started wondering where Commander Shepard was. The longer they waited, the deeper their doubt dawned on them. Deciding to light the mood up a bit, Erica struck up a conversation with the Mess Sergeant.
“Rup, so, tell us about your family. I know it’s hard to talk about it given what happened, but hey, there’s always hope. It’s called the Normandy. We’re still alive. Tell us about them. Let’s honor them today as we’re celebrating another year of your life.”
Gardner’s smile faltered a little, changing into something a bit more serious.
“Ella—my wife. She’s 47. I have two daughters, Maria and Violet. They are twins, teenagers. You know how they can get… Careless, foolish, but so much fun to be around. Ella would bake us a wonderful cinnamon apple pie and have all their friends from school over to play board games. I got to enjoy playing with them on my shore leaves. Eat that damned pie. Look at her beautiful face, her blond hair. Damn it all…”
Erica instantly regretted bringing this up; her heart clenched as he continued.
“But I know one thing. I know that no matter what, we will keep fighting. For them. For us. In this reality and beyond. Commander Shepard died and then lived. He beat death. And so will we.”
People nodded in silence, making an unspoken Normandy promise.
“Rup, the cake is melting,” Bethany noticed a pool of ice cream on the metallic floor of the Normandy. “We can’t wait any longer.”
Erica lit the candles with her lighter, stepping away.
“He is not coming, is he?” Sarah whispered to Gabby.
“I wish I could say he is… and I usually would say yes. I don’t know this time. Maybe something happened to him,” she shrugged her shoulders.
A powerful blow came out of his lungs. The candles extinguished. A silent plea sent to the universe. To the gods out there.
Instead of applause and cheers, a moment of tense silence hung in the air—the room felt soulless, empty as the crew was waiting for its Commander to come.
“Give me a second, guys,” Erica said, determined. “I’ll find out what’s going on.”
She got up, leaving the crew quarters in a few quick strides, not bothering to take the elevator, heading straight down the stairs. Her eyes roamed around the CIC—nobody was there, not even Traynor. Then, she noticed a guard still standing by the airlock.
“Hey, Private Friedman?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the soldier saluted.
“Have you seen Shepard or any of his buddies? We need him right now,” Erica said nervously.
“He’s hanging out with the hookers at Purgatory. His friends are with him too. Good luck getting him outta there.”
“Ah, fuck me!” Erica almost ripped her hair out in utter anger. “What the fuck is wrong with him?!”
He shrugged his shoulders in surrender, in Spanish shame for the captain of this unfortunate vessel.
“Whatever. Look, you don’t need to stand there. We have a large ice cream cake at the crew quarters. Go grab some and enjoy or it’ll go bad,” Erica pointed at the elevator. “Or, if you want, I can bring you what’s left.”
“What kind of cake?” he asked curiously.
“A banana split. Shepard’s favorite,” she muttered, barely holding herself together.
“Damn,” the private said, shaking his head. “That… stings.”
“Sure does. It is what it is. Don’t tell anyone what you saw. It will be a mutiny,” Erica added before turning around and leaving. “I hope he knows what he’s doing.”
***
“Have you completed the budget deck yet?” Erica just got another ping on her terminal from Commander Shepard.
He had been bugging her about fixing up his formatting or font size for several hours now—Shepard hated menial office tasks that he had to deal with in addition to his combat duties, so he offloaded them onto his new intelligence officer.
This deck was about an Alliance budget request—emergency medical supplies, ammunition, provisions—the crew had been growing, picking up more displaced Alliance soldiers and officers along the way—the galaxy was in complete disarray, and the fight against Cerberus, in addition to the Reapers, had intensified to the extremes. The Alliance had to fight to defend its last power plant or science lab. Every soldier counted. Every bit of scrap or supplies mattered.
“Yes, Commander. Please find attached the latest version,” she texted him curtly.
Erica got up from her chair, stretching her legs and yawning—he had been pinging her non-stop, telling her to change the color of the heading or move the proposed inventory table half an inch to the left; then, a few minutes later, move the said table to the right, back where it was. He was giving her a headache at this point.
Just as she came back with another cup of freshly brewed coffee, she heard the ding of another message from John—it hit her right in the gut. This sound made her nauseous; like Pavlov’s dog, she reacted to it reflexively.
“You forgot the munitions count adjustment. Change the number format back to one decimal only. One. Fucking. Decimal. Only. Once done, send it over and don’t forget you are on rotation for overnight guarding duty in the cargo bay.”
“Son of a fucking bitch!” she cursed out loud. “I’m just so sick of this. I have been working for hours, doing pointless shit during a war, getting zero sleep, and now he wants me to go do guard duty? He doesn’t have any privates for that task? I am a damn Lieutenant, an officer, for crying out loud!”
“Please find attached,” she replied, copying the Alliance command so they would see the final version of the document sent out, and stepping away from the terminal—she was so over it that she didn’t care if he was going to come back to her to bitch about it.
She yawned, grabbing her still-hot coffee and stopping by the bathroom for a moment. She set the paper cup aside near the sink and looked at herself in the mirror—she was a gorgeous woman, a bit weathered and exhausted, but still attractive. Her deep, amber eyes were framed with dark, heavy circles.
Erica traced a thin scar under her ear with her fingers—an echo from her past, reminding her of heavy decisions, betrayal, and pain that made her who she was today—an independent observer, a resilient thinker. A strategist.
She quickly hid the scar with her hair, undoing the bun she usually used to wear. In the bright luminescent lights of the Normandy cargo bay, other soldiers may notice it and start asking questions. Questions she wanted nobody to have answers to. But especially, Commander Shepard.
She splashed some water on her face, rubbing her eyes—it was going to be a long night.
Just as she turned to the elevator, she heard her terminal chirping—a new message. For a second, she hesitated—should she even care? What if it was Shepard again? She had no patience for him anymore, but at the same time… What if something bad happened? She had to check it out.
Erica sighed, tugging her hair behind her ears as she landed back onto her leather chair—one new message.
FROM: Alliance Command
TO: Lieutenant Erica Brown
CC: Commander John Shepard
Lieutenant,
Confirming the receipt of the budget proposal. However, we’re a bit confused as to why it was sent to us again. Commander Shepard sent the deck to us hours ago—is this a new version? Any changes need to be made to the funding adjustments?
Regards,
Staff Lieutenant Richardson
Another message. Almost Immediately after.
TO: Alliance Command
FROM: Commander John Shepard
CC: Lieutenant Erica Brown
Staff Lieutenant—no, it’s not a new version. Disregard it and use my original file. Brown sent it in by mistake.
Shepard
“You bastard!” Erica squeezed the cup of coffee, splashing it all over her workstation.
Her entire body hurt from anger and betrayal. It was physically painful. He made her work on this for hours, making petty comments, shaming her for working slowly, telling her how urgent the request was when he had just… sent it himself hours ago? All those formatting changes, adjustments—none of that mattered!
“That’s it. I’m so fucking done with this place.”
Erica pushed the chair aside, leaning against the desk as she found the draft she had created this morning.
She hit “Send” without a minute of hesitation this time. Over.
Chapter 3: Price of Hubris
Notes:
Recap of Chapter 2.
Erica Brown pleads with Commander Shepard for a chance to prove herself, but he sends her to fetch his dry cleaning instead. Meanwhile, the crew plans a birthday for Gardner—whose family is missing on Earth—but Shepard remains indifferent. Erica is expected to be humiliated at the shooting range with Garrus, only for her skill to surprise him. Shepard watched her silently from the cover, saying nothing. Shepard praises only Chief Engineer Adams, ignoring his engineering staff, who had discovered a serious vulnerability in the Normandy’s engines. During Gardner's party, Erica discovers Shepard is at Purgatory, having fun with the local hookers, but protects his secret to avoid mutiny. That night, he berates her over budget formatting—only to reveal he'd submitted it earlier, dismissing her efforts. Disillusioned, Erica requests reassignment. Her patience is gone.
Chapter Text
Chapter 3. Price of Hubris
Reise, Reise, Seemann, Reise
Jeder tut's auf seine Weise
Der eine stößt den Speer zum Mann
Der andere zum Fische dann
Reise, Reise, Seemann, Reise
Und die Wellen weinen leise
In ihrem Blute steckt ein Speer
Bluten leise in das Meer
Reise, Reise by Rammstein ©
Sirens blared. A torpedo attack. The air quickly dissipated from the submarine, decompressing the environment.
Erica’s hands trembled for a split second as she walked through the ship, hiding in the shadows of what she’d just done. The desperation of the dying seamen, pain, blood, praying—just one cold, calculated sentence on the politician’s directive. Eliminate. Leave no trace.
Her helmet clicked tightly onto the chest piece. LED lights flickered at the connection. All set. Target—removed.
She was used to taking on hard jobs. Nature of the occupation—no mercy, just clinical precision. And yet, this assignment made her blood run cold.
“No, Jesus, save us!” someone begged.
“I’m not ready to die,” another whispered.
Keep going. Don’t stop.
A crate, a bunk bed—books, teddy bears, and even photos swirled in the tsunami that flooded the underwater ship, claiming it as a piece of meat for the shark, for Cthulhu itself. A necessary sacrifice. A price, traitors pay for their crime—they don’t deserve a trial on Earth—let God decide their fate. Or the Alliance politicians, like Ambassador Udina.
A young seaman. A kid. His terrified, begging green eyes never left her mind. Etched in it forever, like a scar, like an ugly tattoo. A burning stigma of shame and duty.
The escape capsules sabotaged—no witnesses, just clean execution.
Her extraction team already waiting outside, like a vulture on the bleeding victim of the political food chain, ready to enjoy its dinner.
She pushed the emergency exit hatch open with force—more water coming into the ship, almost swallowing her inside, but the underwater mass accelerator her team’s engineer had installed elevated her just enough to evacuate. No looking back. It was just a job, wasn’t it?
“Brown! Wake up!”
Her eyes fluttered open, mind dizzy and confused, swirling. Her face dry, eyes filled with sand—dried-up tears rubbed her skin as if it were salt on the wound. Like the sand from that forgotten shore on Earth.
“Uh… what?”
“I said, wake up!” his undeniably stern, deep, and oddly attractive voice growled louder than an old croaky alarm clock. “We’ve got an emergency. I need you to get your ass out of bed and be in the shuttle bay in five minutes.”
A door to the common crew quarters clicked quietly—Shepard disappeared as quickly as he came.
“What the..?” Erica muttered, shaking the remnants off the lucid dream. He wanted her on a mission? What happened?
No time. She got up, swiftly pulled on her uniform, ensuring to wear a turtleneck over—a silent accomplice covering her scar, the only witness to her own crimes. Patted the pockets, the shirt—knives, extra thermal clips, a pair of brass knuckles. Dog tags. Those darned tags that carried so much pride. And shame.
A few minutes later, she stood by Commander Shepard and Garrus, all geared up—face covered by a tight helmet. Stoic, cold, unreadable. No time to dwell on the past. The war was counting the last seconds of the turian platoon’s life.
“Cortez—set the course for Tuchanka—Primarch Victus sent you a NavPoint,” he barked.
Shepard stood steadily, holding onto the railing above his head as his shuttle pilot, Steve Cortez, navigated the shuttle with utter virtuosity, dodging the Reaper dropship lasers and stray missiles from the AA towers flying like fireworks.
“This crash site’s nightmare,” he glanced at Garrus. “I don’t like this.”
“Me neither. Sending us to save his son? Things must be really bad out there.”
Erica sat beside them, her mind wandering off to the dream she had this morning. The ghosts of the past, the screams, and the pleading screamed at her. Accused her.
“EDI, holler Lieutenant Victus,” Shepard commanded, jaw set.
“Yes, sir.”
“For a turian commander, what happened here… Let’s just say a turian code is not forgiving,” Garrus stood with arms crossed. “And that it’s his son is bad for the Primarch. Promoting family without merit can bite you in the ass. What’s strange is that the Primarch knows that.”
“And friends,” Erica whispered. “Ignoring your crew, for example.”
“What did you just say—”
“Commander, I have to land well back from the main crash site,” Steve reported curtly.
Shepard’s head snapped back to the pilot.
“Is it the best you can do?” he said, annoyed.
“Yes, sir, but the Reapers seem unaware of our presence. You might get a jump on them.”
“Alright, set her down,” John barked, turning back to his squad. “Let’s save this platoon. And Brown—don’t fuck this up. If you do, I’ll turn your ass to turians for backyard BBQ. Understood?”
She swallowed hard.
“Yes, sir.”
***
Heavy boots thumped loudly against the sandy soil, muffled by the dust, feet running deeper into the forgotten ruins of Tuchanka—its rusty skeleton breathed quietly under the doom of the Reapers, as if not having enough gunpowder, energy to keep fighting. Too tired.
“EDI, did you reach Lieutenant Victus?”
“Yes, but the connection is bad,” EDI replied swiftly, her voice precise and calculated.
“Patch me through anyway,” he stepped aside, arm raised to his ear. “This is Commander Shepard, Alliance Navy. Do you read?”
“This is Lieutenant… Victus… We’re pinned by the harvesters… Heavy casualties,” the broken, tired voice crackled through his comms.
“Harvesters?” Erica whispered.
“Lieutenant, I need you to fire a flare so I can find your position,” Shepard commanded.
“Shepard, wait!”
Her eyes darted quickly into the dark sky with apprehension—the smoke screen from the fire was so intense that it covered the sunlight like a curse, not giving this cursed land even a glimpse of hope. A flare shot up in the air. He ignored her plea.
“Got it.”
“Things get worse by every minute… My men are dying!” Victus shouted before the comms went dark.
“This sounds bad! Let’s move!” Commander Shepard growled, turning toward a hint of a passage tugged inside a large pile of concrete and metal rubble.
“Wait, Commander,” Erica stepped forward. “You made a mistake.”
His eyes narrowed, eyes flickering with untamed annoyance.
“The harvesters,” she explained. “They have advanced thermal scanners. What you just did is a death sentence for the platoon. The Reapers now know their precise coordinates.”
He silently pulled his Avenger out, taking point. He ignored her comment entirely. “Cocky smartass. How dare you to teach me!” he thought.
“A secret turian mission on Tuchanka is especially odd. Thoughts?” Garrus said, climbing up the ladder—high boots clanking loudly against the wall.
“Gotta be something dark, possibly illegal,” Erica stated as a fact, as if she knew. “That’s why it’s ‘secret’.”
“Shh… you see them? Quick!” Garrus hissed, sniping a few husks out with his Mantis.
A shot. Two. Three. More husks arriving, relentlessly, brutally jumping at the squad as if it were their last meal. Shepard worked through them quickly, cutting the abominations’ heads off mercilessly, as a promise to the Reapers. He was an elegant, powerful warrior. Like a Greek god, his muscles flared with tension, his voice—a low, hungry growl for a fight. Daring.
His Omni-blade glowed devilish red, sweat beads ran down his forehead like a waterfall, adrenaline pumped through his veins, numbing his outside senses, attracting another wave of predators stalking its prey—Marauders.
“Garrus,” Erica shouted, rolling behind a rock next to the passage forward. “Throw an overload on the main guy, I’ll flank them with an EMP grenade!”
His eyes widened.
“An EMP grenade?”
“Yes, I’ll explain later,” she lunged forward.
A burst of electrical energy left Garrus’ body, hitting the target’s defenses like a slap in the face, breaking through their shields.
An explosion. Boom. A large bubble, flaring with electricity, ripped through the Marauders platoon like a hot butter knife, leaving them helpless and disoriented. Then—a frag grenade, frying them inside, throwing the synthetic body parts, tubes, and microchips mixed in with biological tissue, hit the walls.
“Phew,” Garrus whistled. “That was… Unexpected. And creative, I gotta give you that.”
“Cut the chatter,” Shepard barked, running forward, weaving around rows of concrete blocks toward the flare.
A pause.
“Good work, Brown.”
Did he just say, ‘good work’?
Fire. Devastation. Barely any signs of life. Only ghosts, turian and krogan alike, sprinkled atop the bled through soil like a mockery to the resistance, illuminating the supremacy of the old sentient machines. The Reapers.
“We impose order on the chaos of organic evolution. You exist because we allow it, and you will end because we demand it.” Those words etched in his mind like a curse, like a damned mantra he refused to believe. No. Not while Shepard was still kicking.
“Do you read, Commander? I repeat, do you read?” someone pleaded with urgency.
“Shepard here. What’s your status?” he took down another husk, shredding it with incendiary bullets.
“What’s your ETA? The Reapers struck us right in the middle, where we launched the flare. Victus…is missing. The rest of the squad—dead.”
John briefly darted back at Erica, a hint of remorse in his gaze.
“Hang tight, we’re on our way,” he hissed through his teeth, picking up the pace.
Shepard’s comms flared with a new, one-sided transmission. Anger, determination bled through the holographic screen.
“Marvick, how’s our velocity?” a turian pilot asked.
“Deceleration offline, we won’t survive,” another one interjected. “Who the hell launched that stupid flare? It gave up our position. This is idiotic!”
“Victus did. He’s going to pay for this. Court martial or execution without trial. I’m down for either. But I’d prefer to shoot him in the head,” the first one replied angrily before the static silenced them. Forever.
Shepard’s hand clenched, jaw set. He hated to admit she was right. His pride had just cost many people their lives. And almost killed Victus. Who knows, maybe it even did? Somehow, she knew way more about the Reapers and their technology than he did. Than his entire crew did. Are appearances deceptive?
The pace quickened, stones, dust flying off the boots of the soldiers, desperately searching for the Primarch’s son in the chaos of the unforgiving war. A disgraced Lieutenant whose life mattered only because he was the son of someone important.
***
A deep, burnt-out hole greeted Shepard’s squad grimly—a pile of bones, blood, pieces of armor, and shattered hopes scattered around the site. A hand, holding onto the flare gun, ripped off someone’s body. Probably Victus.
“Damn it,” John muttered through clenched teeth, dropping his gun. “We’re too late…”
“What… what the hell happened here?” Garrus paced around, dropping to his knees. “They’re all dead. Burned alive by the Reapers’ laser.”
Erica’s lips tight, jaw set. She wanted nothing more than to put Shepard back in his place. To show him the price of his pride. But she knew. She knew what it meant to lose someone because you miscalculated. Even if you were a cocky idiot. Because you thought you did the right thing. Despite hell he’d put her through recently, she still had the integrity to keep her mouth shut.
She stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder in a silent prayer for the damned. In sympathy and understanding. In comfort.
His blue eyes met hers in an unspoken tango, vulnerable, syncing like two Omni-tools transferring the same message between each other. Regret and a relentless promise to fight till the end. To make the Reapers pay for what they’d done.
“Shepard, I’m…”
“Commander, do you read me?” a turian’s voice crackled through the wall of static.
John’s face hardened again, shaking off the moment of weakness and the consequences of his decisions.
“Roger. What’s your status?”
“Victus is still breathing. A few klicks from your position.”
“Got it. Send me a NavPoint,” his Omni-tool switched off, ready for action.
“We may not have lost yet. Let’s move,” Commander Shepard barked, taking point. “Stay low. I see more hostiles up ahead. Don’t reveal our position—they haven’t noticed us yet. Ideas?”
Garrus scratched his mandibles.
“That bridge over there. The overpass. If we strike at the right place…”
Shepard grinned.
“I like your way of thinking, Vakarian.”
“Joker, do you copy?”
“Yes, Commander.”
Commander Shepard’s omni tool glowed yellow, turning into a light blue beam.
“See the projection? Hit that point with an orbital strike. I need this bridge gone. You’ve got ten seconds.”
“No, wait,” Erica interjected. “If you also strike at the leg of the water tower, it will trap the already deployed husks, giving us time to make it to Victus. You gotta do it at the same time; otherwise, the projectile will fall out of radius.”
John raised a brow. She kept surprising him during this mission, despite his prior skepticism. He shot another beam at the structure.
“Do it, Joker. Now!”
After two high-precision blows, the bridge and the water tower collapsed, clasping each other in a deadly grasp, encircling the hostiles—becoming the grave for the doomed: former batarians, krogan, and humans alike.
“The corridor is clear! Let’s move!”
In a few quick strides, the squad charged forward, their pace brisk and urgent.
A lone turian crouched in front of the dying Lieutenant, his hands hastily trying to stop the bleeding.
“Commander… Shepard… You came,” Victus mumbled, blood flowing through his teeth. “It’s too late for me, but not for you.”
“No, no, hang on, Lieutenant.” John dropped to his knees, holding onto his hand. “We’ll get you out of here.”
“No… You gotta save my squad. The mission…” he turned to his side, wincing in pain. “The mission’s objective was to… disable a nuclear bomb.”
“A bomb?” Garrus raised a brow. “That’d explain the secrecy.”
“Yes,” Victus confirmed. “That’s why father sent me. To save innocent lives. If krogan were to find out… There’d be another galactic war with the Reapers picking our bones. Please, Commander… Do it.”
“Goddamn it, Lieutenant… Victus… Stay with me,” John held onto his hand, his voice betraying a hint of pain and guilt.
Eyes closed. Death judges no one. Everyone’s equal in death, Primarch’s son or not.
Shepard turned his face to the turian.
“Coordinates. Now.”
“Yes, sir. Here,” he flared his omni-tool, transferring the data.
The fate of the krogan, turians, and the galaxy weighed heavily on Commander Shepard’s shoulders. And for the first time in his career, he doubted himself.
***
“Ahh…” Erica hissed through clenched teeth, holding onto a combat knife as she was patching herself up in the Normandy med bay.
It was eerily quiet, only while cold and clinical luminescent lights buzzed above her head, as if offering silent judgement for the failed mission.
A whip of a knife, cutting through a roll of gauze. A gulp of whiskey, the old school style.
Erica hated medi-gel. It was a necessity, but it gave her flashbacks during her early years with the Corsairs. Headaches, throwing up. Hallucinations. The stuff the Alliance gave them was experimental—not the light, gentle version of Sirta. Way more powerful. And dangerous.
The Alliance Navy had always been searching for a perfect soldier. Sorting through the testing material. Challenging. Pushing to the extremes. Unethical, but effective.
A few more wraps of the gauze. Looked tight enough. The blood still sipped through, but nothing critical.
A few cautious footsteps. A door whooshed.
“Sarah,” Erica nodded at her, taking another swig. “What’s up?”
Campbell looked over her—sympathetically, with pride and with lots of questions written all over her face.
“He took you on a mission? I can’t believe it.”
Erica wiggled her legs a bit, restoring the blood stream flow into her thighs.
“Yeah, still don’t know what happened. I wasn’t supposed to go. He never cared or even noticed me. Just said it was an emergency, you know?”
Sarah crossed her arms.
“Shepard’s been hiding in his cabin ever since you guys came back. Not a word to anyone on the ship. What happened there?”
Erica hesitated. Did he even deserve to have his secret kept?
“A tactical fuckup, not much we could do once we arrived. Not his fault. Had to cut the losses and pivot,” she paused. “How’s Gardner? Any news?”
Campbell sighed.
“Yeah… They found his daughter’s body. Maria and Ella are still missing. He’s been drinking badly,” she leaned against the operating table. “Can’t say I blame him. We were hoping the party would distract him, but yeah… You know how that went.”
Erica jumped off the bench she was sitting on.
“Yeah. But it doesn’t matter, Sarah. None of this is gonna matter if we give up now. We need to fight. The Reapers don’t give a shit about our feelings or losses. Maybe Shepard has a point, after all. I don’t know.”
Private Campbell scoffed, a brow raised.
“Shepard’s right? Since when?”
“Since the beginning of times. He is a dick, and I don’t like the way he treats me or us, but he’s the best we’ve got. Even with his partying and hookers. Maybe I was wrong about him.”
Sarah’s eyes wide from surprise as she stepped closer.
“Damn, what happened at that mission that changed your opinion of him?”
Erica froze, processing her words.
“Changed my opinion of him? No. But I know I’ve made mistakes. In the end, nothing matters, but results. And if you can live with yourself afterwards. And if you survive,” she thought, while Campbell was still waiting for her to spill the beans.
“He was heroic in disabling the bomb. Climbed out of the tower last second. Saved millions of lives by almost sacrificing his. That’s all I’m gonna say.”
The door closed behind her, leaving Sarah alone. Flabbergasted.
***
Erica was trying to sleep, but her mind resisted her, despite the amount of numbing alcohol she’d already consumed. She flipped another page. 1984.
"Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present controls the past," Erica whispered, remembering the Reaper claws closing in on their squad as they crawled out of a large yawning hole, a wound in the torn-apart land of Tuchanka, an almost permanent scar of the war.
“They control the past and the present. We gotta stop them from controlling the future,” she muttered, flipping another page.
The story was dark and yet resonated deeply, playing with the very strings of her soul. A path leading to nowhere, a horizon glimmering, luring the hopeful idiot closer. Hopeful for salvation.
“Maybe I should check on him. He did look devastated.”
She slid off the bunk, heading out of the crew quarters. Upstairs. The captain’s quarters.
Holding onto her bandage like a wounded animal, Erica trudged up, climbing the stairs. She didn’t even know why, but she felt sorry for him. Vainly.
A loud, obnoxious laughter blared like a siren coming out of his cabin.
Ashley Williams.
She froze, her heart pounding when she listened to the muffled sounds behind the thin metallic bulkhead.
“Oh, Shepard, you naughty goose! Stop it!”
A bang against the wall. Then, a loud thud.
“You’re questioning your commanding officer’s order, LC?” he clattered his tongue. “Now be a good girl and take him in. Wrap your lips around him. Slowly. Gently. Just how I like it.”
Even a louder wave of laughter lashed out, hitting her like a whip.
Erica grimaced. Shepard was a terrible neighbor to be around. He didn’t even care that anyone could hear him openly banging chicks in his cabin. This time, it was Ashley. She returned to the ship already?
“Goddamn it, you fucking stupid idiot. This life won’t teach you anything,” she whispered, walking down the stairs before she’d be noticed. “Why did I even care? I thought he was suffering, needed comfort. But he’s just a spoilt womanizer, no less. And Williams… what a fool. Who’d even get involved with the guy like that?”
A clash.
“Garrus! Watch where you’re going,” Erica barked, a bit annoyed.
“Whoa, easy there. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she gave him a sidelong glance. “I’m ok. Really. Just got a headache.”
Garrus narrowed his eyes, looking over her.
“Are you sure? You look rather… Lost? Annoyed? Can’t quite identify.”
Erica sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. She didn’t even know why she cared.
“Nah, I’m okay. Just gotta do something before bed. I’ll see you in the morning, Vakarian.”
He gave her a questioning look as he watched her walk towards her terminal by the Galaxy Map. Something was off. Ever since she pulled Shepard out of that crater on Tuchanka. Something’s changed. Like a residue. An aftertaste in a drink. Seemly the same. But different.
A few hovers over a keyboard and a virtual mouse. An email.
RE: Reassignment Request
FROM: Alliance Command
TO: Lieutenant Erica Brown
CC: Commander John Shepard
Please be informed that your request has been denied. Direct your questions regarding this decision to Cmdr. John Shepard.
Chief Staff Lieutenant Adam Viljoen.
Chapter 4: A Band-Aid on the Crack for the Damned
Notes:
Recap of Chapter 3.
Erica is jolted by a flashback to a political assassination she once carried out—a haunting reminder of past choices. Shepard wakes her, summoning her to join a mission to rescue a stranded turian platoon on Tuchanka. During the operation, his overconfidence proves fatal: Erica warns him not to use the flare, fearing it would expose Lieutenant Victus’ position to the Reapers. He ignores her, and the decision costs him Victus’ life.
Back aboard the ship, Erica discovers Shepard is emotionally withdrawn, hiding in his cabin and avoiding everyone. When Campbell questions her about the mission, she chooses to protect Shepard’s dignity, concealing both his tactical blunder and her role in saving him. Eventually, she goes to comfort him—only to overhear him in a passionate hookup with Ashley Williams, shattering her assumptions and deepening her inner conflict.
Chapter Text
Chapter 4. A Band-Aid on the Crack for the Damned
“Shepard!”
The door whooshed open to his cabin viciously, her eyes flickering with rage.
Commander Shepard stood by his spaceship model collection, his fingers running over the oddly shaped cruisers, dreadnaughts, and frigates, as if trying to find something that would anchor him in this world of chaos.
He didn’t turn around, just raised a brow.
“Watch your tone with me. Sit. Down.”
She didn’t falter, instead leaning against the doorframe.
“No, you watch your tone with me, Commander,” she said cooly. “Who gave you the right to deny my application? You hate me, we both know that. Why on the God’s green Earth would you want to keep me on your ship against my will?
A smug spread across his face.
“Plain and simple. Because I can. I am the Commander of this ship, and this is my order. You’re here to obey me.”
“Huh, obey you? If I had obeyed you yesterday, we all’d be dead by now, Commander,” she said sarcastically. “Or you already forgot how I pulled your ass out of the fire? Forgot Victus, forgot the nuclear bomb mess? Shall I continue?”
Shepard didn’t forget. She did save him. She risked her life, shielding him from all the monsters while he was working on diffusing the bomb. Bleeding out, growling, she kept fighting like a true warrior.
It bothered him—more than he was willing to admit.
“What, you want a cookie now? For doing. Your. Job?” John crossed his arms now.
“This is a soldier’s duty to protect their Commander’s life. Yet another case showing your utter disrespect for the chain of command, insubordination. If I were the Alliance Command, I’d already have you locked up in the brig. You,” he paused. “Should be grateful I didn’t do it.”
Erica’s eyes narrowed—fury was boiling inside her, like a volcano.
“Just out of curiosity,” she said. “Why didn’t you throw me in the brig then for saving your life?”
He took a step closer, eyeing her up.
“Because that would be boring, wouldn’t it?”
Shepard started pacing around her, stalking her as if she were his prey.
“You know, you’re cute when you’re mad,” he said, smirking. “These rosy cheeks. This flustered expression. You know, I may actually like you.”
Her eyes darted at him. Then, she laughed. Loudly.
He blinked, confused, faltering—no other woman ever dared to laugh at him in the face when he flirted. When he dominated.
“I said something funny?”
“Oh, yeah, absolutely. It was hilarious,” arms crossed on her chest. “You dare to think just because you blatantly flirted with me, I’m gonna forget everything? Soften you, please you, beg you so the great Commander Shepard would go lightly on me? I’ll forget you’ve been treating me like a nuisance, an unfortunate inconvenience? This is just insulting.”
She stepped back.
“Look, Shepard. I know you’re used to getting what you want easily—with a snap of your fingers. Not this time. Or ever, for that matter. Not with me.”
She paused, enjoying his flustered look now.
“Shit, you can court-martial me if you want, throw me in the brig—I bet it’s not so boring now, is it? But I’m not Williams—or any other woman on this ship who’d gladly jump into your bed when you call. I’m not a fool. I don’t care about your rank or regalia. I see you for who you are. What you are.”
He crossed his arms, a mix of curiosity and fury swirling in his eyes.
“Oh really, you have me all figured out. And who am I then?”
“A self-serving, disgusting excuse of a man who disposes of people like they’re trash. Who thinks he’s above the rules, above justice. Who walks around the ship like a cock, stomping on anyone who’s not in his inner circle, who’s below his rank,” her voice steady and cold.
A pause.
“You know what? Let me take it back. I was a fool. Yesterday.”
His terminal pinged pleadingly—Shepard glared at it, as if silencing it with his sharp gaze, but quickly turned his head back to her.
“You are the reason Victus died. And his men. You are the reason the mission almost failed.”
Each word was a dagger straight to the heart.
“I’m done being nice. I’m done protecting you. I was a fool thinking you needed comfort. Compassion. That what you did was an honest mistake. It wasn’t. You didn’t even think about what could happen, because you are a careless, selfish bastard.”
He opened his mouth but closed it, meeting her sharp gaze.
“I even defended you in front of the crew, keeping your secret.”
His eyes widened. She stirred something. Something deep in the pit of his stomach.
“Yes, that’s right, I didn’t go bragging about saving you. Or telling everyone how you fucked shit up due to your hubris. Multiple times.”
Erica exhaled.
“I see you’re too far gone. Everything you’ve done and said for the last ten minutes alone we’ve been talking told me everything I needed to know about you.”
She paused, letting the silence be the final nail in the coffin.
“Now, do what you want with me; I don’t give a shit.”
He blinked. Twice.
He shouldn’t have cared. Who the fuck is she? A lowly Lieutenant, I barely know? Why does her opinion suddenly matter to me so much?
His eyes fell onto the wound on his chest. It was just a scratch. A scratch to his pride. He was incompetent during that mission. Believed he knew best. Ignored his team’s valuable inputs. And…
She did save his life. She held the line, shielding him from husks, marauders, and cannibals. Not a word of complaint. Right through the tears. She fought fiercely.
He remembered her eyes—deep, amber eyes, full of courage and pain. Garrus—fell next to him, his shields ripped through—Shepard cared only about getting to the bomb in time—millions of lives were at stake. She was still holding the line. Alone.
But he was ruthless, renegade Shepard. He would never allow himself to show even a sign of weakness. Kindness and care, friendship—are for the weak.
“Get out of my cabin.”
She turned to leave when he clenched his fist, holding off a sudden wave of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him.
“And… I don’t know, go clean the bathrooms. With a toothbrush.”
She covered her mouth, barely holding off her laugh.
“Gladly, sir.”
A toothbrush. He was so flustered and hurt by her words that he couldn’t come up with anything better than a stereotypical drill sergeant’s power trip tantrum.
His terminal pulsed again, more insistently this time.
“What is it?” he growled, annoyed.
“Wrex’s getting impatient. He wants to see you. He’s aboard the Normandy.”
Shepard sighed.
“Fuck. Alright.”
“That’s not it. The salarian Dalatress is here too.”
His fist landed on his desk, his jaw set.
“Jesus. Have them brought to the conference room.”
***
The stain on the women’s bathroom floor wouldn’t come off, no matter how hard Erica tried to scrub it. It was almost as stubborn as Shepard himself, if not more.
She got up, turning to the sink when the door swung open—Sarah.
“Oh, hey, Erica! What’re you doing here? Scrubbing the floor with a toothbrush? Really?”
One word.
“Shepard.”
Sarah laughed.
“Wow, that’s… typical, I guess. What did you do this time?”
Erica froze, considering what to say. If you wanted the whole ship to know about something, tell Campbell.
“I don’t wanna talk about it,” she lathered her hands with soap. “Watch your step when you go to the stalls—the floor is still wet.”
Sarah jumped over the bucket of water, almost sliding. A door to the stall clicked. Erica shook her head, wiping her hands with a paper towel.
As she turned to leave to find a better solvent, Sarah spoke right through the stall door—yeah, weird, but she didn’t care.
“You know, Brown, you should come with me and Ash to the Citadel.”
“What?”
The door slammed against the stalls—the lock was broken and misaligned with the hinge. Sarah washed her hands, looking into the mirror.
“Williams and I are going shopping. We’re stuck here for the rest of the day until he gives us new orders. The ship is boring.”
Erica raised a brow with a bit of a smirk.
“Yeah, I’d love to, but Shepard will throw me in the brig this time if I just leave.”
“Hmm…” Sarah scratched her head. “Let me ask Ash. Maybe she has an idea.”
A few clicks of an omni-tool. A glow.
“She says since she’s a Spectre, she can just take us. Screw him. And if he gets pissed off, send him to her. She said she’ll deal with him.”
Erica barked with curt laughter.
“That’s genius. She’s not afraid of dealing with him? Are they what, dating?”
Sarah pushed the door open; Erica took off her apron and threw it by the sink, following her out.
“Eh… Dating is a tensile term in this case. They hook up from time to time. They have this… Light, friendly sex, I guess. No strings attached.”
“What’s up, lovebirds?”
Vega grinned, walking by.
“What’s up, musclehead?” Sarah retorted.
He flexed his muscles.
“Just all the same, all the same. The gym, proper proteins. Girls in Shepard’s cabin.”
Erica laughed, leaning against Sarah’s shoulder.
“Yeah, right. Did you see Ash?”
He scratched his head.
“In the mess, talking to Garrus. Don’t get lost, ladies. We should, you know, hang out sometime?” he winked.
“In your dreams, Vega,” Erica replied sarcastically, walking away.
***
“Krogan are in no position to make demands!”
A hooded, like an assassin, Dalatress Linron pierced Wrex with her eyes in intimidation.
“The ‘krogan’ has a name: Urdnot Wrex,” he growled. “And I’m not just some junkyard varren you unleash when you’re in trouble.”
He turned to Shepard, who hurriedly walked in, fixing his Alliance blues—he found his uniform uncomfortable, restraining his movement and making him feel like a doll in a box.
The tension crackled like charged electricity, threatening to frazzle anyone foolish enough to fall within its radius. Shepard stood with arms crossed, his gaze calculated and stern. His mind—one gigantic chaos as he watched the scene unfold, struggling to focus on the task at hand after Erica took his brain out and punched it as if it were a gym dummy.
“I’ve got my own problems. Reaper scouts have arrived on Tuchanka.”
Wrex then glared at Primarch Victus.
“So why should I care if a few turians go extinct?”
Victus sighed, his hands clenched behind his back.
“Trying to draw out negotiations will get you nowhere, Wrex. I have no time for it. Just tell us what you want.”
Wrex leaned against the desk, his palms pressed on the glass tightly, cracking it.
“I’ll tell you what I need…A cure for the genophage.”
Shepard’s head started to hurt. Badly. His fight with Erica had already left him scrambling for some reason, more than he was willing to admit. Now Wrex was demanding the cure in the middle of the galactic war. This was going to be painful.
Linron’s eyes flickered with anger.
“Absolutely not! The genophage cure is nonnegotiable!”
Shepard crossed his arms on his chest.
“Why are you so opposed to the idea, Dalatrass?”
“Because my people uplifted the krogan. We know them best,” she hissed.
Wrex’s heavy fist landed on the table, deepening the crack in the glass.
“You mean you used us! To fight a war, you couldn’t win! It wasn’t the salarians or the asari that stopped the rachni! It was krogan blood that turned the tide.”
She leaned forward, pointing at Wrex.
“And after that, you ceased to be useful. The genophage was the only way to keep your… ‘urges’ in check.”
Wrex stepped forward, his posture reminiscent of a predator ready to jump on his prey.
Victus sighed, running a hand over his face.
“Dalatrass, you may not like him, but Wrex is right. Insulting him won’t change that.”
Her eyes narrowed, her voice of pure poison.
“I won’t apologize for speaking the truth!” she turned to Shepard now. “We uplifted the krogan to do one thing: wage war. It’s all they know because that’s all we wanted them to know. You, Commander, of all people, should know that. Results matter, no matter the cost.”
Shepard grimaced.
“No, Dalatrass. Unlike you, I don’t condemn millions of people to death because I hate their culture or because they don’t bow to me. You should’ve thought this through. You used them and expected them to be happy with a leash on their neck?”
Linron’s lips twitched in a forming smirk. Gotcha.
“I don’t think it's true, Commander Shepard. You killed millions of batarians because you despise them. Because they keep attacking humans. Kidnapping them. Enslaving them. You didn’t care about the Reapers coming. You cared about your revenge, your human supremacy. Elysium, remember?”
Her words hit him hard, although his composure didn’t falter. He knew she was just twisting the facts to prove her point, but somehow this accusation resonated with what Erica said to him earlier: “A self-serving, disgusting excuse of a man who disposes of people like they’re trash.” These words etched in his mind like a painful mantra. Like a curse.
The Dalatrass was wrong about his motivation. He may have been a bastard, but he was never cruel. He cared about his duty and doing what’s right. But somehow, it hurt, knowing Erica thought he was just that—a cruel, dismissive ass who cared only for himself.
“I’m just… so fucking tired…” he thought, clenching his hands in fists.
“Don’t you dare accuse me of killing people out of personal hatred! You know nothing about me. I had sent a distress signal to save everyone. It was too late. The Reapers were about to jump into the Alpha relay, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now because we would all be fucking dead!”
“Commander—”
“No, you listen to me now, you racist piece of shit. I didn’t kill batarians out of hatred, either on Elysium or on Aratoht. I protected the women, the children, and the elderly from being slaughtered. My unit and I bled on the battlefield to stop them. I bled to stop the Reapers coming. You should be grateful you’re still alive. You’re wasting time, aggravating me now instead of fighting like a warrior. Pathetic.”
He turned to face everyone now.
“I’m done wasting time!”
“Shepard—”
He glared at Linron again.
“No, you let me finish,” Shepard growled. “I don’t have the time in the galaxy to debate whether a thousand-year torture of the entire nation is justified. If you want to let the Reapers tear us all to shreds over this issue—go for it. But don’t come crawling back to me when Sur’Kesh is on fire.”
“But—”
“Second,” he turned to Wrex. “I wish I could help you, but the cure will take years to formulate. I saw Maelon’s work on Tuchanka. Even with all the blood and suffering, he still was far from finding a solution.”
Two old friends, now potential war allies, stared at each other, neither willing to yield.
“Shepard. I’m not going to say this again. I need the genophage cured. Now.”
John narrowed his eyes.
“Wrex, it may take years to accomplish. We don’t have them. The galaxy is burning! I get firefight calls multiple times a day! I need your army!”
“Exactly my point, finally someone with some common sense!” Primarch Victus stepped closer. “We need to focus on what needs to be done. Palaven is burning, right now, I need those krogan troops!”
Wrex frowned.
“No, Shepard. I gave you a chance already. On the Citadel, when I let you talk to Fist. He was supposed to have been dead already. On Virmire. When Saren already had a cure ready. I let you let him walk. No. I’ve waited long enough. My people waited long enough.”
The room now looked more like a gunpowder storage, ready to explode at any second.
A pause.
“But you are wrong, Shepard.”
John raised a brow.
“How?”
“My information says otherwise,” Wrex walked toward a computer console, quickly pulling a hologram up. “Other females survived Maelon’s experiments.”
He paused, enlarging the video footage.
“So, the dalatrass here sent in a team to clean up the whole mess—and to take them prisoner.”
“Where did you get this? It… could be a fabrication!” Linron raised her hand.
“Don’t insult me. Those are my people! They’re immune to the genophage, and you’re going to give them back!” Wrex growled.
Shepard rubbed the bridge of his nose. The exhaustion from it all landed heavily on his shoulders.
Victus stepped forward, tilting his head.
“Dalatrass, is this true?”
“How will curing the genophage benefit my people?” she retorted.
Commander Shepard’s blood was boiling deep inside him—he was getting sick of the political games when all was burning to hell.
“Enough! Jesus fucking Christ,” his voice low and sharp. “Just how long do you think you’ll last against the Reapers? A day, a week? I’d give it a few hours after what I’ve seen.”
John Shepard crossed his arms, his voice a low, sharp growl.
“What’s gonna be?”
Linron covered her forehead with her hands, surrendering.
“The females are being kept at one of our STG bases on Sur’Kesh.”
A pause.
“But I warn you, Commander! The consequences of this—”
“I don’t care,” Shepard put his hands on his waist. “We’re going.”
“A bully has fewer friends when he needs them most,” Linron muttered, turning to face the window, getting lost in the vast, interstellar matter of the universe.
***
The Citadel Presidium flourished with life carelessly, as if nothing were happening. Passersby wearing their best clothes walked by, laughing, eating candy, or playing a game on their PDA. No refugees, not the dying in pain. Just clean, pure, and blind bliss. By choice. The galaxy’s elite closed their eyes, falling into delusional sleep.
Erica, Ashley, and Sarah.
Today, they weren’t the enlisted soldiers. Just three women were going to kill some time until the ship was to take off to Sur’Kesh in a few hours. Erica looked notably different from the rest—she was wearing a simple pair of cargo pants, and a pair of dog tags that shone brightly in the artificial glow of the sun clanking against her black tank top.
Ash and Sarah chose to dress up. Their elegant dresses almost matched—Ash’s deep blue and silver leather outfit harmonized perfectly with Sarah’s violet and black.
“Brown, you’re not one for elegance, I presume,” Sarah nudged her playfully.
“Nah, I’m so tired of all the shit that’s been happening on the ship that I don’t care if I look like I just rolled out of bed.”
Ash scoffed.
“Come on, this is exactly why you need to dress up. Cheer up, show your… feminine mystique, I don’t know.”
“Oh my god, look at this!” Sarah said, jumping. “50% off on the whole inventory!”
“Shit, that’s exactly what I’d like to hear!” Ash grinned. “I’ll just use Shepard’s credit chit to pay for it.”
Erica laughed.
“Shepard’s chit? You love playing dangerously, don’t you?”
“I sure do,” Ash replied carelessly, pushing the door to the store open. “The amount of bullshit I tolerate when I’m with him surely justifies it.”
Erica didn’t care about fancy outfits like Ash or Sarah—she just welcomed the chance to get distracted. Her eyes roamed over the rows of elegant dresses, blouses, and shoes. Just too many to choose from.
“You think this one or this one?” Sarah showed her a simple but embroidered red dress and a rather sexy, more revealing black leather one.
“Hmm,” Erica rubbed her chin. “For you…The black one. It’ll look better for your light skin complexion.”
Racks clanked against each other as Erica browsed through the available options. A brown cardigan? No, it’s too bland. Maybe a denim dress? Nah, can’t get that one either—not that it matters in what outfit you’d be scrubbing the floors or running for a cup of coffee for Shepard anyways.
“So, Ash. Shepard’s been giving you a lot of hard time, huh?”
Ashley snorted, looking over the clothes.
“This is an understatement. He is selfish, careless, and ruthless. Flat out crazy. Sometimes I really don’t get him. We’re friends, but…”
Erica pulled out a leather suit—looked daring enough—and threw it over her arm.
“Then why do you even bother, honestly? If he’s nothing but a headache.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“I don’t know. He is my friend, I guess. Ever since Eden Prime… I feel like I owe him. Like I need to be there for him, you know?”
Erica raised a brow.
“Owe him? No. You owe him nothing. Have some self-respect, Ash. You are his friend, but is he a friend to you? When was the last time he simply took you out for dinner or said something nice?”
Ashley’s face faltered, twitched.
“Exactly. When was the last time he simply asked: ‘How’re you doing? If something’s wrong?’ Instead of laughing and dragging you to his cabin for another night?”
“He didn’t.”
“I know,” Erica nodded. “I see him for who he is: an effective, ruthless, and a cocky leader who doesn’t give a rat’s ass about other people if it doesn’t serve him.”
“Hold this for a second, will you?” She gave her one of the jackets she picked out.
Ashley just stood there, frozen.
“Why do you think he gave you his credit chit? Exactly to avoid caring about you. To buy comfort. He’s shallow, and I have serious doubts he’d ever learn.”
“I don’t know, Erica. I always thought maybe there’s something deep down beside a careless macho. That one day he’ll notice me. If I keep doing what he wants.”
“Look,” Erica sighed. “I know it’s none of my business, but I haven’t seen anything good while interacting with him. Fuck, I saved his life on Tuchanka more than once just for him to tell me to go clean the toilet with a toothbrush. He’s a dick. I gave up on being nice to him. He doesn’t deserve nice.”
A pause.
“But I’ll tell you this,” she turned to look at Ashley. “Do what your heart tells you to do. Not duty or obligation. Or convenience. Your heart, Ash. Care for yourself.”
Ashley nodded hesitantly.
“Thank you, Erica… I… maybe you’re right. I’ll think about it.”
A few beeps. And a glow.
“Damn it,” Williams cursed. “I have to leave you guys. The Council wants something. Sometimes I hate this Spectre business, no matter how fancy it can get.”
“Sarah!”
No response.
“Sarah!”
Campbell just disappeared at the mall, probably finding some more deals to jump on. Erica sighed, picking up her bags with purchases and deciding to return to the ship—it was getting late.
***
The walk back to the Citadel docks was torturous—her palms ached from carrying the heavy bags. She didn’t know when they would dock next time—their life was chaotic and unpredictable. She had to be grateful for even a moment of peace.
Suddenly, Erica heard something—her boots braked.
“Meow!”
She shook her head—the distressed sound was coming from the nearby back alley.
“Meow! Purrrr.”
There. A cat! A freaking cat on the Citadel.
Erica froze in amusement and dropped her bags.
A cute female kitten was hiding behind a dumpster—her frazzled, fluffy head and ears barely visible in the dark shadow. She was scared; her meowing trembled.
“Hey, shhh, kitty,” Erica crouched. “Pssst.”
No response. The cat hid behind a concrete block, disappearing in a small crack.
“Damn it. Hang on.”
A few steps back.
Erica ran to the street, searching for a pet store. She did see one nearby—Shepard had sent her to buy food for his space hamster there before.
“Excuse me, do you guys carry cat food?” she placed her credit chit on the counter.
A merchant raised a brow, turning away from the aquarium and pushing his glasses up his nose.
“Cats? Not much, they’re popular among humans only. But I may have a bag or two of cat food. Is that what you’re looking for?”
Erica nodded.
“Yes. Litter and a liquid treat, too, please.”
“Here you go. 30 credits, please.”
A click of a scanning machine.
With two large bags of food, a litter box, and a packet of tuna-flavored treat in hand, Erica rushed to the alleyway, hoping to still find the cat there.
“Come on, kitty. Come over here.”
The cat hesitated. Her black nose peeked around the corner, sniffing the smell of tuna. But the temptation was too high. In a few quick leaps, the cat came up to Erica, licking the treat off her hands.
The animal was a little battered—some scratches here and there, a few fleas, but nothing serious. At first, Erica only planned to feed her and maybe take her to the vet. But that meowing. That gentle, pleading meowing melted her heart completely.
“Alright, little friend. If we’re gonna die in this war because the Reapers finally found us, at least we’ll die in comfort and love. Come here.”
She gently picked up the cat, who was trying to fight her off, putting paws in her face. Erica chuckled, gently landing the kitty at the bottom of her bag and covering her with the leather suit she bought.
“That’s it. Now, stay quiet or Shepard will find out I’m taking you to the ship.”
Her feet moved with urgency—it was getting darker, and the bags were heavy in addition to the cat food and litter. The cat didn’t help either—her head kept peeking from the bag, looking around, and trying to climb outside.
“Come on, you silly. Why are you so damn curious?” She pushed the cat’s head back into the bag, covering it with clothes. “You’re gonna bust me!”
The cat emerged again—her curious eyes stubbornly looked around. Again.
“Damn it,” she pushed her head back again as she approached the Normandy. Almost there.
“Hmm… how should I name you?” Erica muttered, walking towards the flickering lights of the vessel. “Curious… Curie. Marie Curie!”
“That’s it. You’re going to be Marie,” she darted at the bag—thankfully, the kitten didn’t show her head this time.
The airlock whooshed.
“Stand by, shore party. Decontamination in progress.”
The laser grid passed through her. Almost piercing. A green light. Then, the second door unlocked.
Her heart pounded. So close. And then…
His blue eyes. Staring at her.
He stood so close, as if they collided with each other on purpose.
Something about her physical presence, even for a fleeting moment, drove him crazy. Her closeness. Her scent. Her… mystery. He shook his head. She was so damn close. And so unreachable. What the hell is wrong with me?
“Commander.”
The bag crinkled.
Shepard’s eyes narrowed.
“Did the bag just move?”
“Son of a bitch, Marie, be quiet!” she silently prayed.
“No, sir. I kicked it with my thigh. Can I catch you later? I have to use the bathroom,” she clenched her thighs, pretending.
“Uh-huh,” Shepard watched her leave, deep in thought.
Amnestria on Chapter 1 Tue 08 Jul 2025 06:03PM UTC
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Anonymous Creator on Chapter 1 Tue 08 Jul 2025 06:46PM UTC
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Anonymous Creator on Chapter 1 Wed 09 Jul 2025 02:56AM UTC
Last Edited Wed 09 Jul 2025 02:56AM UTC
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LadyBlackhawkDarksbane on Chapter 2 Mon 04 Aug 2025 01:59AM UTC
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