A long time ago, I wrote a lot of fic about an artistic Colonist Shepard but I was never fully satisfied. If anyone still remembers the Portraitverse, this is a revised version of Matt who is a bit more plausible, with more to him than Miranda.

Matt put pen to paper and tried to ignore the feeling of impending divine wrath. St. Michael's was the largest parish in the cluster, which meant that they had a real statue of the Archangel in the narthex instead of just a holo and enough people and resources to justify First Friday adoration. He had read and seen vids of the cathedrals back on Earth in his art classes. So much beauty in the high domed ceilings that drew even the most pedestrian mind to God. And the gold! It was only plating most of the time, but the tabernacles and monstrances had gleamed nonetheless. There was none of that here; only the same prefabricated materials as the rest of Mindoir. A cramped, spare church for people who had left everything behind.

His gaze darted upward. You deserve better. You deserve beauty. His fingers tingled. It would be so easy to copy the vids and make St. Michael's into one of those grand cathedrals. But that wouldn't be the truth. His first art teacher had told him that it was the job of the artist to tell the truth and find beauty in that. So he did. He made the metal worn because people from all over the colony came here on Sunday morning to worship as their ancestors had for two thousand years. Light shone on the Host because even here it was the Body and Blood of God himself. Even millions of light years couldn't part Creator and creation. And Matt drew himself, sitting in the back row and worshiping as best he knew how.

"I thought I would find you here," Father Bernard said. He was young, tall and thin, and looked perpetually sleep-deprived as all colony priests seemed to. "Not going down to the recruitment fair and get as far away from Mindoir as you can?"

Matt snapped the sketchbook closed, jumped to his feet, and crossed himself with sweaty fingers. "Father! I just—I wanted to get the sketch done. I didn't mean any disrespect."

He nodded towards the host on the altar. "I think he'll understand. We've been painting icons for two thousand years. But I am surprised you aren't down there. Especially considering your gifts."

Matt's fingers tingled again for reasons that had nothing to do with his art. When he was five years old, the pediatrician had found the eezo nodules in his nervous system. When he really concentrated, he could move small pieces of paper. A good candidate for implants, he'd been told. But living at the edge of Alliance space meant no men in suits would show up at his door unless he wanted them to. "I know how they would want to use me. And I don't think it's what I want."

"Saint Michael is the patron of soldiers. We all have our parts to play, and there's more than one path to sainthood."

Matt's eyes widened. "You think I should enlist?" He'd never known Father Bernard to encourage anyone else to join the military. He tried to imagine killing another person, not just taking his father's Mattock out to kill varren. Watching them gurgle as their death overtook them. "I always thought I would go to the Milgrom Art Institute." Bekenstein was everything Mindoir wasn't: gleaming, wealthy, cultured. The Institute would be the first step in shaping his raw talent into a truly great artist.

Father Bernard laughed. "It's just frustration talking. I'd like to have marines in the garrison who aren't smuggling and shooting up the colony when they're drunk."

"We need better people," Matt agreed. The garrison was all pimply-faced privates and perpetually drunk NCOs who smuggled everything from cigars to red sand, to military-grade weaponry. So much for the vids full of brave and stalwart marines.

"Maybe you?"

"Or maybe just someone like me." Let other people get glory. Matt would be there to chronicle and find the beauty in it. He would come home to his wife afterwards, and his conscience would rest easy.

"Oh well," father Bernard said with a wry, resigned smile. "I'll tell your mother that I tr—"

A klaxon sounded, shaking the whole church with the noise that was the screech of death. "Batarians have been sighted," said the female, mechanical voice of the colony VI. "Civilians, please report to emergency shelters. All willing and able-bodied-people, please rendezvous at Point Alpha with your firearms."

Matt felt cold and quiet and still. There were stories about what the batarians did to their victims. He thought of them touching his mother and brother, jamming those things into their spine until they screamed. No. He closed his eyes. Whatever he thought about killing or spending the rest of his life as some grunt, he was able-bodied. And right now, he was willing. Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle…

2185

For the first three days after Aratoht, Matt had sayed in the medbay, not sleeping and barely moving or drinking. It wasn't Kenson or her ravings that had been seared into his brain. It was the clean, clinical counter the Project had used: 304,785. That was how many people had lived in the system, more than ten times as many as had lived on Mindoir. He had naïvely, stupidly hoped he could turn his tragedy into something good. Be a hero, even a saint, as Father Bernard had wanted. Instead, he was responsible for the greatest loss of life ever caused by a single person. Necessary, even just, considering what would happen when the Reapers arrived. It didn't silence the screams.

But even mass murderers had responsibilities. And this one he felt all the more deeply, considering what he had done. He sighed and straightened his uniform. "Miranda? Can I talk to you?"

The door opened with a whoosh and Matt found himself face-to-face with his nominal second-in-command. She was as beautiful as ever, with eyes the same color as the lakes outside his childhood home, and high cheekbones that practically shouted wealth and breeding. He winced at the turn of phrase. She was a person, not the prize horse or brood mare her father had apparently wanted. But still, some part of him that had not been burned to ash by Akuze or Virmire wanted her. Another, even more deeply buried part of him would have painted her, the beautiful lonely empress poring over accounts because someone had to do the drudge work and do it well.

"Commander?" Her voice was bereft of its usual light contempt. "Are you all right?" She shook her head. "No, never mind. Of course you aren't. Bloody stupid, cowardly Alliance! Don't they know that you're their best chance of stopping the Reapers?"

"Not if a war with the batarians tears us apart in the meantime. And I'm only one man who was lucky enough not to have his brain fried by a Prothean beacon. You're going to need an army. Several armies, not just one Spectre."

But isn't it so unfair? a voice whispered. You've done everything they ever asked of you. You stopped Saren. You sent Ash to her death. You died for them! And now you're going to spend the rest of your life rotting in a brig because you saved their lives!

"I have to answer for what I've done," he said as much to the voice as to her. "And anyway, this isn't about me." He stood at parade rest. "Ms. Lawson, I wanted to apologize."

She raised her eyebrows. "Yes, Shepard?"

No "and what does the great Commander Shepard deign to apologize for?" She must really feel bad for me. "I don't approve of what Cerberus stands for. I haven't forgotten Akuze, but I realize now that I've treated you horribly." He shook his head. Too formal. "I've known porcupines who are warmer than me, and you've done nothing to deserve it. You've been nothing but an exemplary executive and logistics officer, and you deserve a medal for all the times you pulled me out of the fire. and I'm sorry. I'll try to do better in the time we have left."

She blinked and settled back in her chair. Her mouth was partly open. "I—thank you, Commander."

He looked at the ground. "And I haven't forgotten Akuze. But nothing Cerberus has done quite tops blowing up a whole star system. If I can say that that was necessary, well maybe I don't have the right to judge you."

He heard rather than saw Miranda rise from her chair. She put her hands on her shoulders; her hands were warm even through her gloves. Matt shivered. How long had it been since someone had touched him kindly? Ashley, right before he sent her off with the STG. "You're a good man," she said with a softness that he wouldn't have believed possible from her. "A stubborn, prickly, overly idealistic man, but a good one."

He forced himself to look at her. Her face was soft too, and there were little lines around her eyes. He had seen her wrongly before, he realized. She might be an empress, but he would've made her a cold and diligent autocrat. But this woman cared deeply. About humanity and seeing that it reached its potential, but also about individual humans. He wasn't a resource she had rescued from death only to throw him to the Collectors or batarians. She cared in some way about him. Matt.

He wished for paper and pen so he could tell that truth.

Her breath was warm on his face. Matt was dimly aware that he ought to move. She was his subordinate. Anyone might walk in. He stayed where he was. Her right hand traveled from his shoulder to his cheek, her touch as light as gossamer.

"Oh, if only," she whispered. She dropped her hand and stepped back. When she spoke again, she was once more his second-in-command. "So, what now? The Collectors are still out there, and this is still a suicide mission."

"I'm glad you asked," said a new voice. Matt jumped away, and in the time it took him to turn around, Kasumi was leaning against the wall smiling at them. "Remember the greybox? I finally know how you're going to get it. And you two are going to love it."

Matt sighed. Kasumi was entitled to complete her unfinished business, and the greybox rightfully belonged to her, but it would be nice to go a day without committing a major felony. Oh well, life was the Alliance going to do? Add five years on top of the consecutive life sentences for mass murder? "Do tell. And did you say 'the two of us?'"

She shushed him. "I'm getting to that. Donovan Hock used his more-than-usually-ill-gotten gains to become a big time art and antiques collector. He and his arms dealer and merc buddies are holding a big open house to show them off at his mansion on Bekenstein."

Matt froze. "Bekenstein?" He had tried very hard not to think of the art institute in the years after his parents died. He had chosen to become that good soldier who saved lives and stopped slavers without leeching from the people he was supposed to protect. There was no place for waxing rhapsodic about the interplay of color and light or how to tell the truth through beauty. He had made his choice, and there was no turning back.

Even if that choice left him in blood up to his waist.

"I know it's really not your kind of place, Shep, but get you a tux and you'll fit right in with the people eating caviar while talking about the best way to take someone's head off."

Matt flinched. "You're expecting a lot of dead bodies, then."

"Not if we play it right. If we're lucky, you'll be in and out of there without even drawing your gun. I know it's boring and a little out of your depth, but Miranda should be able to help you out, in more ways than one. This is absolutely your kind of place, Miranda."

"Oh, I'm going to be participating in this mad escapade, am I?" Miranda gritted her teeth, and Matt couldn't tell if she was fighting the urge to roll her eyes or beat Kasumi to a pulp.

"Well, someone has to be Solomon Gunn's arm candy."

Miranda was definitely plotting murder.

"I took the liberty of getting you both formal wear." Kasumi clapped her hands together. "Stop looking like you're facing a firing squad. Think of it as a date. Work out some of that sexual tension. Please. Maybe then Jacob will start noticing the other women on the ship." And before Matt could say anything, she had vanished again.

He leaned against the edge of her desk. "She means well. My mom was always trying to set me up on dates. And she didn't have a thing for one of the girl's exes. Don't let her get to you."

"I'm not." Miranda took a deep breath and stood beside him. She looked as tired as he felt. "I'm just trying to remember the last time I went on a date. It might've been Jacob, actually. This life doesn't exactly lend itself to the dog and white picket fence, does it?"

"And yet, we keep trying," he said, thinking of Ashley. "I wanted to go to Bekenstein so badly when I was younger. See the great works of art."

"I know." Her smile was sad. "I was supposed to learn everything there was to know about you, remember? I saw scans of your early pieces. Not bad."

His face burned. It shouldn't have mattered that Miranda had seen his work or knew that he had once been something other than Commander Shepard, Savior of the Citadel. But his skin was hot and there was a lump in his throat all the same. No bloodshed, Kasumi had said. That would be nice. Maybe the screams would stop for a little while. Maybe he could just be Matt again.

"Enjoying the party, Gunn?" Hock slurred his words slightly and gestured expensively with his wine glass. "You should. This is the real elite of the galaxy. The cleaners, the support structure who really keep the galaxy running. Not the sniveling little politicians."

Matt made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. He had imagined Bekenstein filled to the brim with rarefied culture, but this place was just Omega with bespoke suits. An old man walked past, an asari maiden on each arm. They walked among paintings, any one of which Matt would have given his right arm for, and talked about how Archangel being "dead" was going to increase their bottom line.

Miranda swirled her own glass. The dress Kasumi had chosen was a deep crimson that swirled and shimmered as she moved. A gold and ruby choker gleamed on her neck. "To the victor goes the spoils." Her voice was different. Still polished, but a bit stupid, the perfect escort who saw everything but would remember nothing. "And you've got quite the collection of spoils."

"Indeed." His eyes glittered with ill-disguised lust as he looked Miranda up and down. "And more where that came from. Perhaps you would like… a private tour of the vault? If Mr. Gunn doesn't object?"

Matt's fingers flexed. I object. I object very much. But Solomon Gunn wouldn't have. She was just a piece of meat, a beautiful trophy that would increase his standing with the other guests. "I'm an art lover, Mr. Hock, but I'm sure I can be convinced to give up Ms. Solheim's company for an evening."

"But Solomon, sweetheart, we were having such a good time." Miranda flicked her wrist behind her back, and Matt saw the telltale shimmer of a subdermal omni-tool.

"Oh, don't worry. I'll show you a good time." His hand roamed along Miranda's side. She didn't flinch, but her eyes darkened slightly. He wouldn't want to be Hock when Miranda got him alone.

"Are you an art lover like Mr. Gunn, Ms. Solheim?" Hock continued. "Because I just received several new acquisitions. A Matisse, a Warhol, an original Shepard from before he was the grand savior."

"What?" Matt said before he could stop himself. Hock must have been talking about the sketches. He'd left his sketchbook behind at St. Michael's, and the batarians had turned the church into a smoking crater. The marines had never recovered it, and Matt had assumed it lost for good like everything else on Mindoir. If this little weasel had his hands on it… "Shepard? You mean Commander Shepard?"

"The same. To think that the biggest hero in the galaxy once thought he would be content with charcoal or a paintbrush. I guess that's why men like him are dead and men like us are alive."

That settled it. The sketchbook was coming home with him. "I collect Shepards, you know. If you could arrange for me to have a look, I'd be very grateful." He made a show of looking around to make sure no one else was listening and lowered his voice. "I have certain dealings with paramilitary groups. We just acquired a geth weapon. Takes out an entire strike team with the pull of a trigger. And you can have your fun with Solheim later, if you want."

Hock was suddenly calculating. Apparently, he was a businessman before he was a pervert. "I think that can be arranged."

His comm crackled to life. "And here I was going to have you fake his password and DNA." Kasumi sounded almost disappointed.

"Every good hacker knows that the best way to break in is for the mark to give you access." Miranda's smile vanished. "Though I might have to relieve Mr. Hock of something a little more personal. Then take a shower." She glared at Matt. "And you aren't authorized to share copies of the Arc Projector."

"Don't worry," Matt whispered. "I'm not going to tick off your boss any more than necessary." He would have promised Hock a gold-plated statue of himself if it had gotten him into the vault. He could reclaim a little of the man he used to be, the man he was supposed to be, before the end. All he had to do was distract Hock long enough to do a little sleight-of-hand and relieve him of the greybox and the sketchbook. Kasumi had been right; he wouldn't even need to draw his gun.

Matt's jaw dropped when he stepped inside the vault. It was as if he had been starving all his life and gained entry to a gourmet restaurant. Egyptian statues, the head of the Statue of Liberty. His eyes nearly popped out of his head. Was that David? Michelangelo's David? He shivered. Everything he had ever wanted from Bekenstein was just a few meters away.

And then he saw it. A leather-bound sketchbook with a monogrammed MS engraved on the cover and slightly charred around the edges. His fingers trembled. Miranda put her hand in his. For one moment both their masks slipped, and she squeezed.

"Take it," Hock said.

It was all here. The charcoal drawing of his mother in the kitchen. A pastel landscape of the lakes as he experimented with various shades of blue and orange to catch the light. Even the last, unfinished sketch of St. Michael's. All the truth and beauty he had once aspired to, with no batarians or Reapers or exploding relays in sight.

"Hard to resist stealing back what you think is rightfully yours, eh Shepard?" A pistol cocked behind him, and the elevator door whooshed open. "The Shadow Broker told me Ms. Goto was traveling with you. Did you really think that Solomon Gunn cover was going to fool anyone? The sketchbook just proved it. Turn around slowly, if you please. You too, Lawson."

Matt swore under his breath. He had been so focused on getting the sketchbook back that he hadn't noticed the obvious trap. He turned. Hock pointed a Paladin right in his face. Half a dozen Eclipse mercs stood behind him, ready to rip Matt to pieces if he so much as breathed. In short, the odds were heavily in his favor.

And you really thought you were going to get out of this without bloodshed? whispered the voice. You'll always be what you are.

"St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle," he muttered and summoned a singularity. Hock never got a shot off, and it took only two minutes for him and Miranda to splatter the priceless artworks with blood.

You'll always be what you are.

Our Lady of Milgrom looked exactly like a church was supposed to look. High ceilings, a golden chalice and tabernacle, expensive paintings in the sanctuary. But First Friday devotions were no better attended here than they had been on Mindoir. What did people busy fleecing the asari and salarians and openly tolerating arms dealers need with a religion founded at the height of the Roman Empire? Matt knelt and glared at the host.

"Do you hate me?" he whispered. "I mean Father Bernard always said you loved everybody, but something is clearly going wrong." He always thought he was doing good. He'd let Balak go rather than let innocents die. He'd let Ash die because Kaidan was the superior officer and duty came before love. He was working for Cerberus rather than let hundreds thousands people suffer at the hands of the Collectors. "All I wanted was to be more than a killer for a little while."

"And all I wanted was to be more than my father's plaything." Miranda's footsteps echoed on the floor. She had changed out of her dress into gray and white casual wear. She made no move to genuflect or cross herself as she sat next to him. "Looking for absolution? I think the confessional's that way." Her hand covered his. "I'm sorry, Matt."

"I just wanted," he said. He struggled to find the words. "I know what they'll say about me if we survive this. That I'm a ruthless murderer. I wanted proof it wasn't true." He buried his face in his hands. "I wanted more to my life than death. Is that wrong?"

"No. And you are so much more. I saw those drawings, and my father made sure I could dazzle his society friends with my knowledge. You have a rare gift, and it has nothing to do with your biotics." She pried his hands away. "A man who was just a human weapon wouldn't care so much."

"Flattery?" He forced a smile. "You must want vacation time."

"Stop it. I'm trying to be sincere." She glared at him, but there was no heat behind it. "I want to commission you, Commander. A portrait. I'm thinking in charcoal, but I leave the medium to you."

He blinked. "What?"

"A commission. Artists still take them, don't they? If we're all going to be killed on the other side of the Omega-4 relay, I want my portrait done."

"By me? I haven't done anything in a long time." But already his mind was racing. He would set her in her office, but soften the lights a little. She would be standing, gazing out the viewport, her body halfway turned between the stars and the viewer, ever torn between idealistic dreams and mundane reality. Charcoal… charcoal would do nicely.

"And yet, you're the only artist I know willing to work around my schedule." Her face softened. "If we don't have a future, might as well make the most of the present."

Matt looked up at the host in the golden monstrance. Neglected, thought irrelevant, but still here, send reminding a universe where slavery still existed and even good men had their hands stained with blood that there were beautiful, eternal things just waiting for them to look. "Thank you," he mouthed. Then, to Miranda. "I'll come by after the watch is over."

"I'll be waiting." She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his.

Soon, they would face whatever lay beyond the Omega-4 relay. If he survived that, he would face court-martial. He would die in prison or fighting the Reapers. There was no house or dog or white picket fence in his future. But he could be Matt as well as Commander Shepard. The artist and the soldier. The lover and the killer. He would take all that God cared to give him for as long as he could and be grateful.

He crossed himself, genuflected one last time, and walked out with Miranda to face whatever awaited him.