Re-formatted, so that the massive blocks of text aren't so jarring, I hope.

Nestled in the underbellies of metropolis, the intestines of Civilisation's progress, the excess can be found.

Amongst the lights, neon and grime, where the daily routines consist of primal instincts and the sharp lust of humanity, the cries and shit of people can be found grouped together. The downtrodden weep. The corrupt sing. The scum scam and the brutes dance. Here, where the destruction of War is forgotten as if a mere accident, and actual aid seems a large unreachable heaven, you can find them, the just forgotten and the unjust wanderers.

Skycars serve as the ambience of the night over these places, and the streets around them are vibrant with the light and decadence these places mask themselves with. All races gather, like moths to the flame, to these places, crowding the pavements and roads with themselves.

Some stand at street corners; Turian protection, straight out the Terminus, decent rates.

In others next to roads, the souls condemned to court pleasure to others, with advertisements on every street light.

No law can touch this place, and no politics affect this plane of existence. Rejected by the system they live within, they live an eternal existence amongst the neon and scars, the bars and damaged housing.

One such street lives out its immortality in much the same ways as the others, quite unremarkable in everyway.

The prostitutes, protection rackets, beggars and the bystanders maintain their vigil from the districts entrance to the spaceport, while the crumbling buildings serve as the only protection for thousands of lost souls against the elements outside. The blare of electronica from speakers and the swoop of Skycars is the same here as well, with some land-vehicles parading themselves through the light drenched steel jungle.

Pedestrians walk, some with purpose and some simply aimlessly, all within themselves - sociality is a risk for such individuals, either through choice or by condemnation. The night sky, with the comforting rays of Stars are completely hidden thanks to the city, the universe all but a concept, perhaps a myth to these people. Every now and then, there will be a disruption – perhaps an argument has erupted, with a man dead in the streets. Perhaps a species riot will occur, when the constant tensions occasionally spark an incident.

Rarely, it might even be the police; the law come to patch a potential rift like a band aid after an operation.

But on this street, in nameless metropolis, somewhere on the surface of an Earth hugely larger than any individual present, is the haunting ground of the grunts of Earth's Alliance Special Forces. Shielded by the debauchery of the expanse, such men take refuge in places like this, to rest in the unrestable since they have known so much worse.

A local Bar, the 'Golden Shamrock', is renowned for not asking who visits, and as such attracts those men who had rejected life in favour of the N7 dogma. A bar built into an old recruiting station from the War, whose front was adorned with a huge neon sign portraying its names sake, drawing attention away from the cracking old brick, one of the last buildings in the city of that make. It rejected the onlooker with blacked out windows, portraying nothing.

On this night, one such man arrived, his identity hidden by the nondescript nature of his clothing.

He wore slacks and a jumper, a somewhat old style worshipped by those that often made or stole their own clothing in these parts. The style of Urban Decay, many had said. Short black hair and brown eyes, accompanied with a body seemingly in contrast to his profession. He blended perfectly with the crowd, a credit to inconspicuousness. Despite this, he still carried himself with a confidence that came only through discipline, watching his surrounding with an eye that knew all too well what letting down your guard meant.

He scanned the street within moments, every couple of seconds, every couple of steps, while on his pilgrimage. His dark clothing contrasted the neon as he strode onwards, ignoring the pleas and requests from the scammers and the forced to view their services and wares. His journey, minutes of walking portrayed as hours of falling by the forces that controlled this nook of the city, had passed many such merchants, and he was determined to ignore them.

He came to look upon this bar, the Golden Shamrock, and allowed a slight grin to cross his face. A hive of wretchedness where he would be nothing more than another guy. The man who did the dirty work of the ruling powers could pretend he was naught more than the worse in this place. A flawed man.

He walked in, adding a slight swagger to his step and pulling up his jumper, exposing the holstered Predator on his hip, and traded the light of the bright streets for the darkness of the bar. Large by this district's standards, he could see a stage at the far side of the room, playing a type of metal music that reacted violently to his ears. In the centre of the room was the bar, circular with a slightly lit counter, where aliens of every type could be seen; Humans, Asari, Turians, Batarians – united in their search for alcohol.

Around of the rest of the room were circular tables, some with scantily clad dancers of varied species. Private booths were at the very edge of the room, some with individuals receiving lap dances, and other with groups gathered together, locked in conversation better left unknown to the world. The man walked to the bar, ignoring the music which cancelled out all other noise, quickly finding service.

"What can I get you?" said one of the bartenders, trained in not sounding too inquisitive or too closed.

"Just a beer" came the equally sparse reply.

The man spied a table which had, for the night, become a hub of activity for the reckless. It was surrounded by a throng of people, and the man guessed, by the fact it was the only table properly lit up in the loosely lighted bar, it was an impromptu Poker match. He allowed himself to grin once more – he loved that game, provided the competition was good.

He took his drink, and joined the throng of worshippers to the game in front of him. There were 4 players around the circular table, each at various stages of finance. The man nearest him, an African American with a distinct mid-western accent was currently winning. The woman to his left, a Turian whose face hardly moved, was losing to the man, but was rapidly bleeding the other two of credits; a human with a beard and light brown hair who only seemed only slightly interested in the game, and a Drell who was terrible at bluffing. As the cards were dealt, a smirk passed this Drell's features.

The American dealt two cards to each, while the other Human and the Drell, put out their blinds. The gambling began immediately, the Turian raising to 30 credits, a move matched by the other contestants. The first three cards were revealed; a 3 of Spades, a 5 of Hearts and an Ace of Diamonds.

A second round began, following a similar pattern but for the Turian folding, with another card being revealed: a 7 of hearts.

The man began to take an increasing amount of interest in the player with brown hair. He was seemingly reckless, betting huge amounts despite his dwindling money supply, especially when the Drell was clearly holding onto a good hand. Reckless, except for the clear disinterest in his face. This participant did not care if he was here or not, that much was clear.

The final round began, devoid of almost all tension. The Drell clearly held onto a good hand, and based on how the others had bet they were aware of this. However, the brown haired player went all in, surprising almost all the spectators.

The final card was revealed: the Ace of Clubs.

The look of delight on the Drell's face was unmistakable, and all involved could clearly see the outcome. The Drell had four Aces, a full house, and he revealed this with barely contained glee. The brown haired player grunted as the Drell swept his winnings toward himself, before abruptly standing.

The man noticed the brown haired player vanish into the crowd, and considered joining in.

"Damn amateurs" he decided, and walked away. He went back to the bar to book a room and get some more drinks; the night was yet young.

Hours past, but within the self-contained world of the bar, this was a barely noticeable phenomenon. The band played constantly, and the lights never brightened.

The bar became its own world, its own universe, shielded from the outside. The clients of this bar existed like bees, loyal to the hive, yet never left. Ever so slowly, the clocks reached midnight. An eternity later, they were able to reach 2 o'clock. The alcohol flowed freely, and there was no disruption. There rarely was. People may get thrown out every now and then, but the bubble of the bar was never burst. It would be a bizarre instance, only the most peculiar nights creating an event where people's attentions could be diverted.

This night was one of these anomalies.

The man was in a private booth, on his own, watching the life of the bar go by. On the table in front of him was an array of glasses, some holding the slim remains of the beverage they had served. The beer was unlikely to hit him, but the man was determined to try. He had to at least get a buzz, the way he used to before the Alliance made him more implants than flesh.

Had he looked at his Omni-tool, he would have seen it was just past three, although that was of little importance. The stench of alcohol and odour was the same as it had been when he entered, as was the light. The crowd had barely thinned. Into this world, there had been no incursion.

Two shots rang out, reducing the bubble of this world to ruin instantly. The band stopped, but the customary screams, which the man usually associated with firing in a civilian area, didn't come. The world simply stopped, unsure of how to respond, weighing up its options. He could see some men and women around the bar readying their hands to grab their sidearm, should it become necessary. For a moment, both occupant and intruder of the bar stood still.

Into this frozen world, the man cautiously arose from his booth. He could hear the transgressors before he saw them, veiled by the crowd around them.

"Anderson! Where is that son of a bitch? Bring him out here now, or else I start firing at all of you scumbags!" Entering the crowd allowed the man to see that this was a Krogan, in some ways betrayed by his gravelly voice. He was backed by a team of humans, all wearing armour – stolen Alliance armour from the looks of it. Must be the local cartel.

"Relax Grav, I'm here"

The crowd's attention turned from the armed intruders to the lone voice that rose to meet them. To the man's surprise, it was the brown-haired player from the poker match. He was hunched over the bar, sounding slightly drunk, not even bothering to turn around. The people around him began to back away, until he became an outcast of the crowd, directly in front of the Krogan.

The Krogan began to stride towards him. "Listen here you fuck, we need to have a nice long talk, get me? Now, me and you can step outside and do this, or we can do it here. What you want to do?" His hand was still holding a smoking Carnifex, and nudged the man at the bar to make his point. A long moment passed, as all eyes watched to see the reaction. Would there be a fight, or a submission?

"I'll come" came the slightly slurred reply, although more sober sounding than before. Grav quickly grabbed the man off his seat, and threw him down onto the floor, smiling gleefully as his captive picked himself up unsteadily, and walked outside, flanked by his muscle.

The man silently watched this from the crowd, and sensed the impending return to normality. The man would probably be shot or beaten outside for some action against the gang, and that would be that. He would have turned away, but a flash of red caught his eye, which took a moment to register in his mind. It contrasted strongly with the other colours in this room, the dull oranges and blacks, but where did he see it?

He turned back, his eyes once again falling on the man sluggishly picking himself up and walking out. There it was, clear as day. Under the jacket this 'Anderson' was wearing, was an N7 logo. Anderson took a moment before exiting the bar, turning around to look around with a face that suggested he didn't expect to come back, giving the man a good chance to look through the gap in the poker player's jacket. It was quite distinctly N7 armour, the shaping and design confirmed it was a chest piece, which instantly arose suspicion within the man.

N7 don't usually wear it so openly when not on an operation, due to the identity risk it posed, but nor was it a cheap knock-off. He could see it was genuine from here. An ember began to grow inside the man, gradually turning into a fire. If that man had it, but had been so genuinely drunk and submissive, it was unlikely he was a real operative. That meant he had taken it, either from a peddler or as a scavenger. It was petty, and he knew it, but that man had no business wearing the same gear that men like himself had worn.

It wasn't something you could just 'wear'.

The man began to walk to the exit in the wake of Grav and his captive, intent on having his own 'words' with the poker player. Part of him was saying to leave it, that it was only a damn chest piece and that he shouldn't attract attention, but a rage had filtered into his mind. He saw the grime covered logo he had seen too many times on missions, sometimes marked with blood on the corpses of comrades, and found all the motivation he needed.

The crowd was almost gone as he reached the door, returning once more to their roles within the bar. A disruption of the world, but not a fatal one, and the cycles quickly repaired itself.

As the door was opened to the outside, the blinding lights and street noise took him back, but he carried himself through it. The pavements were still heavily populated, but the unmistakable towering hump of Grav could easily be made out, disappearing into an alley. The man manoeuvred his way through the currents of the pedestrians, mindful not to attract too much attention. He unholstered his weapon, holding it in his hand, as he reached the alley's entrance.

It was just barely lit, the only light coming from the street, and was a dead end around 25 meters in. The sounds of a beating were unmistakable as the man positioned himself at the entrance, watching the display for a moment.

The poker player was pushed against the end of the left wall as one of Grav's muscle repeatedly winded him, while Grav himself spoke to him harshly. What he was saying couldn't quite be made out. The poker player's nose was bleeding profusely, and he had a cut trickling blood on his right cheek. The armour piece had been removed, discarded to the poker player's side. A knife, slightly blooded, was impaled into the wall next to the mans face.

"Hey, the hell you doing here?" came a shout from the depths of the alley. The man's attention turned to the rest of the muscle, who had unholstered their own weapons and strode toward him. The poker player's beating didn't stop, although Grav's attention did turn to the intruder.

"What you beating him for?" the man asked, ensuring his own weapon was silhouetted against the street. "You're giving him quite a mighty going over".

The muscle, three in total, finished their stride just in front of him, blocking his entrance completely and crowding him. The one directly in front of him, a woman with an eye patch, drew her face close to his, and spat "What's it to you? Git!"

"You treat all your visitors like this, or am I just special?"

Suddenly, she was pushed aside as the Krogan came to greet the man, abandoning the beating, accompanied by his remaining associate. He held a sly grin. "You must excuse Samantha, Mr…?"

"Just a passer-by" came the short response.

"Ok 'Mr Passer-by', you seem like a brave, or stupid, man. You really want to know what we're doing? You heard of Sekura Yanoko?"

The man maintained his poker face, staring the Krogan boss straight in the eyes. He could see a hint of amusement. "No, I haven't. What's it to you?"

The Krogan let out a laugh, loud and unrestrained, taking a step back while his muscle maintained their positions, their faces barely twitching. "And there we have it," he let out in-between bouts of laughter, "that's why you're being a vigilante."

He brought himself back under control, and with startling speed his face twisted into anger. "You see, Yanoko is the boss around here, and you wouldn't like to cross her. It wouldn't end well for you, if you catch me. That man," he said, pointing to the poker player – now sitting against the wall in a stupor, letting out coughs – "hasn't paid for two services which Yanoko offers: Hits and Whores. He also took out the last guys asking for payment - and they asked nice. We're here to settle the debt. Now, are you going to let us get on with official business?"

The man smiled. "No".

"That's fine" replied Grav, as he looked back at the woman, Samantha. Within moments, she pulled up a Tempest SMG, aimed directly at the man's face.

Time slowed.

An arm instinctively rose, knocking the women's arm to the side. She pulled the trigger, a flurry of shots flying into two of the muscle to her side, dissolving their shields and stunning them. Grav was reaching for the Shotgun on his back, and the last opponent next to Samantha was drawing his own pistol. The man kicked down on his shin with considerable force, breaking it and reducing the assailant next to Samantha to the ground. He then turned to face Samantha and Grav, both preparing to unload their weapons on him.

"Shit" he thought.

He dived into Samantha just as she fired, feeling one of her bullets cut the skin of his arm, tackling her to the ground. Not ready for it, she fell rapidly. The man exploited her surprise by twisting, putting her in between him and Grav just as the Krogan unloaded his shotgun.

Her face, close to the man, contorted in pain, before receding rapidly into lifelessness, blood appearing from her mouth.

He got up just as the Krogan unleashed a cry of fury, swinging the butt of his gun. It hit the man in the jaw, eliciting a grunt, and causing the man to fall back down to the ground. He quickly crawled away a few meters into the alley.

The Krogan grinned at his victory, and pointed his weapon at the man. "Any last words?"

"Yeah," he spat, "You're one dumb motherfucker." He produced a pin. The Krogan disappeared in an explosion, blasting him off the ground and into one of the walls. His legs didn't quite reach the wall, landing with a thud.

The man hauled himself back up, picking up his unfired Predator from its resting place. Grav and the stunned men were groaning, none quite conscious. He walked to the muscle first, and executed them, before moving onto Grav. "Wha-"he said weakly, his voice dripping with agony.

The man knelt down next to the Krogan, and positioned himself close to his face. "Next time you fight an N7, you should check he doesn't place a grenade when you least expect it". He fired 4 shots into Grav just to make sure.

He turned back to the alley entrance, to see if the gunfight had gained any attention. One man lay motionless on the floor; blood beginning to gather around him, and curious look were shot into the alley, but most simply kept walking, unwilling to investigate further.

"Thanks for the assist" said the poker player in between coughs. He slowly hobbled toward the man clutching his side, his nose bleeding heavily. He had reattached his N7 chest piece. His slur was completely gone.

"Don't thank me yet," the man delivered a sharp punch into the man's nose, staggering him, before pushing him back onto the floor. "After all, you need to tell me where you got that from?"

The poker player writhed in pain. "Got what from!?"

"That chest plate, under the jacket! That curious little design which, as I recall, is only issued to N7. I know there are some knock-offs around but that is the genuine deal. I've seen enough of them to know," he straddled the player and grabbed his jacket collar, raising him up, and put his gun next to his face.

"You ask me what I see here? I see a pathetic gambler – possible alcoholic, smelling your breath – who can't handle himself the moment shit hits the fan. What'd that Krogan say your name was – Anderson, wasn't it? Well let me tell you, you are a stupid or brave motherfucker to fly in the face of caution with nothing to back you up!"

The man's anger began to rise to a crescendo within his voice. "You play poker, with what looked to be sizable amounts for this town, and was barely paying attention, expecting to win? You use illegal services from crime bosses and don't pay, seemingly thinking it'll be fine even when you can't fight for shit? You wear that armour, disrespecting the individuals who actually had some competence and common sense, expecting no-one to notice?"

To look into the eyes of the man was to look into pure anger, but the poker player seemed undeterred, keeping the eye contact.

"Who are you?" he asked calmly, despite his injuries.

"Oh Jesus Christ," the man said as he got up off his prisoner, gazing into the sky, before beginning to chuckle. "Oh man, you really are a piece of work. Here I am intimidating you, and that's what you say? Ok, you must have some balls at least. Let's add that to the description shall we?"

Anderson got up, sensing he wouldn't get an answer. "What do you want me to say?" His voice carried a tinge of spite.

The answer came still carrying a hint of amusement. "Simple. I want you to tell me where you got that armour from so that I don't have to beat you more. After you tell me, we can make a more constructive approach." He pointed his gun back at Anderson, which made him put his hands up and recoil, before dropping them and staring past the barrel and at the man.

"I warn you not to lie," said the man, "God knows can I spot a liar."

A silence carried in the air for a moment, giving an electrifying feeling that made time seen infinite and yet brief. Both sides weighed the other up, the beaten verses the beater, looking for a break. Both sides knew, however, that the beater held all the cards.

"I earned it" said Anderson, causing the man to raise an eyebrow. "You won't believe me, but it's true. I am… was N7."

The man laughed. "Bullshit!"

The poker player spoke quickly, eyeing the gun aimed at him. "No, it's true! I didn't steal this, nor did I get it from a vendor! I was given it, heck, almost two decades ago. A lot has changed since then, and I'm not quite who I used to be, but that doesn't change my right to wear this armour."

The man fired a shot at the wall behind the man, skimming past his ear, causing the poker player to recoil. His face began to contort in annoyance, a frustration being barely contained. "This has gone on long enough," he gestured to the alley's entrance, "so you should go. Thanks for taking out those goons, much appreciated, but if you'll excuse me I've got oblivion to reach and a bar with which to get there."

The man moved to block his way as the poker player tried to leave the alley and lose himself to the city. He was surprised by the audacity the poker player was showing him, a little impressed even. He had fired a shot at him, and instead of receding into compliance he if anything became more defiant. In a moment, he decided on a new approach.

"Now listen, you filthy liar, I see no reason why I shouldn't beat you right now, where you stand, until you tell me where you got that armour. But I'll bite; this evening has proved nothing if not that you have everything sorted. Prove you were N7.'

The poker player took a step back, keeping his eyes fixed on the crowd he longed to join. He threw up the sleeve of his Jacket, exposing the forearm underneath it, revealing a tattoo; "N7 – 260199" He then reached into a pocket, pulling out a pair of dog tags, and threw them to the man.

The man was unsure of exactly what to make of the display. Tattoos could be faked, so he loaded up his Omni-tool. He had stolen a login for the N7 records months ago for a bet, and it still hadn't been noticed, so he entered into the records and searched for the Serial Number. He then saw the dog tags being thrown at him, which he caught in one swift movement, reading their information just as the database had a match, giving out the same result:

SHEPARD

JOHN S.

N7 – 260199 – 47

O POS

NO PREFERENCE

"No. Fucking. Way." The man whispered.

"Satisfied now?" said John, putting his jacket sleeve back down. "I'm sure we could do a quick DNA test to make sure." He added with sarcasm.

The man looked up from his evidence, reeling slightly from the revelation. "So you mean to tell me, that Commander Shepard is not off doing whatever the Alliance say these days, instead he is sitting in bars being a completely stupid pussy."

"The Alliance doesn't know where I am, I'm officially AWOL, although of course they didn't tell the public that. Last I looked they were using the 'his location and wellbeing is classified' bullshit."

The man rubbed the back of his head, unsure of what to do. Why couldn't this just be some dribbling drunk who he could kick some respect into? No, it had to be the saviour of the bloody Galaxy. John began to push past the man once again, trying to reach the street, but in his weak state he was easily stopped, and he heard the man whisper something indistinguishable to him.

"What was that?"

"Where are you staying?" he repeated.

John turned to the man and snarled "What's it to you? You were ready to beat me up a few minutes ago."

The man kept his steadfast posture, a poker face kept over his thoughts, but inside he was conflicted a bit of him wanted to talk to John. After all, John Shepard was the soldier most N7 aspired to be like, and he wasn't exactly looking like the N7 type at the moment – he was weak, reflexes were dulled and he seemed to be completely unable to look out for himself. He wanted an explanation. But a large part of him still didn't believe that this truly was John Shepard, the figurehead of the galaxy during the Reaper War, for mostly the same reasons.

Is it just an elaborate scam he pulls to get protection and possibly free drinks?

A decision slowly started to occur to him. His room in the Shamrock was rented until midday, so it he could recede from the world for a bit. After all, the Shamrock was known for its privacy. Now, if he invited 'Shepard' here to rest up in the room, he could grill him on how he came to end up like this, and weigh up the story he gave. Then he could ever kick the shit out of him and take the armour piece because he was a fraud, or – something else.

If he was truly Commander Shepard, he hadn't quite planned what he'd do.

The man took a deep breath. "At the moment, you look like shit straight out a grinder, and if you aren't strong enough to get past me you won't last ten minutes in either a bar or the street. You need to rest up, and I've got a room next door for a few hours. You should come and at least get a hold of yourself first." The man said as solemnly as he could. He looked as sincere as possible too.

John pondered for a moment, before replying. "Sure, its saves me having to hike back to my apartment, shitty place anyway," John began to slowly make his way to the alley entrance, confident the man would not stop him this time, before turning once more. "Before I agree to this, I want to know who you are, who I'm talking to. Your name?"

"It's Steven."

"No last name? "

The man merely stared at John, with a face that read "don't ask for any more". John nodded, and continued to walk to the entrance. The man watched him for a moment, before holstering his pistol and following.

The room was little more than grime and rotten furniture placed within 4 walls, a perfect square, the only light coming from a light suspended from the ceiling. The room had pale, peeling green paint adorning the walls, with a single photograph hanging next to the door, displaying the exterior of the bar. Against the wall opposite the door was a bed – one of extreme age, with an unsound looking metal frame, taking up the entire wall. Across from that, next to the door, was a wooden chair facing the bed.

A substantial amount of dust lay around, and the ceiling leaked lightly in the corner. Music from the bar leaked in from seemingly all sides, adding to the claustrophobia of the room, and there were no apparent windows. It was simply a shell.

John Shepard lay on the bed with a hand behind his head, another lazily stroking his beard, gazing up at the ceiling, while Steven sat on the chair, looking at him. The alcohol had deserted John's speech and actions, whether due to his old implants or the beating Steven didn't know. Both were in silence, as they had been for a while.

"Why are you AWOL?" asked Steven, breaking the silence. John turned his head to look at him.

"I imagine you'll have to report that, huh. Where I am and all that."

"Maybe."

John gave a deep sigh, and returned to looking up at the ceiling. He raised his hand from his chest, where they had been lying, and rubbed his face.

"I knew that there was an ulterior reason for asking me here, " he said gazing seemingly past the ceiling "If I'm right in thinking, you want to see if I've a credible story, to see if I'm just taking a name. Correct?"

The man continued to look at John wordlessly. His arms were crossed as he leant back, his face betraying nothing.

"Fine, I'll tell you what happened. It's not the longest of stories, and I don't see myself having an alternative. But, " he turned to stare threateningly at Steven, "In return, you tell the Alliance fuck all, ok? They do not learn that I'm here, that we met, nothing. I'll tell you, and then that's that. Understand?"

Steven was slightly taken back by John's ability, even in this state, to look threatening when he truly attempted it. He gave a terse answer, "Sure", and settled back in his seat.

"It was around six years ago, when I awoke from one of the worst nightmares I'd ever had…"

The steady electronic beeping slowly serenaded me back to the world of the living, my eyes initially refusing to open. I was in darkness; my only awareness that this was reality was the steady beeping. They beeped onwards and endless, and I don't know how long they announced my return. As I awoke, they began to increase in frequency the more aware I was, but no one really seemed to be paying attention, if anyone was there to listen. I assumed it was a heartbeat monitor, certainly sounded like one.

I took a moment to reflect, in that darkness, just lying there with my eyes closed, and I felt the most at peace I'd felt in years, just taking a moment to think. The last thing I could remember was rubble. Rubble and laser as me and two of my crew, a lover and a bastard, ran across a no-mans-land toward the Reaper Transportation Beam in London. Considering, in my opinion, neither Heaven nor Hell would have medical equipment, I felt rather confident that I'd survived.

My thoughts began to drift away from myself to the two that had accompanied me on that last run, Garrus Vakarian and Tali'Zorah. I'd sent them both away on the Normandy, so they must not have got to the beam –

That's when I remembered Tali. Multiple suit ruptures, a shit load a blood and a completely shattered visor. The steady beeping next to me began to race, seeming to me to become one long, continuous drone than beeping, and I forced my eyes open and began to sit up, driven by a primal need to get up out of that damn bed. I immediately began to choke, and I tried to call out for someone, hell, anyone, but I couldn't move my mouth. A quick look down revealed a tube going down my throat.

I forced myself to calm down, and I began to slowly to take out the tube that was constricting me. My focus was so intent upon this, I barely noticed the only door to my room open, revealing a very confused woman, dressed clearly as a doctor. She held a clipboard, but that was hanging from her limp arm as she stared at me with a shocked expression.

After a moment, I noticed her properly, and turned to face her, shooting her my best 'little help here' face I could. She walked, a little unsteadily, toward me and lay me back down, before beginning to extract the tubing within my mouth.

I took the opportunity to look around the room. It was gutted, and clearly wasn't a proper hospital. Although pretty much all the usual equipment you'd expect to see was there, the surroundings were old, with a lot of wood and stone. Plus, the window space looked to be relatively narrow, and despite being masked by black tarpaulin, was surrounded by grey stone. I knew that all the hospitals in London weren't in any buildings made with stone, the oldest building being used was made in the late 21st century, and they certainly weren't using stone then. As such, I guessed that this was a commandeered building, one that must have survived the brutal modernisation that London underwent.

The floor was carpeted; further reinforcing my theory that this wasn't a proper hospital, in a dull green, and the walls were bare. The room itself was relatively small, no bigger than an office, and rectangular.

I was drawn away from my observations by the removal of the obtrusive tube. I coughed involuntarily a couple of times, and the doctor backed away slightly. I coughed quite violently, so I can understand I must have looked a sight. It felt as if my lungs were forcing themselves out of my body, god it hurt! That said, I became acutely aware of numbness in my body, in my arms and legs.

It didn't affect how they moved, I started moving my fingers to make sure, but I couldn't feel anything in them. I touched the bedframe – clear metal – and there was nothing. No coldness, as if my nerves just weren't there. I'd been so focused before I hadn't noticed, but now… I became increasingly concerned.

"I imagine that you must have so many questions, Commander" the doctor said, "and I know you'll want to get up. God knows you're used to moving around, but you're not strong enough. You need to rest." I regarded her with a cold indifference, and stupidly got out of bed. I lasted about a step before my legs gave out, resulting me landing in a heap on the floor.

It took a moment for me to fully register what happened, and I felt completely mortified at it. I turned myself over onto my back and sighed in resignation. Looking down, my legs looked initially fine, but on closer inspection there was slight discolouration, a subtly different tone of skin that to the rest of my body. Some veins were obviously apparent, and upon trying to move them I could only weakly lift them centimetres off the ground. There was something surreal in their appearance.

"Your legs will recover, Commander, at least so you can use them. I'm told they had to operate on you, transplant your legs and left arm, not to mention a multitude of burns. Lucky you were in a coma, you missed the worst of it" she said in a surprisingly upfront manner. She stared at me, daring me to be a problem for her.

I knew it was pointless, and as much as I was longing to run out that door and find my crew, if I couldn't even walk out the room I would have to accept reality. The doctor was leaning out the door, calling to someone, but I didn't take much notice. I was too locked up wallowing in self-pity to really care.

Someone else came into the room, a man this time, dressed in Military armour, and he helped the doctor lift me up and put me in the bed once more. The guard left fairly quickly, picking up an assault weapon he'd put aside while lifting me up on his way out, while the doctor stayed, fetching out a fold up chair from behind the row of medical equipment and sitting down in the corner.

"What are you doing?" I asked her, wanting to be left alone to fully process my new found solitude.

"I'm keeping you under supervision." She replied curtly, absorbed in her clipboard. She appeared to be writing something. This struck me as odd, as I hadn't seen a doctor using clipboard and paper since… well, I'm not too sure when, sometime when I was a kid on Earth I imagine, and that was only because Omni-tools and data pads weren't exactly common in the slums.

I've always appreciated conversation, a lot of people say I was too open to talking and negotiation during missions for example, and a beam of that shone through there, lying on that bed with a call for solitude threatening, because despite my self-pity, I found myself wanting to have a chat, to break the stony atmosphere which I could see developing in the room right in front of me.

"Why are you using paper?" I asked.

She looked up from her writing questioningly, before nodding in a sense of realization. "Of course, you haven't seen the aftermath. We aren't doing too brilliantly in regards to resources at the moment, and just about all the infrastructure has been destroyed, so that means what we've got is being prioritised. Electricity goes to the military and medical services first, and even then it's got to be for essential use. Why use an Omni-tool when paper will do? The energy's needed for the things strapped to you." She turned back to her writing.

I wasn't demoralised by her blunt responses, and continued "How long have I been out?"

"You? About 4 weeks."

"And what's happened in that time?"

"Things have gotten a little bit Soviet."

"Meaning?"

The doctor put down her board, and looked once more at me. "Due to shortages, we're under martial law, and we're being assigned roles based on what's available and what our skillset is. I haven't even fully completed my doctor training, I'm 2 years in, and I'm one of the most senior on this ward, and probably in London. All the proper doctors are with the near-dead, or dead themselves, and you stopped being that 2 weeks ago, give or take."

I cut her off "The Reapers? Are they dead?"

"Yes, they are. Indoctrination is still an issue, we've had to completely close of Canary Wharf thanks to how many Reapers are dead there, anyone passing through is indoctrinated in hours."

"Ok, ok, what about my crew?" I asked irritably.

"Oh, I think they landed a few days ago. 'parently they were shipwrecked for a few weeks. Showed too. I had a friend who saw them, since they landed rather unceremoniously on Hyde Park."

"And were they alright? What did your friend say?"

The doctor leant back in her seat and pondered for a moment. She looked irritable, and I could see that it was only my reputation and situation that was carrying the conversation "Well, now that you mention it, Angela mentioned that they didn't look brilliant. A couple of them looked badly wounded; they bought out around a dozen stretchers of wounded. Everyone else just looked pissed apparently. And tired, very tired. But like I said, I wasn't there."

I could see how much she didn't want to talk, and could also see that despite his best efforts I hadn't been able to ignite any interest in sharing much. What she had said troubled me, especially given the amount of badly wounded, but on the plus side there hadn't been any sheet-covered stretchers mentioned, so maybe no one had died.

My crew had made it, I said to myself internally. I began to feel tendrils of fatigue, and decided to rest. After all, I wasn't going anywhere, was I? And it was one hell of a time-passer.

I closed my eyes and lost myself once more to the rhythmic beep of the heart beat monitor, and before I knew it, it was much darker in the room. The doctor was gone, and the room was darkened to an extent that I could barely make out the walls. With the window covered, I couldn't tell exactly what time it was, but it must have been a night-cycle, the beeping heart monitor leading me to guess that it wasn't a power cut.

I glanced around, making these observations, but didn't turn my head much. I admit, I was comfortable where I was, and felt no immediate desire to move. After all, where could I go, and it would take me ages to once more find a comfortable position anyway. Then I heard muttering in the room.

I turned my head slightly, allowing me to see the corner of the room that was initially outside my field of vision. There was a figure, a silhouette, leant into the corner muttering to itself. I strained my ears a moment and the distinct voice of Garrus Vakarian drifted toward me.

He was shrouding himself in the darkest bit of the room, kinda like someone setting an ambush. I continued to strain my ears, and I began to make out what he was saying, curious as to why he hadn't woke me.

"Listen, I've already taken up too much of your time" he said in a hushed voice, "If the guard outside knew I was still in here he'd be pissed, but that isn't my concern. I needed to tell you about what happened, regardless of whether you're awake. That woman doctor looking after you mentioned you were still in a coma and, well, this is not the best way to do it. Cowardly, even. But I heard once, while I was in that damn loading dock on the Citadel, a father speaking to his son, despite the son being in a similar state to you. I asked him why, and he said that despite his son's condition, he could still hear him subconsciously, and damn it that was better than not talking to him at all."

I became increasingly aware of the distress in his voice, steadily rising in volume. "You deserved to know, John, and I'm hoping you could hear me. Maybe it will make it easier later. Maybe it won't, but before I tell you what… is better to know, I thought I should tell you frankly. I don't expect forgiveness, and I'm not going to beg for it, but I'm going to do the last right thing I can do, and that's making it as easy for you as I can.

Footsteps began to come closer to the door outside, and there was a rapping at the door. "Who's in there?" he said as he entered.

The light from the corridor illuminated the room considerably, exposing the figure of Garrus Vakarian, still wearing his combat armour. He raised his hands slightly to the guard. "Don't worry," he said without a hint of the distress that had been endemic previously, "it's only me."

The guard had his weapon shouldered, but lowered it upon seeing Garrus. "Come on sir, you should have left half an hour ago."

"Sure thing," said Garrus, losing the emotional edge to his voice, "next time you're clearing out visitors, check behind the door." The guard was visibly annoyed, but didn't respond as he ushered out Garrus and closed the door, leaving me with the distinct feeling of 'What the fuck just happened'.

I lay awake for what must have been the best part of an hour turning Garrus' words over. He had clearly been saying something momentous before I came to, and he was completely unaware I was out the coma – the hospital must've been trying to limit my possible interaction with those who could ignite my desire to get out the bed. Clearly medicine as a profession had heard the horror stories from Doctor Chakwas about the 'demon patient'.

As it turns out, it wasn't necessarily due to that. Apparently, the next day the Alliance made an official announcement about my return from the coma, as if I was bloody Jesus, as a morale booster. A later conversation with that doctor, although I say conversation in a very forced manner, since she barely wanted to talk, revealed that even visitors on that day were told I was in a coma in order to save the big announcement.

Weeks passed, and goodwill certainly wasn't lacking. For the first couple of days, I had dozens of visitors, complete strangers off the street, who had found out where I was and came in to wish me well. I got most of my information about the aftermath of the Reaper War from them. That a red beam had effectively deactivated the Reapers, damaging the Mass Relays and ended the war.

In the days afterward, the situation became increasingly bleak as the jubilation at the end wore off. The fleets were stranded. Dextro food stocks were depleted. Almost every scrap of infrastructure was destroyed or unusable. The casualty rate was insurmountable, with nowhere and no one available to clear up. Order had all but broken down. We had effectively receded back to the Stone Age.

At this point, the Alliance had taken overall control, introducing martial law and assigning the survivors to various roles, with repairs taking priority. I also found out the building I was being treated in was the Houses of Parliament, which was an interesting development. Apparently it was one of the only large buildings in London that hadn't been destroyed, was (mostly) structurally ok and hadn't been taken by the military as a base for something.

This stopped fairly quickly however, both due to the inconvenience it caused the makeshift hospital and the massive security risk it posed, and my visitors were kept regulated, usually just dignitaries and higher ups in the military, asking details of the final battle and after I reached the beam (where I had to tell them I couldn't remember a thing, my last memory being the beam).

Those days were nothing short than tedious and nowhere was the crew of the Normandy present. Neither was there any sign of Anderson, although I could tell myself that he was probably tied down in the Alliance doing… something. They never came; they didn't even send one of them as a 'representative'. Instead, I got a simple message, telling me to get well soon. Nothing from Anderson. I racked my brain over it for hours, asking myself why they had abandoned me, heck, why Tali or Garrus hadn't come. I was set to marry Tali for fucks sake, so I kept asking myself. Why didn't they come?!

In the end, I had my answer a month later. I was still weak, I certainly wasn't running any marathons, but I could walk and stand, and the Alliance decided that I was to once more return to being the public face of the Galaxy. After almost two months, the Alliance had succeeded in keeping an element of order, and the Galaxy was slowly beginning to move again.

The Mass Relay was well on the road to being repaired, large rebuilding efforts were being staged globally, power and food had been restored to some extent, and despite London being a ruin still it was one on the rise, and the Alliance was ceding it's overall control back to the British Government, a first step designed to result in a steady handover to all local Governments over the next few days. The Alliance decided that the Crew of the Normandy should be the ones to make the announcement at a major event outside the city, where the Reaper damage was only moderate.

The handover was mostly ceremonial rather than de-facto. Hell, the Alliance arguably has more control than the sovereign Governments even now, six years later, but it was a good PR move. Made people forget that they were all living in rubble, since it seemed like the higher ups had a plan. Damn con really, we're still rebuilding today, only thing they really had a plan for was establishing a status-quo before anyone asked questions.

But I didn't know anything about that at the time, the last few years have told me that.

That morning I was awoke by an irritating screech from an alarm clock I'd requested. The time in that hospital had really messed up my sleeping patterns, so I felt it a necessary precaution. As I got out of bed, and began to eat the breakfast bars I'd retrieved yesterday, I reflected on just when I'd leave the hospital. From my perspective, they were checking on me less and less, and I assumed that they were keeping me simply to keep me under supervision.

I wouldn't have cared so much, but the complete absence of my team irked me. Their refusal to come was reinforced by those words I'd heard Garrus say that night, and I was growing increasingly anxious. If they wouldn't come to me, I'd come to them, at least that was the plan.

I carefully put on the dress uniform I'd been provided with, and began to pace the room. Boredom had become my constant state, and for half an hour I did nothing but pace.

I can't adequately describe how I felt, but I'll tell you that reluctance was a major feeling. I didn't know what would happen, couldn't even imagine it, it was actually due to the nature of returning to the world of politics. To be honest, I was sick of its shit, had been seen since I found out about the damn Asari hiding technology from the Galaxy during a mass extinction event. Couple that with my dealings with Udina and the Council, both before and during the war and you have yourself a cocktail of distrust and ambivalence.

I didn't want to recede into isolation or anything – that would have been realistically impossible after just saving life as we know it after all. But I wanted to take a step back, and here I was, headlining a political event like a rock star. Suppose I still believed in duty back then.

It wasn't long before a group of Alliance Marines came to escort me to the waiting shuttle. There was a squad of them, wearing body armour and helmets, except for one – the squad leader. They were carrying rifles and scanned the room as they came in, clearly taking their jobs very seriously. They formed a V-shape from the door to me, and the squad leader, as I said, the only unhelmeted one (he wore a beret instead), just in front of the door.

He strode into the room carrying a certain authority, one that even I noticed. His face was battered, two scars running down his left cheek, accompanied with moderate burns. His nose showed signs of being recently broken, and his hair was barely orderly, screaming of an unkempt nature that had only recently been treated. Despite this, he had a pair of piercing blue eyes, one of the most penetrating I've ever seen. It was those eyes, and his commanding posture, that I suppose made me go along with what was going on, and suppress my own misgivings about the affair. I just reverted back to the Commander personality, talking to another soldier.

He spoke first, after we'd weighed each other up for a bit. "Commander John Shepard, I presume?" He had a thick English Midland accent. "I am," I replied, "I take it you're my escort to the event?"

"I am" he said as I had.

We funnelled out the room, and began to walk towards the exit. Fortunately, since I was in the much more 'private' section of the hospital for VIPs, I didn't have to make my way through any open plan wards, and it was just a walk through corridors and staircases. I took the opportunity to strike up a conversation. "So what's your name?" I asked the squad leader.

"Corporal William Jenkins" he replied. "Before you ask, yes, I know I'm just an NCO, but we've been rather depleted since our Sergeant, pretty much everyone above me, was killed. I'm just acting as leader."

"You had me fooled. You certainly look the part" I complimented.

He allowed a slight smile to appear. "I suppose experience makes or breaks you, eh?" he said.

I nodded in agreement. "I've seen it make cowards into damn fine combat leaders, and of course the reverse, but then that isn't what today is all about, is it. I've been told its about trying to really end the war."

We walked out the door to the outside, my first view of it for a good long time. It seemed like little progress had been made since that race to the beam, and Whitehall was still more a collection of ruins than anything else. Looking down the road I could see that even Parliament hadn't completely escaped damage, with chunks missing in various places. There wasn't anyone around that I could see, except for us and a lone Kodiak sat in a rubble-free area of road. The sky was surprisingly clear, a bright blue sky breaking out in areas behind the black clouds.

"There's our transportation" said the Corporal, both to me and his men. "Load up!" We did a light jog, as best I could manage, toward the shuttle, breaking conversation, and hauled ourselves in first, followed by the rest of the squad.

"I suppose you ought to know Commander," said William as we sat down, "We are primarily ceremonial. I know it doesn't look like it, but there aren't really many free hands at the moment. We aren't expecting you to be shot is what I'm trying to say."

"It's fine." I said curtly.

"You nervous?" William asked. "I'd have thought that after saving the Galaxy, this would seem trivial."

I twitched slightly, before giving out a sigh. "No, it's not fear or anything. Just more politics, isn't it. Can't get away."

"Yeah, it sucks, believe me. Now we can go back to arguing over ideologies and stuff now the space squids have stopped annihilating us."

I chuckled slightly at the dry humour, and took some solace in it. After this, I suppose I can try and take a backseat, I thought. Become a figurehead or something.

"Will any Alliance top brass be there? Hackett, Anderson, anyone?" I asked, hoping there would be someone there who wasn't a politician. William gave me an odd look, with an eyebrow raised, before saying "Well, Admiral Hackett will be there, but Admiral Anderson? Haven't you heard?"

"Heard what?"

I remember the sense of foreboding I felt at that moment like it was yesterday. When someone is about to tell you that someone is, well, dead, there is a distinct change in men. I should know, I've had to do it too many times. The squad around us grew uncomfortable, not sure where to look. William rubbed the back of his neck breaking eye-contact. No one was comfortable, and to be fair I knew what had happened as soon as they reacted. My heart just dropped.

"It… It's ok. I can guess. Shit." I said solemnly. I peered down at the floor in silence, and took a few moments to absorb Anderson's death.

"I'm sorry" said one off the squad – I don't know which one – but it didn't make me feel much better. I'd looked up to that man for years, hell; he was a father to me really. It was him that I owed my battlefield morality, my command, just who I was. And in the end, the Alliance didn't even tell me he was dead. Bastards!

"How did he die?" I asked, not raising my head. "Was it during the battle?"

"He was killed during the battle, but not much beyond that. It's been kept relatively hushed up to be honest…"

"I heard he was killed at the beam." Someone said.

"Nah, it was during the attack on Hammer HQ." interjected someone else

William was incensed by this. "Shut the hell up you two. Can't you see what's just happened? Shall we start debating how the Sarge died? I heard he was impaled by one of those Cannibals. Or was he blasted by whatever the hell those bug things were? I can never remember–"

"Alright!" came the collective response.

"We didn't mean it like that" said one brave soul.

We sat in silence until we got there, no one making eye contact.

So, the announcement. The worst event of my life, and I didn't even know it stepping off that shuttle. It was a beyond shitty day, and I was so fucking angry at the Alliance for not telling me. But I was a soldier still. There had to be a reason, surely. And even then, I could swallow it back, just like I had Ashley's death on Virmire, Legion and Grunt on the Collector base, and the innumerable soldiers I'd seen killed in between.

I stepped out into a celebrity's welcome, and it was immediately obvious to me that the Alliance were making a show of it. The shuttle had landed in front of the stage, with a straight path cutting through a roped off crowd of applauding spectators. The squad had gone out in front, forming up on both sides of the path, forming a guard of honour. I walked briskly past them, wanting to move away from the shuttle quickly and get this over and done with it.

The stage was somewhat crude, little more than a wooden stage covered with cloth, with a roof to make the appearance of a far greater design. On the stage were various members of Alliance Command. I noticed Hackett, but didn't recognise any of the others. Next to them was a man in a suit, who I assumed was some politician. He had that smug aura around him, and despite how ruined everything was, and how everyone seemed to be at least partially dirty, he was as clean as a new born baby. He had clearly 'stayed and fought with his electorate'.

Still, I pushed these thoughts to the back of my mind. Wouldn't be any good to take my mind off the job.

I climbed onto the stage up a set of steps, and took my place at the podium set up in the centre. The applause was dying down now, and people were beginning to re-seat themselves. I took a moment to observe the congregation before me. There was a lot of military in the crowd, not as guards, but as attendees. There were some obvious civilians, but due to conscription I don't think there was many of their ilk left. After that, people were just indistinguishable in the sea of faces. My eyes continued to scan, before I reached the front row. And there was the Normandy crew; the crew that had simply vanished after my awakening.

Well, I say the Normandy crew; it was only most of them. Almost all the hands were there bar a dozen, I think. But the ground crew had three missing – Tali, the first one I noticed, Kaiden and Cortez, our shuttle pilot. The foreboding feeling I'd felt in the shuttle began to return, but I beat it back.

"Don't jump to damn conclusions" I whispered to myself. I tried to meet their gaze, but none all of them seemed to be looking somewhere else. Then, I noticed three empty seats next to the crew, and let out a sigh of relief. I became increasingly aware of the news cameras being aimed at me, and decided to start. I took the pre-written speech, mercifully short as it was, I'd prepared out of my pocket

"Ladies and Gentleman, Comrades and Supporters, Humans and Aliens alike, I welcome you today to one of the landmark events of human history. An event that will go down in the history books as the first step to restoring the Galaxy to greatness, after the worst threat that we have faced marched through our creation. They destroyed our homes. They destroyed our weapons. They took our loved ones. But what they didn't take, was our hope, and our determination to beat them. Our will remained unbroken, right up to the Battle of London, where a city so influential in our planet's past was subjected to the most brutal fight this planet has seen in over 200 years, if indeed any event in history can be adequately compared to the battle. The Reaper's were convinced this would break us. We proved them wrong."

At that moment, three random supporters walked into the crowd from the press area, and sat in the seats next to the Normandy crew. I recoiled.

"A… and such," I continued with hesitation, "That is why our victory over them is so important. It was not simply the use of force against a foe, because they were too strong. It wasn't the use of negotiation and compromise, because they were too dangerous."

Those reporters had gotten comfortable, and none of the other crew had given them a glance still looking awkward. The foreboding came once more.

"It was a victory of co-operation and trust between us and our allies".

They weren't there for Tali, Kaiden or Cortez, I slowly realised.

"And with that in mind, I am pleased to announce the resumption of the British Government from this moment forward."

They weren't coming, but why? The crew looked increasingly awkward.

"I wish them luck, for I believe that we are heading for a bright future."

I didn't understand.

"Remember, if we stay strong, our hope can never be broken."

Oh God no.

I felt very… numb, is the best way to put it. Standing on that podium, time slowed for that moment, and I just kinda stopped. This was different to finding out about Anderson. I always expected to hear that news, even during the war. That I would receive the message that his HQ had been hit, and he hadn't been able to escape. I'd prepared myself for it, mentally. But my own crew, that hurt. I always assumed that if my crew went down, then I'd go down with them.

I had known Kaiden for years, if we count those 2 years I was out, and I had really grown to like him. He was a dependable ally, and a good friend, who could speak to you plainly. While not as close as Garrus was, he was one of my best friends. But despite that, I could've dealt with it.

Cortez I'd only known during the war, and while I'd hesitate to call us friends, there was a lot of respect there. I'd helped him get over his own losses the Reapers had forced upon him, and I trusted him with my life on every deployment. He in turn proved that trust every time we stepped into the shuttle, being one of the best small aircraft pilots I've met. He was amicable, and he was a good friend of Vega's. But I could've dealt with his death.

Tali'Zorah. I wish I could do her justice. She was the most beautiful, caring person I have ever met. We met on the Citadel, when we were chasing Saren during the first 'Reaper Crisis'. In an alley, being assaulted by thugs. I took her on my crew, to the chagrin of a lot of members of the first Normandy's crew. I grew close to all my squad mates then, even against my better judgement, since I felt like I should maintain professional detachment as their commanding officer.

Then I died, and for 2 years she was back in the Migrant Fleet. A simple mechanic and tech expert on the vessel Neema, despite all she'd achieved. She was transferred to the Quarian Marine Force, and on a mission with them we reunited. Within a month, we were once more running around together with a new crew, fighting a new Reaper threat; The Collectors. We grew closer still, and we both fell in love before we plunged into the Collector Base without a hope of exfiltration.

But we said screw fate, and most of us made it out.

After that, the media has been able to ounce out every detail – how we were cut off when we were grounded, the resumption of our relationship on the Normandy. I sentenced an entire species to death, synthetic or not, despite how they were more equipped to fight the Reapers, due to my feelings for her. If that doesn't build a strong bond, I don't know what could.

And in that moment, I felt that bond weaken, since she was no longer there. And I couldn't handle her death. Not like this. But I was a soldier, and the tsunami of emotion that hit me at the realisation she was gone, how no-one had told me, was hidden. I involuntarily looked at the crew, wide eyed and in a state of shock. Maybe she was just wounded?

I caught Garrus' eye. We stared at each other for a moment, and I could see that he knew that I knew, and he looked away in shame.

She was dead.

I turned around, and walked to the seat next to the other VIPs rigidly. No-one else had noticed that there was anything wrong, not that I knew. I internalised, fighting my feelings. I had a job, a role, as the figurehead of humanity. I couldn't break down there, and I held back the weeping tears that demanded to be let out. Held back the primal anger at those around me, that I hadn't been told. I don't remember the rest of the event.

I was back in my room, sitting on the bed. Despite my dulled nerves, I could feel sheer despair eating away at me.

"I won" I whispered to myself. There was a mug on the floor next to the bed that I'd used last night, and I picked it up slowly, before throwing it at the wall opposite, watching it shatter into pieces.

"I FUCKING WON" I screamed, before just putting my head into my hands. I couldn't cry, the tears just wouldn't come, I couldn't let go of repressing my emotions, even then. I was tired, and I wasn't ready. I always assumed that if she did die, it would be after 70 years together, living some quaint life. Or on the battlefield together.

Not at the very end of a blasted war we'd survived through against odds that were slim at best. I just didn't have any other reaction.

I'm ashamed to think it, but I wished that I could trade any one of the crew with her. That only Anderson, Kaiden and Cortez and anyone else had been killed. I could deal with that, it would be the death of a comrade I would regret, and would haunt me, but that I could deal with.

The door to my room creaked open, and I stopped my quiet moping, uncomfortable with showing distress with others present. Ever the Commander.

No-one came through for a moment, the door standing ajar without anyone passing through, before a Turian walked through, the Turian I least wanted to see, despite our close friendship. He looked at me briefly, before turning towards the chair in the corner and sitting down uncomfortably straight.

"I was talking to the Guard down the hall, and we heard something smash. Had to stop a few doctors who tried to investigate." He eyed the remains of the mug on the floor. "Are you alright?"

I glared at him "How?" I asked through gritted teeth.

His mandibles dropped slightly, but he nodded in acceptance. "We were marooned on a planet just after the battle. We were highly damaged and had numerous casualties. We also had a few Turian squads we'd extracted from a tight spot on our way out of the Beam's area, and we'd lost a lot of supplies – due to both the battle in London and the crash. Especially… medical supplies"

Garrus gazed at the ceiling, as if searching for the sky, and leaned forward in his seat. He was back there, I could see it.

"We hadn't been able to re-supply much during the run up to the battle, since most of the priority was given to the main fleet. We didn't think food would be an issue. Our – my - focus had been our ammunition, so here we were on an unknown planet, running on auxiliary power with terrible damage, and soon we realised that fate had finally caught up with us. A lot of food was lost in the crash, and we were running low, and our medical supplies were getting troublingly low. They were being used up to fast."

"So what happened?" I demanded angrily.

"We…we didn't have enough to sustain her for so long. She was constantly in a state of allergic reaction, and we could barely keep her alive. Eventually, she passed out and just didn't make it."

My anger dulled at being told slightly, however it was still a blazing torrent within me. And through the torrent, I remembered last seeing Garrus. "Before I tell you what is better to know, I thought I should tell you frankly". He had said it when he thought I was in a coma, and my suspicions instantly flared. Was this what he was referring to?

"What did you say to me that night, when you visited me? You said 'before I tell you what… is better to know'."

He was shocked, it was all over his features, I'd seen it before. He was mortified too. "Shepard, don't…"

"How!?" I yelled, standing up and curling my hands into fists. The guard burst through the door, rifle in hand, alarmed by the shouting. The noise of inquisitive voices came from behind him, I presume from doctors. He was about to speak, but Garrus gestured for him to be quiet.

"Listen, John. What I have told you is the truth. The truth as you need to know it. Now, I respect you enough to tell you all the details, if it will avoid an incident, but I warn you, you won't be able to go back afterwards."

"I don't care! What happened to my fiancé? Why is she dead? " I should've listened, taken the hint, but I was too angry. Nothing anyone said could placate me. Instead, I further intimidated him by taking a step forward. From what I saw, the guard began to grip his gun tighter, anticipating a fight.

Garrus nodded solemnly. "We had a long list of casualties. We had a large amount of seriously wounded, especially among the squads we'd saved. Minor wounds were turning septic thanks to us having to ration drugs all the way down to Anti-Septics. The food was beginning to get low enough for us to worry, especially considering we didn't know how long it would take us to get back to Earth. We had to make a decision on how to manage the situation."

My eyes once again widened in shock, an event all too common that day, and I felt the torrent of anger, that I thought couldn't get any more savage, increase tenfold. "My god" I said. "You didn't… You couldn't"

Tears began to drop down Garrus' face, but there was no bawling or weeping. I'm not sure Turians are capable of that. Only a look of shame.

"I had to reduce the toll the seriously wounded were taking. They couldn't survive much longer without proper medical help, and we couldn't offer it. And keeping them alive would be a futile drain. I couldn't risk a space-flight in a damaged vessel with inadequate supplies, and I was aware that later on food would become an issue. I wanted to postpone that."

"So you just let them die? Tali, she's been a sister to you! And you just stood there and watched! How dare you make that call!"

I was barely holding myself back. I wanted to kill him, there and then, just as he had done to my Tali. That couldn't have been necessary. There must have been another way!

"It was only what you did with the Geth! The greater good John. I made it as quick as I could, I... I did it myself. Spirits, I made sure not one of them suffered. Especially Tali, but as the one in command I had to act. I cannot apologise enough to you John, I know that this is the most horrific way to learn, but -" he looked introspective for a moment. He lost his posture, and shook his head.

"No, John. For what it's worth. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. It was unjustifiable, and I'm not going to ask forgiveness"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Why wait till now, keeping me in the dark?"

"I tried, John. We all did, but the Alliance wouldn't let us see you. The closest we could get to you was while you were in a coma – or at least while they thought you were. We could only get a simple message to you, nothing else was allowed, once you were conscious."

This surprised me. I was expecting a lame excuse to mask his cowardly act from me as long as he could, and I did initially believe that, but even through the rage I looked into his eyes and saw the truth in his words. That he, and the crew, had tried to get to him but that the Alliance had blocked them. After all, they didn't tell me about Anderson. But why, after all that's happened, after all I'd done for them?

I was confused; more confused than ever, and in that moment I'm not sure who I hated more, Garrus or the Alliance.

"Get out" I said under my breath, a warning that both Garrus and the guard took, almost racing to get out before my new found clemency ran out. Before he left, however, Garrus turned and said "I'm sorry" once more before leaving. I stared blankly at the door after them, watching it close.

And when the next doctor came in the room, they will have found an empty room, as I had long since left.