He heard the door hiss shut behind him, a distant part of his brain longing for the old-fashioned swinging doors that slammed so satisfyingly. He kicked the sagging green chair half-heartedly, automatically adjusting for the surprising hardness of the furniture, calculating just the right amount of force to cause pain but not injury.

Pain was good. It filled the void.

He activated the holoscreen and picked up the half-empty glass that stood on the little clear side-table from…whenever he'd last been drinking. Taking a lukewarm swig, he gingerly settled into the chair, green eyes scanning the bright duragel screen without any real interest in or comprehension of the content. He grimaced at the taste, but welcomed the burning at the back of his throat. No Serrice Ice Brandy for Alliance Flight Lieutenant Jeff "Joker" Moreau. That fruity shit was for pansies and snobs. He tipped the glass back, letting the vile liquid empty itself down his throat. Ugh. Cheap batarian swill. Tasted like…antifreeze. And petroleum.

But that was the point, wasn't it? He gazed through the holonews—that al-Jilani woman, or whatever her name was, outlined an elcor conspiracy against human industry…something contrived. Yeah, he grimaced at the lingering taste of the alcohol, if you felt pain, it meant you were feeling something.

He looked down at his lap blankly. He hadn't felt a thing since—his baby shuddered, screaming in agony as she was ripped in half by the strange ship's particle-beam weapon. Around him, crewman screamed too, and the staccato impacts of their frenzied footfalls was lost in the greedy crackling of the flames that had sprung up everywhere. Gradually, the sounds of his fellows died away. They had run for the escape pods. They had left him.

"Idiots," he grunted, his hands almost a blur as they flew across the holographic readouts, "I'll pull her through."

Inwardly, though, he knew the Normandy was lost—the multiple hull-breaches, fires, and general signs of destruction were definite indicators that he should get the hell out. Not to mention the fact that what was once one ship had recently become two—with neither half in remotely pilotable condition. But he was the pilot, he had seen the ship approaching, he had failed to move his baby fast enough to evade…whatever kind of weapon that was.

He had failed, no matter what anyone else could say, and if he could fail so catastrophically how the hell could he call himself the "best pilot" in the galaxy? Stupid, arrogant pride had gotten him into this and he knew it wouldn't get him out.

Still he desperately worked the unresponsive controls, pressed buttons that flickered alarmingly, unaware of the pleas which were drawn inexorably from his lips.

"C'mon, baby, hold together."

They had left him. He was going to die.

His fingers slipped and the Normandy moaned. Instantly, he was back in Alliance Flight Lieutenant mode, making delicate calibrations and adjustments while his mind grappled with the realization. As a pilot and, he thought bitterly, a cripple, the only way he should die would be if the ship went down or was boarded. He'd had so much confidence—merited and otherwise—in his abilities, that he'd never really thought about dying. Bubbles of panic crowded his throat—he wasn't even thirty—too young, too young, too young! The blackness of space caught his eye, its immeasurable vastness unnerving him as always. It was so empty—no one would miss him. His dad had died a few years ago, he hardly talked to his mom, and his caustic nature had earned him few friends.

Shepard. She had tried…he shook his head angrily. Stupid fool, he hadn't been willing to let her bring his carefully constructed walls down. At least she'd be safe. Maybe…maybe this was for the best. He felt a sense of calm begin to filter through the panic, suddenly reminding him of Kaiden's last words.

He renewed his futile assault on the Normandy's useless readouts, a dark corner of his mind now urging him to stop. Going down with the ship meant never having to face the blame, never having to be pitied or disappointing again. Still, his pride maintained the delusional hope that he could, in fact, save the ship. He had to.

"C'mon, baby, hold together!" He begged, the words beating in his head like a mantra.

He began to feel light-headed, realized the oxygen levels must be approaching—he grabbed the emergency O2 mask from the cache beneath his seat, twisted his cap backwards, and strapped it on. Instantly, he felt better…well, all things considered. His heart hammered, fingers still flying over the glowing consoles.

"Hold together."

He should have told her. At least—

"Joker!" A blast shook the cockpit and someone collided heavily with his right side. Commander.

He pushed her away, dismayed. What was she doing here? She wasn't supposed to come back for a scrap like him.

"I can save her!" He yelled, hoping she'd leave, go back to the escape pods.

She spun him around to face her. The polarized mask was inscrutable, but he could imagine her serious brown eyes and the little frown of determination that was so distinctly Shepard.

"The Normandy is lost, Joker, going down with her won't change that." He'd heard that steely calm before over the headset as Shepard diffused countless hostage crises and faced down militant pirates, but there was a discordant underlying note of desperation this time. It scared him.

The ship rocked again and he realized just how close to death they were. She wasn't leaving.

"Alright," he sighed, shaking his head, "Help me up."

She gripped his bicep hard—too hard, and he snapped impulsively. "Watch the arm!"

Wordlessly, she slung his arm across her shoulders and wrapped her own about his waist. Jeff swallowed the automatic resentment—she was the only one he'd take this from—and felt a grudging swell of gratitude. They moved as fast as his legs would allow, but, glancing back over his shoulder, he could see it wasn't fast enough.

"It's coming back around!" He yelled to her, "We won't make it in time. Leave me, Commander."

"Like hell," she panted back, and he was taken aback by the uncharacteristic cursing, "I came all the way up here for you, Joker, I'll be damned if I lugged your heavy ass halfway to the pods for nothing."

He tried to pull away, "I'm not worth it, Shepard."

She drew him closer, refusing to look at him. "You are to me. Now shut up. We'll talk on the way planet-side."

"Commander…" For once he couldn't think of anything to say. The Normandy shuddered, tipped, and they moved faster until he could see the rows of escape pods, all but one already jettisoned. Her arm tightened—the closest to a hug he'd ever gotten from her. The pod door hissed open, and Shepard gently dumped him in one of the closest seats, her hand trailing on his shoulder as she turned to seal the pod.

A tremendous explosion bucked what little was left of the gravitized Normandy—roiling balls of fire bloomed from the corridor, sparks cascaded from the partial ceilings, and Shepard was tossed like a ragdoll in a tornado, away from him and the escape pod.

"Commander!" He sat up, tried to pull himself up and out after her. "Shepard!" She came up, one hand clutching her side, and he saw her gauging the distance between her and the pod. No, no, no, no, no, no! He managed to haul himself into a semblance of a standing position, cursing his frail legs and crooked spine.

In an instant, he saw her shoulders slump slightly, his throat clenched on a final broken plea—"Shepard!"—as she threw herself at the remote release, jettisoning his pod. Through the thick glass, he saw the gravitational field give way, and Shepard was sucked into empty space with most of the loose debris and wreckage that had once been a ship, the best ship.

He screamed her name, beating ineffectively against the viewport, watching helplessly as her writhing figure grew smaller and increasingly stiller, until she was just a limp black speck.

"Shepard," he whispered, voice cracking. For the first time in years, he felt the burn of approaching tears.

"Shit!" He hurled the glass through the stupid holofeed, feeling a shadow of satisfaction at the crash it made when it shattered against the opposite wall. He didn't want to remember. It had been over a month ago, but it still haunted him. Not like he could ever forget it, what with the weekly news-features, the countless tributes and memorials to the woman he'd killed. He'd taken sick leave—all of the fifty standard days he'd had stockpiled—and it hadn't helped.

He looked around the shitty apartment, devoid of any personal items. Empty, blank, bare. The only thing to do in this piss-hole was to remember.

Jeff scratched at his beard, grown long past regulation specs. Screw it. He got up and trudged to the bathroom. He had to report to Anderson tomorrow.