Chapter Text
Shepard gripped the glass in her hand, swirling the deep amber liquid before bringing it up to her lips and drinking it down. She placed it back on the bar and gestured for the bartender to pour another. He paused long enough for Shepard to notice, no doubt wondering if he should cut her off. Shepard was certain he would have if she was anyone else, but he recovered quickly and refilled her glass. She left him a generous tip.
Saviour of the Galaxy was a bullshit title she hated. Too many people had died to make any sense of acclaim resonate with her. Garrus had called it the ruthless calculus of war but Shepard carried it as her own personal failure. So many lives would have been saved if only someone had listened to her sooner.
Shepard surveyed the room for a surreptitious corner to hide in. She wasn’t sure she could maintain her composure if another person came to ask for a photo with her. She didn’t remember what this event was for; there were too many of them to keep the details straight anymore. She let her VI assistant tell her where and when she needed to show up, putting on her dress blues to be paraded around like the Alliance’s prized pony. After almost three years of doing this, she couldn’t be bothered to care.
Shepard shook herself out of her thoughts. It never ended well when she started down that particular rabbit hole.
She drank her whiskey and tried to refocus on what was happening around her. It was an Alliance event if the crowds of people in uniform were anything to go by. Shepard scowled into her glass as bitterness settled itself like a blanket around her shoulders.
The Alliance hadn’t reassigned her to active duty. No one knew what to do with her. There wasn’t an official promotion for defeating the galaxy’s greatest menace. If anything, Shepard was more of a liability to them alive. She had gained a level of galaxy-wide fame that was impossible to ignore; they couldn’t simply stick her in a ship and send her on her way. They all knew it would have been much easier to erect a few statues in her honour and dole out some posthumous awards. It was easier to celebrate a dead hero than it was to retire one. Shepard knew far too much, an inconvenient truth for the Alliance to manage.
Yet another rabbit hole to avoid.
She hoped the bartender would continue to take pity on her. Shepard leaned against the bar as she waited for a refill. Someone was approaching her periphery and she realized a fraction of a second too late that it was a familiar face.
Shepard hadn’t spoken to her old crew in years. She had woken up more than a year after the war ended, unfortunately managing to escape death a second time. Shepard was found buried under the rubble of the Citadel with her body covered in burns and most of her limbs broken or fractured. Shepard was in a coma for ten months while Miranda Lawson determined how to best repair Shepard’s body and allow her time to heal.
Apparently it hadn’t been as bad as when Miranda rebuilt Shepard the first time—though she heard that second-hand from a report, not Miranda herself. The former Cerberus operative was off the grid by the time Shepard woke up.
After that it was eighteen months of almost daily physical therapy and regular psych sessions. The only people she interacted with were the medical professionals in the rehabilitation facility. She wondered, at first, why the Alliance was putting so many resources into such a broken thing. She might have asked more questions about her solitary existence if she’d thought more about it.
Shepard’s therapist limited her media contact and extranet access, stating it was bad for her recovery. Instead she was given information about the end of the war and the time following it during carefully structured debrief sessions.
Galactic communications were back up and running about six months after the Battle for Earth (as the Alliance called it—Shepard thought that was a bit anthropocentric). The Mass Relays were able to be repaired to a functional state thanks to the genius collective that was the former Crucible Project. It had taken a while, and Shepard didn’t understand much of the science, but she was relieved to know the Catalyst AI had been lying to her about the true cost of the Reapers’ destruction.
The Normandy was stranded on an unknown planet for a while but made it back to Earth in time to let its crew return to their rightful places in the universe. As soon as the Relays became functional the galactic fleets stranded in the Sol system limped back to their home worlds to recover and rebuild. Those she had grown to care about most had left while she was still in a coma. She couldn’t fault them for it.
Shepard had grown more ruthless as the war came to a close, determined to win at any cost, and it had taken its toll. She had their respect but she hadn’t missed the pitying glances of those closest to her. They each tried in their own subtle ways to bring her back from the brink, yet the longer the war continued the harder it became. Near the end Shepard was more weapon than person and they all knew it.
She knew she could reach out to them to try and reconnect, but it felt impossible to put together a generic Hey, how are you? and send it out after so much time had passed. She had nothing to say. She felt like a relic of the past, obsolete and without purpose.
“Commander Shepard,” said the warm, dual-toned voice that brought her back to the present moment.
“Primarch Victus,” Shepard said, startled. Adrien Victus stood in front of her in formal Turian dress, looking much better than the last time she had seen him. It had been at the forward base in London before the final assault. “I’m surprised to see you here.” Shepard gestured to the room full of Alliance types.
Victus fixed Shepard with a curious look, assessing her. “This is a diplomatic visit to mark the anniversary of the end of the war.”
“Oh, right,” Shepard managed to choke out, gripping her glass.
She wished she had paid better attention to her schedule now. With these things it was always some variation of posing for photos, saluting, or waving the the crowd. They didn’t bother asking her to do speeches after the first attempt at one left her stammering at the podium until Admiral Hackett deftly intervened.
Shepard knew she was an inconvenience. She knew no one, herself included, expected her to survive the war. The fact that Anderson had died while she somehow lived was a weight Shepard carried everywhere. To think five years had passed so quickly without her notice felt like a punch in the gut.
“Actually, I was hoping to speak with you about something,” Victus added, noticing Shepard’s discomfort and providing an opportunity to move on from it.
“Sir?” Shepard stood at a parade rest, an instinctual response to being addressed by a superior officer—something she hadn’t done in a while.
“I have an opportunity you may be interested in,” Victus began. “The Turian government is overseeing a Council-funded project to train Spectre candidates.”
This caught her interest. Although Shepard technically maintained her Spectre status, she hadn’t been off planet since the end of the war. The Alliance always had something for her to do and the Council hadn’t tried to contact her.
“I’m not sure what that has to do with me, sir.”
“Any Turian with half your resume would be preening at me right now,” Victus chuckled, his mandibles flaring in surprise. “Vakarian always said you were humble.”
Shepard’s breath caught in her throat at the mention of Garrus. They hadn’t spoken since she shoved him back on the Normandy for emergency evac during the final battle against the Reapers. That moment was burned into her mind as though it had just happened, recalled in a snap. Shepard took a few deep breaths to ground herself, digging her nails into her palms to refocus.
Victus continued without noticing Shepard’s misstep. “This new project will be an interdisciplinary program with mixed-species cohorts. The first of its kind. The Council is very invested in its success, and Palaven is proud to host it.”
Shepard nodded, genuinely impressed by the initiative. “It sounds like an excellent program. I’m curious to know more about how you plan to execute it.”
Victus smiled wide in response. “I’m glad to hear it because I want you to be the program’s Director.”
“Me?” Shepard choked out as she caught up to what Victus had said.
“You are the prime example of inter-species cooperation.” Victus paused to survey the area around them before moving closer to Shepard so as not to be overheard. “Respectfully Commander, the Alliance dishonours you by turning you into humanity’s mascot.”
“Don’t I know it,” Shepard said without thinking. Her eyes went wide at the admission. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d spoken her mind.
Victus hummed his agreement. “I will send you the information about the program. Promise me you will consider it?”
Shepard took a moment to look past Victus a the room full of faceless Alliance soldiers. There wasn’t a single person here she recognized aside from Admiral Hackett. She was surrounded by an ocean of people and had never been lonelier.
“I don’t need to.” Shepard summoned as much determination as she could recall from her past life as she met the Primarch’s gaze. “I accept.”