“Are you okay?”

I hate that question more than any other. Really, how is anyone supposed to honestly respond? Someone asks how we’re doing and we reply with deception or an undefined neutrality at best. “I’m good” or “not bad” or “getting by.” Because that’s what they expect. Answering the question “are you okay?” with an honest answer like “I feel worthless” isn’t socially acceptable. It isn’t particularly healthy either, because the brave few that do summon the courage to give an honest account of their emotions or lack thereof are generally met with a falsely encouraging and not at all helpful attempt to be cheered up. “It’ll get better. You’ll make it. You’re strong enough.”

I don’t fucking want to be strong enough. For once I just want to be able to say “I’m completely fucked up,” and have someone tell me, “That’s okay.” Because you know what? It is okay. All my life I’ve been misguiding myself with the illusion that I constantly have to be better than what I am, and it’s brought me nothing but misery and torment. There comes a time where we have to realize that we make mistakes, we fuck ourselves over, and we get other people hurt. That’s part of life. It doesn’t have to become my mission to never cause pain or try to relieve that pain for others, because it’s only going to create a feeling of inadequacy that pushes me deeper into this cycle of brokenness.

I’m done being broken.

I’m done hating myself for who I am.

I’m done getting people hurt because I’m trying too hard to keep them safe.

I finally let go.

The very first thing I did after six months on Rannoch was take a nice, long, relaxing shower. Not even a steam shower; no sir, I wanted a certified, honest-to-god normal-ass shower with dripping water and all, and I fucking got it. I soaked my bones in scorching hot liquid for what felt like thirty-seven hours, enjoying every bit of it even as it practically melted the grime and flesh off my bones. Our time with the geth and quarians hadn’t quite left us begging for a chance to attend to our personal hygiene, but there hadn’t been any opportunities for wasteful excess and luxury. A nice, long, hot shower had been living in my dreams for months.

After the disastrous end to our mission, we’d retreated fully while we waited to see what would happen to the quarian political landscape. Tali had been clear that there were contingencies for emergencies like this, but the fact that we were in the middle of a war with the Reapers complicated those plans somewhat. The fact that a large portion of the quarian people still had trouble trusting us only compounded the issue.

Essentially, it would come down to a matter of elections. The Conclave would need to appoint new representatives to the Admiralty Board, which could take some time. While they tried to figure their shit out, they had decided that reclaiming their homeworld was an unwise course of action since the Reapers were so keen on denying it to them. Once that threat was dealt with—if it was dealt with—they’d go from there.

Which put us on the Armistice while we waited for new orders. It was a much-needed change of pace from the six straight months of fighting Reapers. The only faces I’d seen had been my squad’s and Shepard’s in all that time, unless you counted the Husks and Marauders we’d encountered on a near-daily basis. Being on a cruiser with a crew complement in the hundreds reassured me that there were, in fact, other sentient beings out there still carrying on the fight.

And it had changed drastically in those six months. Before we’d left for Rannoch, it had been abundantly clear that the Armistice was an Alliance-operated vessel; now, I could honestly say that it seemed like there were more aliens aboard than humans. Hackett had essentially taken on the duties of the human Councilor at the beginning of the war, and while the rest of the Council had returned to their respective people, it had still become a necessity to keep envoys of every race close at hand in order to coordinate and strategize effectively.

The geth had been remarkably helpful in that aspect, as well. Essentially, the Warden Azraean served almost as a communications hub, utilizing its ability to communicate instantly with any geth platform across the galaxy to help us establish a secure galactic comms network. There was at least one geth stationed aboard every ship carrying a Councilor, diplomat, or tactical strategist so that in dire situations, we could act cohesively and make plans that involved several different species almost instantly. Our fleets weren’t separated by species or government any more—it was all one giant military conglomeration under Council authority, working in tandem with the established military hierarchies. So it made complete sense that Hackett’s command ship had become less of an Alliance vessel and more of a mobile interspecies communications relay.

All in all, it was a great set-up, and I was thankful that we seemed to be keeping a step or two ahead by utilizing intelligence and technological assets from the geth and the Wardens. All that being said, it did make shirking my duties a hell of a lot more difficult. After coming back from such an extended mission, the very last thing I wanted to do was wade through reams of situation reports and intelligence to catch up on what had happened elsewhere in the galaxy; but every time I took a moment for myself, someone pinged my omni-tool reminding me to get back to it. Every time I went to the weapons range instead of scanning through tactical analyses, a technician politely informed me that there would be plenty of time to blow things up in the future.

And I’d thought my prior life had left me with no free time. We had hardly been back for a week, and from the very second we returned it was non-stop business. Meetings, e-mails, conference calls. I remember not five minutes after we’d docked with the Armistice they had us meet with a few asari heads of state so we could explain everything we’d known about the prothean beacon on Thessia. Evidently the Temple of Athame had been destroyed during a civilian evacuation, and they wanted to make sure there was absolutely nothing useful in that beacon that we couldn’t relay ourselves.

It had been pure exhaustion, so much so that I almost would’ve preferred another six months of grueling combat and carnage. Jumping headfirst through politics, bureaucracy, and a ridiculous amount of information was just as taxing as stabbing a few Husks.

Thankfully for my sanity, there were other matters that were evidently just as urgent.

My omni-tool pinged for the umpteenth time that day, but I was pleasantly surprised to see that it wasn’t a priority communication from one of Hackett’s or the Council’s liaisons. Unfortunately, I was unpleasantly surprised that it wasn’t exactly anyone that I wanted to hear from, either.

“Specialist Donovan Womble, Warden designation Azraean wishes to converse with you. I will facilitate communications. We will rendezvous in hangar twelve, deck six when you are able.

Geth unit 224-x-9”

Odd. It had been a minute since I’d see a geth refer to itself by its platform designation. Typically they preferred to give themselves vague and obscure names that referenced their prior state of being as a collective, their current existence as an individual, or their primary role in society. In fact, most of them seemed to enjoy it quite a bit. Apparently there were outliers that I hadn’t encountered yet.

Either way, if the Wardens wanted to have a chat, I knew it had to be fairly important. If we had questions and an abundance of free time, they were never unwilling to speak to us, but they only reached out when they had information to share that was vital to whatever mission we were working on. As much as I was getting tired of the constant rigamarole, there was no ignoring the call when a Warden came knocking.

Besides, if I did try to ignore it, they’d just send half a dozen geth to track me down.

I opened the response window, typed a quick message to the geth, and set off for deck six. The Armistice was a much, much larger vessel than either the Normandy or the Evanescent, and seeing as they had previously been the only two ships I’d set foot on, it was a wild comparison to make. It felt more like being in a small town than on a warship. She was still a military vessel, and that fact was abundantly clear in the accommodations and the constant readiness of the crew, but it had a few luxuries as well, and by god was it difficult to navigate. Like being stuck in a hospital you’ve never been to before, only there were no windows to help with your sense of direction. The only way to reliably get around was to bring up a map on my omni-tool, and even then I sometimes tricked myself into thinking I was going the wrong way.

Eventually, I did find the hangar, and I was surprised to see that it was off-duty. Except during emergencies, drills, and combat situations, only nine of the twelve hangars aboard the Armistice were manned at one time, leaving three more or less vacant during that period.

Well, almost vacant. A single geth stood in the center of the bay, where it would be most noticeable. Remarkably, it didn’t have any distinguishing features aside from a small bit of battle damage on its superstructure. Mass effect impacts left dents even in geth armor.

“You rang?” I asked as I approached. Its head was already blinking, so I knew I was in for a treat.

“Womble, Donovan,” it said, its voice echoing in the empty hangar. Audibly, there was no difference in a geth’s voice whether it was serving as the proxy of a Warden or not, but there were tiny details that gave it away. The Wardens didn’t technically take control of the geth, but rather relayed a message to be transmitted to organics. It was a geth’s choice, and it was still in full control of its platform and processes. However, they did tend to go rigid when voicing a Warden’s words, and they had a weird ability to constantly meet your gaze despite never moving their heads. Like a creepy painting that you think might be possessed by a demon.

It sent a shiver down my spine to think of how astute that analogy actually was.

“Azraean. You’ve never asked for me specifically before. Is something wrong?”

No hesitation whatsoever. Talking to the Wardens always made me think they were precognitive, as if they knew what I was going to say before I said it. Considering their sheer processing power and the ability to think at the speed of light, I probably wasn’t far off.

“Your question requires no answer. The proof is all around us.”

And damn were they rude as hell.

“Let me rephrase that, then. Why do you want to speak to me directly?”

“We know what you have been keeping secret from the rest of your kind.”

At first the words didn’t really register for me. It had been at least eight months since Troy, Adison and I had been transported to the Mass Effect universe, and for me personally there had been a strange sort of acceptance as to the crushing reality of the situation. We were there, and we had no fucking idea whether or not we could return to our time, so we just had to accept it and try not to die. After the first couple weeks, it hadn’t even been a big deal. People stopped asking about it.

But then the smart part of my brain kicked in, and red flags went up all around me as if I were suddenly walking through a minefield. It was safe where I was standing, but if I moved even an inch in any direction, I was sure to set one off; and before long, someone would be aiming a very large gun at me, forcing me to choose whether to accept my fate right then and there, or go out in a suicidal blaze of stupidity.

It wasn’t as dramatic as all that, of course, but it sure as shit felt like it in that moment.

“What secret?” I prodded, knowing full well that rhetorical questions were a dumb game to be playing with a Warden. Still, there was no telling who was listening in on the conversation, or how much monitoring equipment the Alliance had in that hangar bay. I’d chosen not to talk about this subject for the last six months specifically because I was afraid of an instance like this one.

“This room has been purged of all external surveillance,” Azraean said, and as he did so, flashes of light went off around the room denoting security cameras and potential bugs that had been deactivated. It had chosen this hangar wisely. “We have no desire to cause contention between you and the organics of this reality.”

“Then what’s the purpose of meeting me like this?”

“To help you understand. If we do not speak of it now, it is possible we never will.”

That got my attention. “Explain.”

“A plan is in motion that holds the best probability of successfully repairing the damage done to space and time. When it comes to fruition, you will be needed to fight for your people. We will be needed elsewhere. Should it fail, the Reapers will harvest this cycle until there is nothing left. If they are unsuccessful, the galaxy will be consumed by darkness.”

The Wardens never failed to be vague and grandiose, but I got the gist of it well enough. We had a mission coming, and from the sound of it, we’d either accomplish our endgame or we’d fail so spectacularly that all of reality was doomed. It was a hell of a lot of pressure, but I’d developed some kind of unhealthy coping mechanism that allowed me to pretend it didn’t exist so I wouldn’t cave in right then and there. My real concern was why? Why this conversation, and why now? Why choose to tell me, and not Troy or Adison? They probably had been told, in all honesty, and it was simply more efficient for Azraean to speak to all of us separately so it didn’t waste anyone’s time.

But still, why? So many questions.

“All right then,” I said with a sigh and a deep breath. “I assume that means I’m about to get a briefing from Hackett. So what exactly is it that you think my secret is?” I tried to brace myself for whatever came next, but there was no moment of reprieve when speaking to a machine.

“You do not belong in this reality.”

My heart skipped so many beats that I was sure I’d just had a coronary, but I’m a stubborn bastard to the point of actually crippling myself rather than showing my hand. Instead I stood there motionless, putting on my best poker face for a fucking machine that could probably read my elevated heart rate. Hell, it probably even knew that I was beginning to sweat, and that my body temperature had increased. If I could tell, so could Azraean.

“The Reaper in Jerusalem said the same thing,” I responded, summoning all of my resolve to keep my voice steady. “Though it didn’t seem to know what it was seeing. What makes you so sure?”

“Your genetic composition. Your brain chemistry. We have monitored the development of your species since the first proteins began forming on your planet. Your very biology is genetically anomalous compared to the rest of humanity.”

“Shit happens,” I said weakly. “Organic life is prone to accidents and mutations.”

“This is no mutation. You are not human according to the natural laws of your species’ evolution. You are highly immune to the effects of indoctrination and element zero exposure. Perhaps they do not exist in your reality. The only explanation is that the laws of your universe are minutely different than those of this one.”

I wanted to continue arguing, but I didn’t know enough about biology or physiology to put up a fight with a fucking incalculably intelligent mechanical life form. It could be bluffing for all I knew, but it did explain a few things, and I had come to the same conclusion any time I asked myself how any of this was even possible. Alternate universes and sci-fi bullshit aside, it just made sense. In a sea of infinite universes, why wouldn’t there exist one in which the plot of Mass Effect was actually reality? If a person could think a concept up, it was very possible that that idea did actually exist—if not in their reality, in another one. So in some weird way, it made a certain sense that my cousins and I would be different compared to the humans of this reality.

It was fascinating to hear that the Wardens shared my theories, but it still didn’t explain why they’d wanted to have this conversation or what the purpose of it was. Revealing that they knew my origin didn’t help save the galaxy in any way.

“So you know,” I admitted. “I don’t know how it happened, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“It is not. We suspect the damage to reality allowed you to move through them. Ultimately it is irrelevant.”

“Then what’s the point of this conversation? If you’re not going to tell the others and you don’t know anything else about it, why bring it up?”

“The future of the galaxy will be decided within the coming days. Should the best outcome succeed, the damage to reality will be repaired. The means that are suspected to have brought you to this universe will no longer exist.”

Again, it took me a minute to realize what that meant, let alone why it was important. I very nearly asked “So what?” but caught myself just before I opened my mouth.

If our way into this universe was closed, that meant any chance of returning to our own would be closed as well.

“Fuck,” I said.

“Indeed.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any way to find out whether or not I could be sent back to my reality.”

“It is impossible to know. Your arrival is nothing but a hypothesis. It is impossible to provide a solution when the problem is not entirely known.”

The problem being the exact science of the spatial rift that had brought my cousins and I to this universe, and the solution being how to get back. Azraean made sense, in a way, although all the talk of quantum physics theories was beginning to make my head ache.

“So, either way, we’re stuck here.” I sighed loudly.

“In all probability.”

“Well, thanks, I feel so much more motivated now that I know that.”

“Sarcasm. Humanity’s inclination towards fruitless paradigms yields unsatisfactory results.”

“Well what the fuck did you expect?” I nearly yelled, shouting into the void of the hangar because I knew getting frustrated with an AI wouldn’t do me any good. “You just told me that I’m stranded away from my home—did you really think I would walk away from it happy and productive?”

“You should be aware of all relevant information, whether it is beneficial to your emotional state or not. We were not so naive to think you would be inspired by it. We merely respect your right to make informed decisions.”

I stopped and stared at the geth for a moment, wondering if it had any idea just how significant the conversation was that he was facilitating. Maybe Azraean could wipe the whole thing from its memory. Either way, it was telling me that my life was now inexorably entwined in this reality. It brought no shortage of mindfucks to my attention, and I was sure that it was a significant fact for the Wardens as well, considering they had taken the time to inform me.

My life, and the lives of my cousins, depended on us stopping the death of the universe. There was no escape for us, no way to retreat back to the comfy suburbia of our old lives where the Reaper War was just a compelling setting for a video game. I’d never really considered the possibility, and in many ways I had already resigned myself to this fate, but hearing the most advanced intelligences in known reality lay it all out for me really hammered it home.

This is our reality now.

“Seems like there’s not much of a decision to be made,” I said, staring over the geth’s shoulders into the empty hangar bay. “If there’s no way home, either I die with the rest of the galaxy, or we find a way to save it. There isn’t really any room for interpretation there.”

There was a long pause, noticeable only because conversations with the Wardens only contained silence if we organics were the ones who needed a moment to think. In all likelihood, Azraean was just giving me that moment because it knew I was in a fairly fragile emotional state, but I had to wonder if it didn’t know how to respond at first. There were a thousand things it could’ve told me, and it took several long seconds before it decided to say a word.

“There is always a choice.”

Then the geth’s flashlight-head stopped blinking. It stood still for a moment, snapped out of it, and took a second to absorb its surroundings.

“Communications ceased,” it announced, as if there wasn’t a physical cue to give that away. “Is there anything else you require?”

“No,” I replied. “I don’t remember your designation, but thank you.”

“224-x-9. You are welcome.”

Then it promptly walked out of the hangar bay, likely returning to its duties, and leaving me to try to breathe calmly. I was going to have to talk with Troy and Adison, and God did I hope I wouldn’t have to break the news to them.

Better sooner than later.

Fuck me. I brought up my omni-tool and messaged both of them, telling them I was getting exhausted from all the reports and needed to unwind. Troy was in immediately, suggesting we find a bar and have a few drinks to relax.

Now that was something I could get behind. The moment I finished reading the message, I was halfway through typing my response and had a second window open scanning for directions to the bar. Thank God for the wonderful invention of quantum processing in a personalized device, aka the omni-tool.

There had been a lot of bad news going around, and Ella had done her fair share of giving. With every mission, there were casualty reports. It wasn’t like it used to be. Soldiers had died under her command before, more times than she cared to count. She had sent no shortage of condolence letters to families who would never see their loved ones again. Until this shitshow of a war, Ashley had been the latest.

Now, it was every mission—damn near every day. And it wasn’t just one or two marines per risky op; they lost entire platoons over nothing more than casual turf engagements with Reaper forces. People were dying in the tens of thousands with no respite or reprieve.

It wasn’t her duty to keep tabs on all of them, and she knew she’d go insane if she tried. But if Ella consulted on a mission, gave intel for something Hackett or the others were planning, or even overheard or glanced at a casualty report, she felt obligated to try to reach out to the deceased’s known family. Liara had had to set up a dozen automated systems so Ella could read through pre-written messages and write in something personal. It wasn’t much, but it was the best she could do.

So it was nothing short of heartbreaking to receive messages with titles that she knew so well. “Re: Location on Jacob Taylor,” or “Whereabouts of Kasumi Goto and Zaeed Massani.” She had sent too many similarly labelled messages, and she knew what they contained before she even opened them.

Some of her old crew had been particularly hard to locate. Zaeed and Kasumi had all but dropped off the face of the galaxy following the invasion. Jacob had apparently been deep in the Terminus, fleeing with a group of former Cerberus scientists to a remote location. Thane had been on the Citadel seeking treatment, and no one could confirm whether or not he’d escaped the Reaper assault, despite his son’s persistence. Even people like Kelly Chambers had proven tough to track down.

Troy and Donovan had told her everything they knew about anyone even remotely connected to the Normandy, and still Ella couldn’t find some of them. More than she would like. And she knew that when she received messages like the ones she had been staring at for the past ten minutes, they didn’t hold anything good.

Grunt’s death was still being processed, if one could even call it that. He would’ve hated his own death. He’d gone out the way any krogan should, having annihilated some of the toughest Reaper forces and successfully curing the genophage, but he hadn’t died in battle. He hadn’t really gone out in a blaze of glory and carnage, like he would’ve wanted. Instead he’d had a fucking building dropped on top of him and he’d been crushed like an ant.

The hardest part was thinking about everything that would never happen. Everything left unsaid, every experience they’d never gotten to share. She’d barely had time to catch up with him during their brief encounter back at Sentinel Outpost; only enough to know that Wrex had constantly been placing him on the frontlines, and Grunt had loved every second of it. She often wondered what he would think of the insane schemes the biotics were cooking up. Even though Grunt himself didn’t have any biotic potential, Ella knew he would’ve jumped at the chance to learn how to crush his enemies with his mind.

But those conversations would never happen, because of a condolence letter Ella had received from the Council. Wrex had been the first to tell her, of course, but the first official documentation of Grunt’s death had come from a group of people who, only months earlier, had felt justified in practically neutering his entire species.

If the messages Ella had just received held more of the same news, it would destroy her. She didn’t want to open them. She wanted to shut off her messaging alerts for the next two months and ignore the dark truth that was sure to be revealed. It couldn’t destroy her if she never acknowledged it, right? If what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, then what you don’t know certainly can’t hurt you.

Unfortunately, she knew all too well that just the opposite was true. Sometimes it was what one didn’t know that proved the most dangerous. Sometimes it was the lack of closure and the pressure of unresolved emotions that tore a person down until there was nothing left but fear and paranoia.

She had lived through hell before. She had been living it for the last three years, punctuated by the occasional victory and the blessing of an amazing circle of supportive friends. Whatever happened, she would press on. She had to.

So she opened the first message.

“Commander Ella Shepard, Systems Alliance Navy,

Locating Zaeed Massani has proven to be a much more difficult task than anticipated. If he’s as resourceful as you say, it stands to reason that he may not want to be found. I see that he visited the Citadel a few weeks before the attack, but also left several days beforehand. Other than that, no record of his movements.

The thief, Kasumi Goto, is similarly elusive. C-Sec reports show a hooded human female cropping up on suspicious activity monitoring, but your description of her makes it clear that I won’t find any record of her comings and goings. No way to tell if she left the Citadel before the attack.

Of course, you know it’s been a monumental task just to keep track of our military ships and transports. Private vessels, especially those belonging to mercenaries and independent contractors, much more so. We’ve all but stopped trying.

Finally, it behooves me to tell you that there may be another reason we can’t locate your old comrades. I’m sorry to put it so bluntly. We simply can’t allocate more time to tracking them down, regardless of their usefulness in the war effort. I wish I could do more.

Regards,

Emora Malisi

Office of Salarian Intelligence and Monitoring”

Well, it wasn’t the worst of news, at least. Kasumi was a tenacious and ridiculously intelligent woman, and Zaeed was far too stubborn to get himself killed. The lack of any footprints didn’t exactly inspire confidence, but the lack of a confirmed death report at least meant there was hope.

The doorbell chimed, and Ella immediately swiped at her omni-tool to open it. For the briefest of moments, she’d actually forgotten where she was, only realizing that the door alert meant she was still in her temporary quarters aboard the Armistice. Not as cozy or spacious as the captain’s cabin aboard Normandy, but she was used to military accommodations.

“You’re going to lose your eyesight if you don’t tear yourself away from that screen.”

Liara entered the room with no prerequisite encouragement, swaying lightly in a casual yellow dress she often wore when they were away from active engagements. The calm wouldn’t last long, but she enjoyed any chance to take off the armor and feel like the galaxy wasn’t about to implode for a moment. And the dress did give Ella a reason to stop looking at the terminal on her desk.

“I could say the same to you,” she said. “How many monitors do you have in your quarters on the Normandy again?”

Liara chuckled and leaned against the far wall. “Enough for both of us.”

“And the entire rest of the ship.”

Ella felt her head throb. It had been two days since she’d slept, and God only knew how long since she’d eaten or had a glass of water. She was so inundated with chores and busywork—they all were—that she only took care of herself when someone offered her a bagel or something in passing. Hackett had even told her she needed to take a nap and sleep off the bags under her eyes.

Still, headaches were uncommon even under those conditions. She’d survived much worse for much longer periods of time, and while they hadn’t exactly been a picnic, they’d never induced internal physical pain.

“Are you all right?” Liara asked. In a second, she was at Ella’s side, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s nothing, just a stress headache.”

“That happens for a reason, you know.”

“Liara—”

“You have to take care of yourself.” She knelt down and took Ella’s hand in both of hers. “The galaxy will be here tomorrow, ready for you to fix its problems. Make sure you’re ready, too.”

Ella sighed deeply, closed her eyes, and squeezed Liara’s hands. She leaned back in her chair, and as she did so, Liara sat on her lap and leaned back with her. Regardless of what was happening, the security of her presence always brought such a relaxing sensation with it.

“I’ve been trying to find some of my old squadmates,” Ella explained, knowing that Liara would instantly understand the weight of those words. “The ones I lost track of when I turned myself over to the Alliance.”

“Any luck?” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

“No. I’m trying to stay optimistic, but . . .”

“No news isn’t the same as bad news. They’re resourceful people.”

Ella knew that, and she knew that Liara knew she knew it, but it still needed to be said. No matter how much faith she had in them, the external reinforcement would do wonders for her spirits, even if it didn’t seem like it at the time. That had become her sort of mantra during the war. No matter how shitty everything seemed, she had to keep telling herself that everything would be all right. Hopefully, in time, she’d end up believing it.

That was what Liara had tried to drill into her, anyway. Ella had always been a pragmatist, even before joining the navy. The idea of ignoring the odds and the plain, visible truth in favor of baseless positivity had never been very appealing. But now, bombarded as they constantly were with daily tragedies, she’d decided it was as good a time as any to try embracing a new state of mind.

It hadn’t exactly been going well.

“It was a mistake, turning myself in to the Alliance,” Ella said. “I lost track of too many people—spent too much time sitting in a holding facility when I could've been preparing.”

Liara frowned, leaning back so she could face Ella. “If you hadn’t, it’s very possible the galaxy wouldn't have come together like it did. The Council and the Alliance would have still thought of you as a lost cause. You did what you had to, and we all support every decision you’ve made so far.”

It didn’t help, but Liara’s affirmations did at least provide Ella with some small amount of confidence that she knew she had been lacking. The decision to abandon Cerberus had been an easy one: after seeing what the Illusive Man was capable of, the entire Normandy crew had turned their backs without question. The decision to return to the Alliance had been a much more difficult one, made so only by the fact that bureaucracy and politics mired the real point behind it. In an ideal world, Ella would’ve been able to return to earth, show Alliance Command the evidence of the impending Reaper invasion, and begin strategizing. Unfortunately, in the real world that was quite far from ideal, a bunch of old men and women in hats had argued for six months while their demise crept closer and closer.

But Liara was probably right, as always. If Ella hadn’t faced the noise and owned up to her cooperation with Cerberus, the galaxy would likely have continued to see her as a lost cause. Just another one of the Illusive Man’s puppets, misguided so severely that it would cause harm to any who tried to control it.

Of all the difficult choices Ella had been forced to make in her life, she had a feeling that she was only just beginning to feel the effects of them.

“Come on,” Liara said, practically dragging Ella to her feet as she stood from the reclining chair.

“What are you up to?” Ella asked, a coy grin working its way onto her face.

“I heard there’s a bar somewhere on this ship, and a few of Garrus’s crew are meeting there to blow off steam. You could do with some of that, yourself.”

“Liara, I don’t—”

There was no point arguing with her. Ella could stubbornly refuse on the grounds of not feeling up to it, or having too much work to do, but it would end the same way it always did. They’d argue for a bit and Liara would win, or Ella would win, feel like a piece of shit, and then end up going five minutes later anyway.

“The reports can wait. We’re going. I heard they even have a bottle or two of asari wine.”

Oh God, not again.

The last time the two of them had shared a bottle of Thessian red . . . well, it had been a weekend to remember, even if half of it actually couldn’t be remembered.

“Fine,” Ella gave in. “But you’re buying.”

It only took me about fifteen minutes to reach the place, during which I was stopped no fewer than half a dozen times. Everyone needed an opinion on something, or an update, or to ask me if I’d seen Shepard or Garrus any time recently. The crews of the Normandy and the Evanescent had grown quite close over the months, and as such we had all made a sort of unspoken agreement that if anyone came asking for someone specific, we’d cover for each other. The very last thing any of us needed was to be interrupted during something important—Shepard especially so. Someone could approach me and tell me the Commander was in danger of having a spontaneous heart attack, and I’d still tell them I had no idea where she was. She was too damn busy to let a heart attack get in the way.

Eventually, though, I did in fact reach the bar. It wasn’t much to look at; we were still on an Alliance ship, so it wasn’t like they had room for a proper R&R lounge filled with alcohol of every kind imaginable. Instead, it was pretty reminiscent of the bar on Normandy. A small counter stood at one end, unmanned, guarding access to a couple shelves of assorted bottles that I didn’t recognize. At the other end of the room were a few couches and loungers, with coffee tables filling the space between them. In the middle of the room was what I suppose you could call a dance floor, although the soft ambient music playing in the background could hardly inspire any lively activity.

It was just a chill spot to hang out, unwind a bit, and have a drink with the boys. Which, I noticed, they had already started on without me, and I wasn’t the first to join them.

Troy and Adison both sat at the bar, one with a bottle of earthy brown liquid next to him, and the other with a mug of what smelled like black coffee. I couldn’t even remember a single time that I’d seen Adison drink alcohol, so his choice of beverages wasn’t any surprise.

Perhaps more interesting, however, was the fact that Antarom and J’kal were there as well, seated a few feet away at the lounge area. There was a bottle of green-ish sludge on the table between them, and it appeared that they were both drinking from it. I’ve had my share of mixed drinks that came in all sorts of colors and consistencies, but I didn’t even want to know what was in that bottle.

“Glad to see you’ve started without me,” I said sarcastically as I approached the bar. Troy waved the bottle in my direction, then slid me a full glass when I stood between he and Adison.

“You gotta try this shit,” he said, immediately taking another gulp. “Remember that Ciroc and Sprite we had at that one New Year’s? It’s like that plus an orgasm in your mouth.”

I brought the glass to my nose with a smile, immediately recalling the celebration he was talking about. We’d partied so hard that we had to walk to the nearest gas station for more Sprite because we were so inebriated. It had been at my aunt’s house, which had a very long walkway leading straight through the front yard to the street beyond. Time flies very differently when you’re drunk, and we actually thought we had teleported from the front door to the sidewalk thanks to the copious amounts of Ciroc and whiskey we’d imbibed.

The next morning had been a very different experience.

“Smells like piss,” I absently commented before downing the whole glass in one go. It had been months since I’d had alcohol of any kind, so it went down with quite the burn, but it was sweet at the same time. “What is it?”

“Dogshit more than likely,” Antarom interrupted. “Humans have fuck-all taste when it comes to liquor.”

“Maybe because we don’t wanna fucking die from acid poisoning,” Troy responded, motioning toward the bottle Antarom and J’kal were drinking out of. “What is that shit anyway?”

“Uncut batarian ale. Probably one of the last bottles to survive Khar’Shan.”

J’kal grunted rather animalistically, but Antarom paid him little mind. He didn’t speak often, instead preferring to voice his thoughts through unintelligible growls and groans, but we’d learned that he especially didn’t like us mentioning his homeworld or the fate of his people. We were quite sure he would’ve liked to skewer all of us, but had to restrain himself courtesy of his commander swearing allegiance to the Council.

Either way, a subject change was always necessary when we sensed his irritation rising.

“Have you guys been having to fill out all these stupid reports on the Rannoch mission?” Adison asked, largely directing his question to Antarom. He knew full well that Troy and I had been doing little else.

Antarom nodded. “Same as you. Everyone wants everyone else’s opinion. They’re scared to make a move without considering every single fucking alternative available.”

J’kal scoffed at that, then looked directly at the humans in the room. “Your people talk too much.”

I had to agree with him there. I poured another glass of whatever I was drinking and lifted it towards him, taking a hearty gulp. “We never should’ve taken that mission in the first place. Now we’re dealing with a shitshow because of it.”

“Shit, I’ll drink to that,” Antarom said, and a second later we were all toasting each other.

Two glasses of shitty liquor in, I knew I had to ask Troy and Adison about what Azraean had told me, otherwise I’d be too buzzed to hold a proper conversation. Quietly and nonchalantly, I motioned for them to lean in a bit and lowered my voice to a whisper.

“You guys talked to any Wardens lately?”

They both nodded, their heads dropping a bit and their eyes sinking. It was all that needed to be said. I downed another glass and waited for the buzz to kick in.

“We could still find a way,” Adison offered.

“Not here,” Troy breathed. “We can talk about it more later.”

“Talk about what?”

My heart leapt into my throat at the thought that someone had somehow deciphered what we were talking about, because the voice that spoke was far too feminine to belong to Troy or Adison. Fortunately I’m not completely stupid. I spun to find the speaker, realizing that my surprise had nothing to do with being interrupted, but rather who was doing the interrupting.

“Claire?”

She stood there smiling softly, dressed in a regulation Alliance uniform and looking like she was ready to take on the entire galaxy. It was a stark contrast for a number of reasons; for one, I’d essentially just learned that there was no way home for my cousins and I, so naturally we weren’t in the happiest state of mind. Then there was the complete surprise—I’d known Claire was getting better, but I’d thought she had been moved to a more secure facility specifically devoted to studying the effects of indoctrination. And third, I had just been messaging her earlier that morning, and she hadn’t mentioned a damn thing about getting released. Surely she had to have known it was coming. They didn’t usually just throw people back out on the streets as soon as they got better, especially not from a pseudo-illness like indoctrination.

Still, after giving myself a second to process the tidal wave of thoughts and feelings that came with Claire’s sudden appearance, elation won out in the end. We needed some good news after all the bullshit we’d been dealing with.

“You look surprised,” she said coyly. “It’s not like I was going through intensive brainwave therapy or anything.”

The crack immediately made me chuckle, and not because it was funny. Just the opposite, in fact. I’d learned that Claire was generally a pretty upbeat person; she had a darker side, like we all do, but she liked to err on the side of optimism. However, she was fucking horrible at comedy. All her attempts at jokes were bad puns, mistimed quips, or simple statements of fact, and they were almost never actually humorous. Oddly enough, that only made them more hilarious.

“They got rid of the indoctrination signal?” Adison asked, pragmatic as ever.

“Yep, my brain’s been thoroughly scrubbed. I’m ready to get back out there with you guys. What are we drinking to?” She slid in between me and Troy, allowing her to pour herself a drink and still address all of us.

We shared a sort of cautious look. The topic of our arrival had been one we’d almost entirely stopped speaking about over the last few months, gradually fading even from our minds. The less you talk about a secret, the fewer opportunities there are for someone else to unravel it, after all.

Furthermore, as much as they may have annoyed me sometimes, the crews of the Normandy and the Evanescent were like a second family, especially Claire. It didn’t feel right lying to them, which was exactly what we’d have to do if we continued the conversation. Even half-truths—our go-to solution for problems like this—felt underhanded.

“Just found out our home’s gone,” Troy answered, taking charge knowing full well that I didn’t want to make the choice of how to proceed.

The smile disappeared from Claire’s face. “Shit, I’m so sorry.”

I nodded, trying my best to look both appreciative and relatively collected. As per the fiction we’d established, we didn’t really have much of an emotional attachment to the place we grew up. In fact, I hardly remembered where we’d decided to tell everyone home was. All that mattered was that it had been remote enough for no one to actually know whether or not we were telling the truth.

Still, distant as I may have been with some of my family, the thought of never seeing some of them again really was a terrifying thought. Despite all their faults and all my mental and emotional instabilities, I did love them. It would be inhuman not to feel some sense of loss in that situation.

I shook my head and lifted the glass of liquor in front of me, subconsciously choosing to make eye contact only with the bar counter. “We knew this war was gonna be a bitch, but it still hits like a freight train.” I downed the entire glass in one go, and everyone else followed suit.

There was no more to be said, and we all knew it. Somber moments weren’t exactly a rarity in those days; it seemed like every other day we were hearing about some personal tragedy that a friend or loved one had suffered. Cities were destroyed, families were torn apart, people were lost or displaced. We’re taught about these kinds of tragedies when we grow up and learn world history, but words on paper can never quite convey the dread you feel when someone you care about suffers a tremendous loss. Worse still, it’s impossible to imagine the weight and gravity you feel when it’s so constant and relentless.

It blew my mind that there were people who made a career out of such a thing. Troy, Adison and I had been dragged into this war by complete existential absurdity and our own stubbornness. Most of the people we fought alongside had chosen such insanity, usually for no other reason than sheer nobility. There were plenty like us, of course—refugees who had decided to fight rather than flee—but on the whole, the bulk of our fighting force was composed of men and women who’d devoted their lives to providing peace and security. And did that job reward them for their tremendous sacrifices?

No, it instead decided to shit all over them, constantly placing both their physical and mental health in severe peril. Furthermore, I’d noticed that it caused an equal amount of damage to their livers, given how much alcohol was usually needed in order to get through the week.

Troy poured me another, and it was then that I realized I’d lost count of how many I’d had. It also dawned on me that the Seer package was doing wonders keeping me on my feet; I wasn’t sure what the actual alcohol content was in that drink, but I’d never exactly been a heavyweight champ when it came to the hard stuff. Two or three glasses should’ve had me pretty buzzed.

“So,” Adison enunciated. He was the most sober among us, and that made him the perfect candidate to move the conversation in a more innocuous direction. “I’m not the only one who thinks this plan the biotics have cooked up is crazy, right?”

I damn near drank another glass right then and there, and I think the rest of the room shared that sentiment. J’kal growled angrily and Antarom practically spat her drink across the table. When I’d first read the report, I’d legitimately thought Hackett was trying to pull a prank on us. That, or he knew we needed a good laugh. But they were actually serious, and the smartest sentient beings in known existence thought it had a chance at working. Who were we to argue?

“We have a plan?” Claire asked as she set her glass back on the bar.

“What, they didn’t tell you?”

She shook her head in response, giving Adison a curious look. “Priority communications aren’t allowed to go through to indoctrinated individuals, or those undergoing therapy. I’ve been out of the loop this whole time.”

“Oh, well this is gonna be fun,” Antarom scoffed. “Who’s gonna explain it to her? Because I sure as shit don’t wanna get into that mess.”

“You wouldn’t, Antarom.”

My eyes turned to find the source of the voice for the second time that night, which was remarkable only due to the fact that I typically didn’t like to look people in the eyes when they spoke. But when Liara and Shepard walked into the bar, it gave me no small amount of cause to make sure what I was seeing was real.

“You wanna explain it then, T’Soni?” Antarom prodded, sloshing her glass of vomit sludge carelessly around the sitting area.

“Not particularly, no,” Liara answered. Without so much as asking for permission, she snatched the bottle J’Kal and Antarom had been nursing as well as one of the empty glasses on the table, poured herself a drink, and took a dignified swig. “I’d rather not talk about work for one evening. Surely we can all agree on that?”

We all murmured our agreement, or at least our lack of disagreement, even though J’Kal was practically fuming at the mouth after Liara drank from his liquor. I gave him a quick once-over just to make sure he wasn’t armed; usually we weren’t allowed to carry our weapons during non-emergency situations, but he was the kind of guy who would keep a frag on his person for just such occasions.

“All right, no business then,” Troy said. He slid around to the other side of the bar, grabbed a few more glasses, and laid them out in a line before pouring the contents of our bottle. “Anyone have any not-so-depressing topics to talk about?”

“Killcounts,” Antarom immediately responded. “No bullshit, we’ve all been keeping track.”

A huge grin split across Shepard’s face, and I had a pretty good idea why. “Come on, Antarom,” she said mockingly. “Is it even a competition?”

“Well, not one I can win,” Claire interrupted with a cute smile. “The last firefight I saw was seven months ago.”

“We’ll take half of Shepard’s count and add it to yours, it’s fine,” I said, getting a bit of a laugh out of Claire and Liara.

“Well if that’s the case, I’m sitting around four fifty,” Shepard said.

Everyone had to stop and think for a moment, and we were all thinking the exact same thing. “Is that . . . there’s no way that’s after taking away half, right?”

Shepard only lifted an eyebrow in response, giving us a shit-eating grin. Antarom was perhaps the most vocal about how much horse shit that count had to be, and I was right behind her, even going so far as to demand that Shepard show us her hardsuit’s VI records just to be perfectly sure. I was no slouch, but nine hundred kills in six months was a ridiculous pill to swallow, especially considering my own killcount.

“All right then, Antarom, what’s yours?” Shepard asked.

“Five hundred eleven.” No hesitation whatsoever, which meant she had either come well-prepared, or she was ready because it was the truth. And Antarom didn’t exaggerate unless she was popping a fucker’s head off with her biotics.

“Not bad. Ashbrook?”

“Four eighty-three,” Adison answered with a smile. He was enjoying the game, I knew, but he was also way too humble to brag about his number. If we’d been talking bodycount that would’ve been a whole other story, but most guys know that bodycount and killcount are two very different things.

“Don’t ask,” Troy said before Shepard could get to him. “I don’t wanna make these assholes feel bad.”

I reached across the bar and smacked him upside the head. “Come on, fucker, spit it out.”

“Five thirty-one.”

Antarom damn near exploded in outrage, jumping to her feet and halfway across the room before we had to stop her. We were all laughing and enjoying ourselves, but to be honest I think she might have biotic bitch-slapped him if we hadn’t intervened.

“There’s no way,” she said as we threw her back to the couch she’d been sitting on. “There’s no fucking way you’re higher than me!”

“I’m a sniper, what do you expect?”

“I blow people up with my mind! There’s no comparison!”

“Yeah, and you also have Donz constantly stealing your kills, so I’m probably not the one you should be mad at.”

I tried to hide my smile because I was genuinely terrified, but I’d had too much to drink and we were having way too much fun making asses of ourselves. “Whoa, don’t drag me into this!” I protested, raising my hands in a sign of surrender even though I had a glass of liquor in one of them.

“Out with it, what’s your number?” Antarom demanded. “How many kills have you taken from me?”

“It’s honestly so low, I swear.”

“Numbers!”

I was really hoping that I could just ride the argument between she and Troy, therefore never having to reveal how comparatively low my number actually was, but I never get what I want. “Jesus, fine! Four seventy or something.”

“Or something?” Liara said with a laugh.

“I’m not good with technology, okay! My VI lost track a couple times.”

“Oh, great,” Antarom said, now violently flinging her drink everywhere without even realizing it. “So you probably took much more than that from me.”

“Nah, he can’t hit a wide open barn door,” Troy exclaimed, repaying me for hitting him earlier. “His number’s probably even lower.”

“Oh you little shit,” I said, reaching across the counter and slapping the bottle right out of Troy’s hands. It crashed to the ground with a shatter and I knew I’d fucked up, but it was all background noise at that point. Troy was laughing hysterically despite just having been assaulted, Shepard was strangely not murdering us for our recklessness, and the rest of the room seemed content to either watch us struggle or drink in peace while we kept each other occupied.

That was, at least, until the room went strangely quiet, and Admiral Hackett walked through the entryway.

There are a few things in life that’ll sober you up instantaneously despite how fucked up you are. I remember being eighteen, getting stupid drunk, and bringing a girl home for the first time only to have my mom walk in on us in the morning. In moments like those, it honestly doesn’t matter what you’ve ingested or how strong it is; a sickening feeling hits your gut that makes you realize all the stupid shit you never would’ve done had you been less intoxicated, and then guilt sets in.

But it was even worse, because Hackett wasn’t my mom, terrifying as that comparison was. He had no familial ties that would force him to forgive me after several weeks of punishment. All he had was the punishment, and it was all a soldier deserved after behaving like we’d behaved.

I stood there for what felt like hours, wondering just how fucked I was. Technically we weren’t actually part of the Alliance or agents of the Council—they had made that abundantly clear before sending us out on missions. But nothing was official in this war, and we had been given a certain amount of trust and responsibility that came with strings attached. The kind of strings that a man like Hackett could tie around our throats and use to choke us until we saw stars.

But he didn’t. He took off his hat, threw it on the table between J’Kal and Antarom, and pointed at the bottle they’d been sharing. “Is that batarian ale?”

Antarom nodded, frowning at him as she did so.

Hackett stooped over, poured himself a glass, and downed it in one go. It looked like it caused him physical pain as it went down, but he simply exhaled deeply and nodded. “Still tastes like shit.”

J’Kal was fantasizing about murdering him, I could just tell.

“At ease, everyone,” Hackett said as he trudged forward to the bar. “We need to talk, but damn do I understand the need to blow off some steam.” He didn’t even wait to tell us any more; he just started pouring himself a drink. “We’ll keep this a casual discussion.”

“About what, exactly?” Troy asked, still standing with an empty glass in his hands and a broken bottle on the floor behind him.

Hackett smirked, took a swig of his drink, and let it settle. “We think we know how to end this war, once and for all.”