a thousand miles (left behind) & no one's wiser - part four
headers are in part one
part 2
part 3
“These are the complete dossiers I’ve managed to put together from the Illusive Man, we’ll be ready to set a course for either once you’ve decided.”
She sets two more datapads on his desk that’s still oddly neat despite being completely covered. She’s certain he reads through everything he gets sent because he likes to be thorough. It’s possible she should actually know if he does but this is the first time she actually talks to him in nearly a week.
He furrows his brow for a second, picking them up to take a better look at the information on them and a drawn out “thanks” while he tries to process.
She doesn’t stick around to talk about it because she still doesn’t want to talk to him about anything, but she will talk to him about work if she has to; the quicker she leaves, the less she’ll have to.
Her track record for avoiding unwanted conversations on the Normandy is stays zero in her favor. This time, though, she only has herself to blame when she opens her mouth and tells him she’s doing her job.
It’s an ill-fitted attempt to put him in his place and she only realizes it after it leaves her mouth.
“Thank you, anyways,” he says, his tone oddly insistent with how polite he’s being. She turns back to look at him but says nothing, accidentally staying around for too long and gives him an opening to ask her what she thinks they should do.
It’s completely irrelevant what she thinks in this case because he’s the one in charge - not her; the Illusive Man made it plenty clear that Shepard isn’t her lackey in any way, shape, or form.
That tone of insistence comes back and she’s still not sure what to make of it, making her way to the door again before she can dwell too much on it. She has plenty more work to do without unnecessary distractions.
He can do whatever he wants.
(later, when she gets to her room she makes EDI steer him towards the doctor - she’ll be more useful the longer she’s on board)
“You know, a dozen showers after full decontamination isn’t even going to make me feel remotely clean after this.”
If her suit wasn’t more or less one of a kind, it’d be a sure bet that she would shoot it out of an airlock faster than you could say “gross.” She has another suit (thank, God) but that’s her only backup and it’s not really a good idea to get rid of what’s technically a perfectly good tech suit.
Sure, it feels gross but it’s not like it’s actually ineffective because such.
So the beginning and end of this mental snafu is that her life is currently a cesspool for who-knows-what and there’s not much she can do about it.
At least it’s over with.
The doctor comes with them, somewhat reluctantly, though that isn’t something she concerns herself with. The matter of the fact is she’s agreed and that’s all she cares for. Despite how she feels, she has to admit that Shepard’s constant need to sooth everyone’s conscience on an hourly basis actually helps them gain the doctor in their favor.
It takes the better half of her day and a firefight through most of the underground slums of Omega rescuing a poor excuse for an assistant, releasing a plague cure through the city’s ventilation system, before their score is settled enough to the doctor’s liking. It’s a round about way to achieve something she could have done in an hour - two, tops. Even so, doing all that (literal) dirty work lands them in good favor with the doctor and that will be more useful in the long run.
She can admit Shepard’s ways are better, she just doesn’t necessarily have to like these ways.
“Aw, come on. You’re telling me you didn’t get down and dirty back on Earth?”
“Oh, I did. I always did. Growing up with three older brothers for the better half of my life assured that,” she quips, squirming even though they’re halfway through decontamination already. “What I didn’t do when I was a child, however, was take leisurely walks through operational sewers that people lived in.”
She’s looking forward now, but she can feel him eying her the way he does when he wants to know something and he’s waiting for answers to be supplied to him rather than actually ask.
(she doesn’t bite)
He resigns with a quick sigh after a beat, “brothers?” he asks casually despite turning to face her more fully like she’ll explain her whole childhood in one fell swoop. Instead, all he gets from her is a curt, “brothers,” in reply as she barely turns her head in his direction to acknowledge him.
There’s a lull in their conversation, if it even counts as that because as soon as it starts, it’s over, and she uses the opportunity to make her way out of the airlock and back onto the main deck of the ship.
She wants out of her clothes now.
Luckily, it actually only takes three showers to make her feel like she isn’t carrying some unknown disease.
She doesn’t put her suit back on, slipping back into that would just undo what she tried for the past hour and a half and that’s the last thing she wants. She pads over to the rarely touched drawer with clothes she wears when she likes to indulge, pulls on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt that’s worn in well past its prime.
For the first time in a long time, she feels relaxed; her bones are soothed from the warm water and her body thrums with an ease that isn’t indicative of the universe possibly ending sooner rather than later.
(for the first time in a long time, she doesn’t bother worrying about it either)
Her reports don’t have to be done immediately since she speaks to the Illusive Man after she gets back on board. They’d be technicalities at this point, she only actually intends to document that they achieved their end goal. It’s something that can wait until later.
She indulges herself for a small moment, making her way out to the kitchen to make herself a sandwich and possibly a strawberry milkshake she’s been craving. The mess hall is empty at this hour, most of the crew already asleep with a skeleton crew keeping tabs on the ship.
The ingredients for her milkshake are laid out neatly on the counter when he leans up against it, stealing a strawberry and throwing it into his mouth.
“Do you plan on having all our heart-to-hearts in the kitchen on an empty stomach, Commander?”
She doesn’t look up to acknowledge him, continues making her dinner while he stands there seemingly content at just watching her. It’s possible this could be unnerving but since it’s him, she just feels this great annoyance at him hovering.
“Maybe. We only ever talk about reports and statistics and…technical things in your room, so I thought I’d try a different approach - maybe loosen you up,” he shrugs, folding his arm and leaning against the fridge now to accommodate her. “Food has a way of doing that, you know.”
A fairly undignified sound leaves her mouth before she can stop it, “no, I can’t say I’m familiar with that particular quality.”
It surprises her that she goes along with this and that she seems more than willing to humor him right now. It catches her off guard a bit, but she rolls with the punches because she can’t really find a reason to rain on his parade just yet.
“Is the great Commander Shepard a fan of milkshakes?” she asks while she starts dropping the ingredients into the blender. She turns over to look at him when he doesn’t answer right away, matching his questioning look with a smirk and a challenge in her eyes. He balks slightly for a second, like he’s completely surprised that someone like her can’t indulge in life’s simple pleasures.
When his brain seems to start up again, he laughs, long and full before making a dig at strawberry milkshakes, calling them “inferior to vanilla milkshakes in every way.”
He obviously has never tasted a strawberry milkshake made the right (her) way then, so she takes pity on his soul and pours him a half a glass after stealing a sip straight from the blender to taste test. Not that she doesn’t know it’s made perfectly, more because she always loves the first sip. To his credit, he eyes her kind of funny but doesn’t mention anything about it before taking his proffered glass, complete with a bendy straw.
The thickness is just right so that it takes a tiny bit before it reaches his mouth but not so much that it’s nearly impossible to get it through the straw. She looks at him expectantly, finding herself actually invested in how he deems her drink of choice. When he finally swallows the first sip, it’s almost embarrassing how quickly she asks, “so?”
“It’s…damn good, Walker,” he finally gets out, softly chuckling and ducking his head in mock shame. “I would seem that vanilla milkshakes are superior in every way to all milkshakes except strawberry.”
She smiles broadly, genuinely smiles, proud of herself for proving another person that doubted her wrong. She opens her mouth to say something but he cuts her off -- “but only this one!” he adds to try and temper her bragging.
“Mmhm,” she hums, picking up her sandwich and her full glass to bring back to her room. She realizes he actually hasn’t asked her anything personal, as is his wont, yet and she wants to avoid it if she can.
As she starts to leave, he calls out for her. It’s soft but demanding all at the same time and she’s not sure exactly what to make of it when she turns back around to fully face him.
If he’s noticed anything about her attire, he doesn’t seem like it’s of any significance to him. Even if it did, he probably thinks it’s normal that she walks around in these clothes all the time when she can. He’s wearing a pair of workout shorts and a zip-up himself, so it’s probably not so farfetched in his head as it is in actuality.
But he doesn’t comment on any of that, when he looks at her with something she can’t quite get and says, “thanks for today.” She’s about to say something about her just doing her job again but it’s like he can read her mind right now because then he says, “I know you’re just doing your job but I also know you happen to despise being on Omega; me asking you to forge through the slums to do someone else’s dirty work probably isn’t on your bucket list.”
She lets the bad pun go when she sees he’s really trying to be sincere and opts for a curt nod and a small smile. She sure as hell wouldn’t thank anyone for what she did but this is something he does, so she accepts it.
“Anyways, I just wanted to say thanks for being a good sport about things today. I know I’m not easy to deal with sometimes and you do a pretty good job of fielding me. But, that’s all. No heart-to-heart today, just that.”
He takes a moment to stand and smile at her for a little while in the silence because she’s not sure exactly how she’s supposed to answer that. Saying “thank you,” comes to mind but she doesn’t actually vocalize that thought.
The moment ends after a beat, and he’s gone as quickly as he appeared and it’s weird for her being the one left instead of the one leaving this time.
(she notices he takes the rest of his glass with him)
“Ma’am.”
She’s working on her reports she neglected last night, getting them out of the way before something inevitably happens and it gets too busy for her to get around to it. She doesn’t forget easily, so she doesn’t like leaving things undone - it’s unprofessional.
They’re supposed to be rounding up some others for their mission. She only vaguely remembers Shepard mentioning Illium or the prison for their next stop, but she zones out at some point in time because he’s droned on longer than she cares for. So long as the ship doesn’t crash and they go anywhere that isn’t Omega, she’s perfectly fine with it.
She’s starting to accept that Shepard isn’t completely incompetent as his demeanor would suggest most of the time.
“I’ve told you before, Hannah, you can just call me Sarah.”
The crew’s yeoman is standing in her doorway, though she only knows this through her voice; she has yet to look up from her desk. It’s not until she hits send on the last report she has does she finally make eye contact.
“Yea, sorry, I’ll work on that…Sarah.”
“Well,” she sighs, getting up and stretching out for a bit. This morning, she’s back in her suit (her other suit - she still can’t shake the grimy feeling from her normal one quite yet) and her relaxation is short lived, but it does wonders. “Formalities aside, what was it you wanted to speak to me about?”
“Commander Shepard is requesting you in the armory.”
“Oh? Have we landed already? That was a quick ride, even for Illium -“
“Well, we, uh -“
“What?’
“We, uh, you see, we -“
“We, what, Yeoman?”
“We’re actually back at Omega.”
The rage she goes into as she marches into the armory doesn’t save her from the predicament she’s in now.
It’s loud and outrageous and borderline unprofessional considering she’s addressing her (technical) superior yet here she is.
Back on Omega.
In literally the worst possible armor they could find in the marketplace because everything onboard is “too high tech” to pass as people desperate enough to freelance for mercs for a quick buck.
The last time she wore a chest plate is in basic training, and compared to the one she currently has on, it doesn’t seem so bad anymore. In fact, she would gladly trade the two right now; at least she could move somewhat fluidly. In this hunk of junk combined with the rest of her poor excuse for armor, she’s lucky if she can walk without tripping over her own two feet - or anyone else’s feet for that matter.
Shepard, for his part, looks completely content to be in scrap metal that would fall apart if a bullet hit too close to a ridge, while Casey could honestly care less when he has all his toys with him. Both seem to enjoy her discomfort and Casey even makes some smartass remark about “finally seeing what it’s like to be a big kid,” which promptly lands him on his ass with the flick of a wrist and a biotic slam.
As the story goes, Shepard receives new intel that puts the recruit Archangel on Omega, pent up in some high rise apartment after being in bad blood with all three mercenary groups that do their best to keep Omega in its dilapidated state. The groups have temporarily called a truce in order to combine forces to take him out (how they’re all so dimwitted they can’t even outsmart one man baffles her), and they’re recruiting freelancers who are even stupider to play their pawns.
And while they are pretending to be these people who are short a few cards from a full deck, she refuses to act like one. Despite her clunky armor, and her amateur appearance, she makes sure none of these dumbasses treat her like one. She proves to be still formidable even outside of her normal element, managing to bank twice as much in a down payment for their services to the mercenaries with the tiniest threat and only one nearly broken bone.
When they’re dropped off at ground zero by the merc shuttle, they do some recon before heading off to the designated front lines. It appears that the mercs are sending all the freelancers into what’s more-or-less a suicide mission to distract the Archangel for long enough to get a tactical team through to his hideout.
Shepard wants to join him up top in his nest, sneak past the mercs and the freelancers on their side and taking out as many as they can without getting taken out themselves by either Archangel or the other mercs.
The plan works beautifully until Casey gets a little too carried away. Thankfully, by then they’re already close enough to make a quick run for it.
(it figures that Archangel would be Shepard’s long lost best friend - it would seem that oblivious hero is a character trait that bonds people to each other)
However many ill trained mercs and a faulty battle ship later, Archangel, also known as Bryce Larkin, is alive and well on the Normandy, save a fairly gruesome head injury that’s a result of a blast going off a bit too close to them for anyone’s liking.
After a brief period where he floats in and out of stability, they’ve managed to bring him back into the clear.
Even so, he hasn’t shown signs of waking up yet and Shepard has neglected most, if not all, responsibilities to be by his bedside, almost as if his presence is vital for his friend’s recovery. Although there’s a voice nagging her in the back of her head to send him on his way, she can’t bring herself to walk into the medbay and actually do so.
Instead, she keeps her distance, observing from elsewhere to avoid a conversation she doesn’t want to have.
For the first time since they’ve brought him back to life, she notices he looks tired. Not so much like the savior of the galaxy, but rather some ordinary man with an extraordinary weight on his shoulders. The slump in his posture, the lines etched in his face that aren’t a product of resurrection, the near void in his eyes that usually hold more emotion than she shows in a year - they’re all signs of a defeated man.
Oddly enough, the sight hard for her to swallow. It should be enough that he’s agreed to their terms, to their unfair bargain with his life. None of this should matter to her. If he’s having issues, he has a multitude of outlets to deal with it. It should be none of her concern.
She knows all of this, tells herself over and over, but it still doesn’t stop her from making a vanilla milkshake and having Hannah bring it over to him, along with a plate of tonight’s meal.
/part 5 (coming soon)
part 2
part 3
“These are the complete dossiers I’ve managed to put together from the Illusive Man, we’ll be ready to set a course for either once you’ve decided.”
She sets two more datapads on his desk that’s still oddly neat despite being completely covered. She’s certain he reads through everything he gets sent because he likes to be thorough. It’s possible she should actually know if he does but this is the first time she actually talks to him in nearly a week.
He furrows his brow for a second, picking them up to take a better look at the information on them and a drawn out “thanks” while he tries to process.
She doesn’t stick around to talk about it because she still doesn’t want to talk to him about anything, but she will talk to him about work if she has to; the quicker she leaves, the less she’ll have to.
Her track record for avoiding unwanted conversations on the Normandy is stays zero in her favor. This time, though, she only has herself to blame when she opens her mouth and tells him she’s doing her job.
It’s an ill-fitted attempt to put him in his place and she only realizes it after it leaves her mouth.
“Thank you, anyways,” he says, his tone oddly insistent with how polite he’s being. She turns back to look at him but says nothing, accidentally staying around for too long and gives him an opening to ask her what she thinks they should do.
It’s completely irrelevant what she thinks in this case because he’s the one in charge - not her; the Illusive Man made it plenty clear that Shepard isn’t her lackey in any way, shape, or form.
That tone of insistence comes back and she’s still not sure what to make of it, making her way to the door again before she can dwell too much on it. She has plenty more work to do without unnecessary distractions.
He can do whatever he wants.
(later, when she gets to her room she makes EDI steer him towards the doctor - she’ll be more useful the longer she’s on board)
“You know, a dozen showers after full decontamination isn’t even going to make me feel remotely clean after this.”
If her suit wasn’t more or less one of a kind, it’d be a sure bet that she would shoot it out of an airlock faster than you could say “gross.” She has another suit (thank, God) but that’s her only backup and it’s not really a good idea to get rid of what’s technically a perfectly good tech suit.
Sure, it feels gross but it’s not like it’s actually ineffective because such.
So the beginning and end of this mental snafu is that her life is currently a cesspool for who-knows-what and there’s not much she can do about it.
At least it’s over with.
The doctor comes with them, somewhat reluctantly, though that isn’t something she concerns herself with. The matter of the fact is she’s agreed and that’s all she cares for. Despite how she feels, she has to admit that Shepard’s constant need to sooth everyone’s conscience on an hourly basis actually helps them gain the doctor in their favor.
It takes the better half of her day and a firefight through most of the underground slums of Omega rescuing a poor excuse for an assistant, releasing a plague cure through the city’s ventilation system, before their score is settled enough to the doctor’s liking. It’s a round about way to achieve something she could have done in an hour - two, tops. Even so, doing all that (literal) dirty work lands them in good favor with the doctor and that will be more useful in the long run.
She can admit Shepard’s ways are better, she just doesn’t necessarily have to like these ways.
“Aw, come on. You’re telling me you didn’t get down and dirty back on Earth?”
“Oh, I did. I always did. Growing up with three older brothers for the better half of my life assured that,” she quips, squirming even though they’re halfway through decontamination already. “What I didn’t do when I was a child, however, was take leisurely walks through operational sewers that people lived in.”
She’s looking forward now, but she can feel him eying her the way he does when he wants to know something and he’s waiting for answers to be supplied to him rather than actually ask.
(she doesn’t bite)
He resigns with a quick sigh after a beat, “brothers?” he asks casually despite turning to face her more fully like she’ll explain her whole childhood in one fell swoop. Instead, all he gets from her is a curt, “brothers,” in reply as she barely turns her head in his direction to acknowledge him.
There’s a lull in their conversation, if it even counts as that because as soon as it starts, it’s over, and she uses the opportunity to make her way out of the airlock and back onto the main deck of the ship.
She wants out of her clothes now.
Luckily, it actually only takes three showers to make her feel like she isn’t carrying some unknown disease.
She doesn’t put her suit back on, slipping back into that would just undo what she tried for the past hour and a half and that’s the last thing she wants. She pads over to the rarely touched drawer with clothes she wears when she likes to indulge, pulls on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt that’s worn in well past its prime.
For the first time in a long time, she feels relaxed; her bones are soothed from the warm water and her body thrums with an ease that isn’t indicative of the universe possibly ending sooner rather than later.
(for the first time in a long time, she doesn’t bother worrying about it either)
Her reports don’t have to be done immediately since she speaks to the Illusive Man after she gets back on board. They’d be technicalities at this point, she only actually intends to document that they achieved their end goal. It’s something that can wait until later.
She indulges herself for a small moment, making her way out to the kitchen to make herself a sandwich and possibly a strawberry milkshake she’s been craving. The mess hall is empty at this hour, most of the crew already asleep with a skeleton crew keeping tabs on the ship.
The ingredients for her milkshake are laid out neatly on the counter when he leans up against it, stealing a strawberry and throwing it into his mouth.
“Do you plan on having all our heart-to-hearts in the kitchen on an empty stomach, Commander?”
She doesn’t look up to acknowledge him, continues making her dinner while he stands there seemingly content at just watching her. It’s possible this could be unnerving but since it’s him, she just feels this great annoyance at him hovering.
“Maybe. We only ever talk about reports and statistics and…technical things in your room, so I thought I’d try a different approach - maybe loosen you up,” he shrugs, folding his arm and leaning against the fridge now to accommodate her. “Food has a way of doing that, you know.”
A fairly undignified sound leaves her mouth before she can stop it, “no, I can’t say I’m familiar with that particular quality.”
It surprises her that she goes along with this and that she seems more than willing to humor him right now. It catches her off guard a bit, but she rolls with the punches because she can’t really find a reason to rain on his parade just yet.
“Is the great Commander Shepard a fan of milkshakes?” she asks while she starts dropping the ingredients into the blender. She turns over to look at him when he doesn’t answer right away, matching his questioning look with a smirk and a challenge in her eyes. He balks slightly for a second, like he’s completely surprised that someone like her can’t indulge in life’s simple pleasures.
When his brain seems to start up again, he laughs, long and full before making a dig at strawberry milkshakes, calling them “inferior to vanilla milkshakes in every way.”
He obviously has never tasted a strawberry milkshake made the right (her) way then, so she takes pity on his soul and pours him a half a glass after stealing a sip straight from the blender to taste test. Not that she doesn’t know it’s made perfectly, more because she always loves the first sip. To his credit, he eyes her kind of funny but doesn’t mention anything about it before taking his proffered glass, complete with a bendy straw.
The thickness is just right so that it takes a tiny bit before it reaches his mouth but not so much that it’s nearly impossible to get it through the straw. She looks at him expectantly, finding herself actually invested in how he deems her drink of choice. When he finally swallows the first sip, it’s almost embarrassing how quickly she asks, “so?”
“It’s…damn good, Walker,” he finally gets out, softly chuckling and ducking his head in mock shame. “I would seem that vanilla milkshakes are superior in every way to all milkshakes except strawberry.”
She smiles broadly, genuinely smiles, proud of herself for proving another person that doubted her wrong. She opens her mouth to say something but he cuts her off -- “but only this one!” he adds to try and temper her bragging.
“Mmhm,” she hums, picking up her sandwich and her full glass to bring back to her room. She realizes he actually hasn’t asked her anything personal, as is his wont, yet and she wants to avoid it if she can.
As she starts to leave, he calls out for her. It’s soft but demanding all at the same time and she’s not sure exactly what to make of it when she turns back around to fully face him.
If he’s noticed anything about her attire, he doesn’t seem like it’s of any significance to him. Even if it did, he probably thinks it’s normal that she walks around in these clothes all the time when she can. He’s wearing a pair of workout shorts and a zip-up himself, so it’s probably not so farfetched in his head as it is in actuality.
But he doesn’t comment on any of that, when he looks at her with something she can’t quite get and says, “thanks for today.” She’s about to say something about her just doing her job again but it’s like he can read her mind right now because then he says, “I know you’re just doing your job but I also know you happen to despise being on Omega; me asking you to forge through the slums to do someone else’s dirty work probably isn’t on your bucket list.”
She lets the bad pun go when she sees he’s really trying to be sincere and opts for a curt nod and a small smile. She sure as hell wouldn’t thank anyone for what she did but this is something he does, so she accepts it.
“Anyways, I just wanted to say thanks for being a good sport about things today. I know I’m not easy to deal with sometimes and you do a pretty good job of fielding me. But, that’s all. No heart-to-heart today, just that.”
He takes a moment to stand and smile at her for a little while in the silence because she’s not sure exactly how she’s supposed to answer that. Saying “thank you,” comes to mind but she doesn’t actually vocalize that thought.
The moment ends after a beat, and he’s gone as quickly as he appeared and it’s weird for her being the one left instead of the one leaving this time.
(she notices he takes the rest of his glass with him)
“Ma’am.”
She’s working on her reports she neglected last night, getting them out of the way before something inevitably happens and it gets too busy for her to get around to it. She doesn’t forget easily, so she doesn’t like leaving things undone - it’s unprofessional.
They’re supposed to be rounding up some others for their mission. She only vaguely remembers Shepard mentioning Illium or the prison for their next stop, but she zones out at some point in time because he’s droned on longer than she cares for. So long as the ship doesn’t crash and they go anywhere that isn’t Omega, she’s perfectly fine with it.
She’s starting to accept that Shepard isn’t completely incompetent as his demeanor would suggest most of the time.
“I’ve told you before, Hannah, you can just call me Sarah.”
The crew’s yeoman is standing in her doorway, though she only knows this through her voice; she has yet to look up from her desk. It’s not until she hits send on the last report she has does she finally make eye contact.
“Yea, sorry, I’ll work on that…Sarah.”
“Well,” she sighs, getting up and stretching out for a bit. This morning, she’s back in her suit (her other suit - she still can’t shake the grimy feeling from her normal one quite yet) and her relaxation is short lived, but it does wonders. “Formalities aside, what was it you wanted to speak to me about?”
“Commander Shepard is requesting you in the armory.”
“Oh? Have we landed already? That was a quick ride, even for Illium -“
“Well, we, uh -“
“What?’
“We, uh, you see, we -“
“We, what, Yeoman?”
“We’re actually back at Omega.”
The rage she goes into as she marches into the armory doesn’t save her from the predicament she’s in now.
It’s loud and outrageous and borderline unprofessional considering she’s addressing her (technical) superior yet here she is.
Back on Omega.
In literally the worst possible armor they could find in the marketplace because everything onboard is “too high tech” to pass as people desperate enough to freelance for mercs for a quick buck.
The last time she wore a chest plate is in basic training, and compared to the one she currently has on, it doesn’t seem so bad anymore. In fact, she would gladly trade the two right now; at least she could move somewhat fluidly. In this hunk of junk combined with the rest of her poor excuse for armor, she’s lucky if she can walk without tripping over her own two feet - or anyone else’s feet for that matter.
Shepard, for his part, looks completely content to be in scrap metal that would fall apart if a bullet hit too close to a ridge, while Casey could honestly care less when he has all his toys with him. Both seem to enjoy her discomfort and Casey even makes some smartass remark about “finally seeing what it’s like to be a big kid,” which promptly lands him on his ass with the flick of a wrist and a biotic slam.
As the story goes, Shepard receives new intel that puts the recruit Archangel on Omega, pent up in some high rise apartment after being in bad blood with all three mercenary groups that do their best to keep Omega in its dilapidated state. The groups have temporarily called a truce in order to combine forces to take him out (how they’re all so dimwitted they can’t even outsmart one man baffles her), and they’re recruiting freelancers who are even stupider to play their pawns.
And while they are pretending to be these people who are short a few cards from a full deck, she refuses to act like one. Despite her clunky armor, and her amateur appearance, she makes sure none of these dumbasses treat her like one. She proves to be still formidable even outside of her normal element, managing to bank twice as much in a down payment for their services to the mercenaries with the tiniest threat and only one nearly broken bone.
When they’re dropped off at ground zero by the merc shuttle, they do some recon before heading off to the designated front lines. It appears that the mercs are sending all the freelancers into what’s more-or-less a suicide mission to distract the Archangel for long enough to get a tactical team through to his hideout.
Shepard wants to join him up top in his nest, sneak past the mercs and the freelancers on their side and taking out as many as they can without getting taken out themselves by either Archangel or the other mercs.
The plan works beautifully until Casey gets a little too carried away. Thankfully, by then they’re already close enough to make a quick run for it.
(it figures that Archangel would be Shepard’s long lost best friend - it would seem that oblivious hero is a character trait that bonds people to each other)
However many ill trained mercs and a faulty battle ship later, Archangel, also known as Bryce Larkin, is alive and well on the Normandy, save a fairly gruesome head injury that’s a result of a blast going off a bit too close to them for anyone’s liking.
After a brief period where he floats in and out of stability, they’ve managed to bring him back into the clear.
Even so, he hasn’t shown signs of waking up yet and Shepard has neglected most, if not all, responsibilities to be by his bedside, almost as if his presence is vital for his friend’s recovery. Although there’s a voice nagging her in the back of her head to send him on his way, she can’t bring herself to walk into the medbay and actually do so.
Instead, she keeps her distance, observing from elsewhere to avoid a conversation she doesn’t want to have.
For the first time since they’ve brought him back to life, she notices he looks tired. Not so much like the savior of the galaxy, but rather some ordinary man with an extraordinary weight on his shoulders. The slump in his posture, the lines etched in his face that aren’t a product of resurrection, the near void in his eyes that usually hold more emotion than she shows in a year - they’re all signs of a defeated man.
Oddly enough, the sight hard for her to swallow. It should be enough that he’s agreed to their terms, to their unfair bargain with his life. None of this should matter to her. If he’s having issues, he has a multitude of outlets to deal with it. It should be none of her concern.
She knows all of this, tells herself over and over, but it still doesn’t stop her from making a vanilla milkshake and having Hannah bring it over to him, along with a plate of tonight’s meal.
/part 5 (coming soon)