37 - Following the horizon

This "pre-meeting" is an intelligence gathering operation in poor disguise.

Liara may think that's she's clever and covert, and employing super-secret information broker gathering skills, but she's not. She's as transparent as my damn fish tank. She's been meticulously scanning for signs, belongings, artefacts – hell, DNA strains of Aria since she walked through my cabin door.

I wonder if she's disappointed or gratified to see the room cleansed of any evidence. It's hard to read her body language from behind as she leaves my cabin, having given me whatever spurious update she could as a pretext for scoping out the situation for remnants of her erstwhile nemesis.

She says she'll be back this evening with something important to show me. I wonder if she'll be bringing with her a discrete, yet powerful scanning device to pick up the evidence that her eyes cannot.

It's not because I tossed all matter out the airlock after Aria. My fleeting roommate wasn't really a spreader – she lived confined to that duffel bag, like she would need to bolt at a minute's notice. Takes longer than a minute to open the airlock, so I'll just assume it's the quick-getaway technique that's become her habit of a lifetime.

I did look to see if Aria left anything. Maybe she left an item with purpose, or to convey a message or even an apology that her stubborn krogan-like nature wouldn't let her say out loud before she left.

I'm not saying that she's exclusively the one who owes the apology – most days she does, but I can appreciate that it would get exhausting constantly apologising for being an asshole. That is a theoretical appreciation, as I certainly don't have such personal experience; and, Aria: she is a person really concerned with her energy levels, and thus never fucking apologises.

Not a sustainable position for two people in a relationship.

I check my email with pathological frequency, just waiting for the inevitable message. She always sends one when we part, be it on good or bad terms. If there's been a blow-out, then her messages are an easy indicator of where she is on the scale of still-mad.

It'll be something droll (if she's over it by the time she's walked out the door), or cheeky (if she's managed to get horny before she gets over it), or slutty (if she's so horny that she is now over it) or reductive (if what she did was rather bad, but she feels I've made an emotional meal of it and just wants it done).

There is always something. Hitting refresh isn't bringing anything through. Time to get some tech support on the intercom.

"Hey Traynor."

"Shepard, how can I help?" she answers immediately. Consummate pro that one.

"The extranet. External comms. Email… there's nothing wrong with any of those, is there?"

"No issues logged," she reports. "Hang on, I'll just run a ping test."

"Great, thanks."

"Commander," she starts, her voice rising at the end of the title in the way that it always does before she's about to ask something that she considers inappropriate. Inappropriate can range from asking if she qualifies for danger pay (she considers discussing money rather rude, especially in a war time) to asking if she can attend to my lower reaches with something other than a loofah (back when we were showering together – not so much anymore).

"Yes, Specialist?"

"What does it look like on your end?"

My end? Like my quarters? "I don't follow Traynor."

"I mean, is there a reason you think there's a problem? Is there something strange on your terminal, are you timing out, or something like that? It's just, I'm usually the first to notice net slowdown in my processes – and that's well before it's evident to anyone else… Is there something you're waiting on…? Or…"

Very clever, Traynor. Very amusing. I can do nothing but laugh.

"Sorry, Commander," she says immediately in a tone that is indecipherable between serious and playful – I know her well enough to be assured that this is all for the giggles. "I'm quite sure it's matters far beyond my security clearance."

Or just plain taking the piss, as she would say.

"Quite sure."

"Well nothing's flagged up on the standard network test," she responds ruefully. "Would you like me to push through an investigation request to Alliance command? I can mark it for urgent attention."

"Won't be necessary, Traynor, thanks," I groan. Why can't she translate that game theory to winning a hand of poker? Or, better yet, military intelligence?

Had there been no war, no immediate evacuation, no Anderson commandeering a mostly refitted Normandy with Sam onboard, maybe that is where she would be right now. They wouldn't let a mind like hers rot on grunt specialist duty forever.

"Let me know if you need anything else, Shepard," Traynor croons triumphantly.

I'll need to let her have that one.

Liara doesn't often drop by unannounced in the usual course of affairs. This afternoon's "urgent" all-business update (which was usefully retooled to arrange tonight's social engagement) is pretty high on the Liara-spontaneity scale. She would rarely want to be an inconvenience, or a burden to someone – and if she unavoidably needs to be such an inconvenience as to see someone face to face, she would rather give you prior warning of that.

That was the Liara that hung out in a storeroom at the back of the med-bay for months. That store-room had only one exit, meaning she would fear walking through the med-bay and disturbing those in pain or those at work. Consequently, she barely came out at all.

It cannot be denied that Liara has grown significantly as a person since those times. She can now walk through spaces to get from A to B without much ado (Karin Chakwas be damned); and when the mood strikes, she can hold her enemies in torture stasis until they break.

Still, I can't say I'm not curious about this evening's rendezvous. I can't think she's just up to check that Aria hasn't emerged from under the bed in the past 6 hours.

She's punctual, as always. With my leave, the cabin doors open and there stands Liara, carrying in her hands an odd shaped object. She smiles calmly.

"Shepard. Thank you for seeing me."

With a nod, she enters.

"Can I get you anything?" I ask, feeling I should be taking her coat at the door as she passes by me.

I wonder what life could be like if we had met (maybe even dated) outside the Alliance and the galaxy ending. In the low times, I sometimes fantasise about the apartment on Illium that Liara had last year. When she'd invited me over that night, I could pretend (for a couple of minutes) that we were going to be like normal people for the evening, hanging out in an apartment without the intrusion of ship-wide comms. I got to be nervous, and excited, and ponder whether to bring wine or a house plant.

Of course, I was always going there to help Liara get the Shadow Broker – an objective a little more dangerous than getting to first base (but arguably not as thrilling). Everything spiralled from there: Arriving at her trashed place with bullet holes in the windows; rogue double-dealing SPECTRES; and straight up taxi theft and subsequent joy-ride. We got the Shadow Broker, but it would have been nice to have that night on Illium, before leaving her to the harsh grey, edgy design and dark corners of the Shadow Broker's vessel.

I've never done the normal person dating thing – and, who am I kidding, Liara T'Soni (both as she was before we met and who she is now) would not go out with me unless she was confined on a ship with me (history smiles favourably on that part for me).

Bubble Liara would have found me too brutish and utterly uninteresting. Broker Liara would have found me too small a potato to be concerned with.

How fortunate I am to have known her before she got famous, or infamous, depending on your perspective.

"Maybe later. First, Shepard, there's something I want to show you."

She sets a small, flat, oblong-shaped object down on the table. She kneels down as she initialises its start-up.

"I've been thinking about the knowledge we gathered on the Reapers, and how easily it could be lost again. So, I put a plan in motion to preserve things for the future."

As she calibrates the haptic control panel, a ball of light shines from the centre of the small console, with a beam extending now from it, its light stretching to the ceiling.

"A record of the galaxy. Information on the Reapers, different cultures… and blueprints of the crucible."

As she speaks, images of the records she speaks of are cast from the console.

"Our own Vigil," I smile.

"Not nearly as sophisticated, Shepard," she baulks. "Vigil was an advanced VI. This is a recording of me in my bedroom. If the next cycle need rely on me the way we did with Vigil, they're going to have to work a lot harder."

"I meant - in the essence of," I say softly. "But you're right."

"Oh. Yes. Of course," she mumbles, looking down. "There is one entry I wanted your opinion on."

"Which one?"

Her beautiful eyes gleam, her own blue sparkle dominating any reflection from the ball of light from the console.

"Your own."

A holo projection of me rises out from the console. I wonder if Liara cribbed the image from the Shepard VI they're selling on the Citadel, because even though it's cut in blue light, I can tell that my shade of hair colour is a little off.

"How would you like history to remember you?"

Goddess, that's a question. And with any heavy question, one requires a handy diversion.

"Fifty thousand years is a long time for a computer to sit around."

"Please, I was an archaeologist," Liara dismisses, rising to her feet. Yep, I knew that would push her buttons and get out the old Archaeology card. "I know what I'm doing."

OK, that hasn't done it for long. I sigh, pushing my hair back through my fingers.

"Just put in the mission details. How we set up. Tactics. How we managed to hurt them, when we did. Anything like that will help," I dismiss the prospect, rising to my feet. "But no one's going to care about me in fifty thousand years."

"I will."

"Really planning on riding the hell outta that Asari lifespan, huh?" I grin.

"I mean that I care if the people of the next cycle know of you," she insists. "They may have their own heroes. They may have someone to look to. We may have won and this will be dug up by schoolchildren as little more than a glorified memory box from the time of the great victory that they've heard about, but was so long ago that it doesn't feel as cataclysmic as this is. In either event, I want them to know that we had you. And that you were magnificent."

Damn Liara, you know how to bring the flush to my cheeks.

"You write it," I nod softly, sitting back down once more, my hands folded in front of me. "And don't tell me."

"What if I say something… uncomplimentary?"

"You can say whatever you want," I laugh. "As long as I get to write yours."

She indulges me. "And what would you say?"

I clear my throat and focus on a point across the room.

"Liara T'Soni. Only daughter of respected diplomat and leader Matriarch Benezia. Pre-eminent archaeological scholar on Ilos and the mysteries of the Protheans. Adventurer. Explorer. Galaxy saver. Biotic goddess."

"Shepard," Liara cringes with a stifled laugh. "That's laying it on a bit. Pre-eminent and galaxy saver in particular. And the biotic goddess… To say you're overselling me would be underselling it."

"I have decided that you are eminent. And you have been doing it for nearly twice as long as I've been alive, that that makes you pre-eminent. The rest is wholly accurate."

"Shepard, I really don't think—"

OK," I ponder, trying to be more serious. "Liara T'Soni. Dedicated scholar. Formidable warrior. Kind heart. Fiercely intelligent. The very person you want with you to the last victory. When you fall, she'll pull you up out the dirt with an encouraging smile. Maybe tell you some fun facts about the dirt."

"Shepard!"

"Liara you're all of these things, but you don't want to hear it," I tell her, dismissive of her modest protestations. "What do you want me to say? Blue. Reads a lot. Tells the biography of Shepard on this VI. Doesn't mind digging a hole or two. Oh, and is the shadowy overlord of an intelligence black market underworld?"

"That's a tad more honest, don't you think?" she says, trying to keep it together but the smile is cracking.

"You can't hide who you are, Liara. Even if it's getting buried in an end-of-the-galaxy-proof box under the ground."

"Then neither can you, Shepard," she smirks, triumphantly, her fingers quickly inputting on her haptic screen from her omni-tool. "Record: Let's begin with fact that Earth's most famous officer was born and raised in space. The Commander was also a powerful biotic. Nearly unstoppable when she charged into a fight. She was a soldier and a leader, one who made peace where she could. And it was a privilege to know her."

"Careful this doesn't sound like a diary," I quip, because why not make a joke when Liara is standing there, sincerely pouring her words into a time machine. She smiles. She doesn't take it badly.

"You're a good friend, Shepard," she says softly, easing down onto the sofa next to me. How much is weighted in those words.

"You've been there for me too, Liara," I respond, my tone as steady as the ship herself.

"No, I haven't. I wish I could have joined you back on Illium."

I lean forward. "No, you don't."

"I do, Shepard, I—"

"Well you shouldn't, I mean," I say. "You were fighting in your best way."

"I don't doubt my choice," Liara sinks back into the sofa. "I just don't think you'll ever forgive me for not going through the Omega-4 relay with you."

I used to wake up every day on the road to the Omega-4 relay wishing that she was with me. With every new soldier, friend, confidant I gained, I wished I had her instead. I wished she that she was my tether in the face of the engorged beast that was Cerberus – my soul, my guide, my support. Wishing that she was with me for my own sake, to reassure me of the authenticity of my rebuilt humanity. The simple version is that I was unsure, and scared, and I missed her like crazy because I was so in love with her that I couldn't breathe.

"Liara—"

"There's no point excavating this issue – Metaphorically, rather than archaeologically speaking," she adds wryly, making me think she set up the whole damn thing for a punchline. Very un-Liara. "I am regretful that, to you, rightly or wrongly, the Omega-4 relay will always be the moment I let you down."

"You couldn't let me down, Liara," I murmur. "And I do forgive you, if you need me to. Although I'm still trying to work through the time you warped my paramour in a warzone."

She looks shocked that I've poked this recent wound, but one look at my face and she knows that I'm needling under her skin with a slightly playful edge. She should know my black humour by now.

"Well, I thought that would have made more of a dent in my reputation than the threat-of-flaying incident," she says, taking tentative steps to check it's OK to join me in the joke.

"I don't know. Think about your academic reputation," I muse. "I can't see the Ilos Scholars trusting to let you in the inner sanctum now you've revealed your violent and thuggish urges."

"Trust you to bring the Ilos Scholars into this," she harrumphs. "You know they're my weak spot."

"Yep. I can always be trusted to find your buttons," I grin, resting my head on an elbow and dropping the playful tone a little. "Liara - It's not despite of, but because of, everything that we've been through – good and bad – that I trust you. I don't think that will change."

This sobers her. She pulls her mirth back inside, like an imploding star sucking in its' energy.

"Shepard," Liara starts, before catching herself and clearly planning her words meticulously.

"Liara," I respond in an effort to prompt her. Too much dead air makes me nervous, but only with her. With most others it can be a rather useful tool to create tension. But with Liara, I need to know whether the dam is about to burst.

"This is not the best of times. In fact, I know it's an awful time—"

"As you told me long ago," I break in. "We're living through the worst of times, but that shouldn't stop us from living."

I shouldn't have brought that up. She said that to me right before Omega-4 as words of great care and comfort, on the night that two lovers re-joined their minds and flesh. I even let myself believe that meant we would work – that we would be together. How wrong I was.

God, I had felt so lucky to have even one night; before history and motives got so twisted.

"Agreed," she muses hesitantly. "But you're not going to like this. And I want to tell you so that there's nothing between us. Nothing secret between us."

"OK," I nod, putting my wine glass down as if to leave the physical and mental space between us unobstructed.

"This was not an act of intent on my part," she says. "I need you to believe this."

"OK."

"I need you to trust me again," she says simply, with a sigh. "And this—"

"For the love of the goddess, Liara, could you just tell me? You're killing me more slowly than being spaced."

She doesn't like that. She remembers my corpse. I should not have said that.

"Sorry," I grimace.

"What an awful thing to say, Shepard," she says, a little disgusted with me and standing up to show it. "I've been with this crew and around humans enough in the past few years that I understand your penchant for off-colour jokes and gallows humour, but going there—"

"I know, I get that. I'm not the one who had to see my vacuum-dried body," I say, for some reason channelling my socially graceless pilot and trying to inappropriately joke my way out of getting into trouble for making inappropriate jokes.

"Shepard!"

I hold my hands up. "Liara, there is a flaw in my tactics here, but yours are obvious – you're working yourself into an outrage because you now regret telling me that you had something to tell me and you're trying to get out of it."

She at least has the good sense to recognise a checkmate when she sees it.

She stares at me.

"My equipment picked up your comms from Ontarom," she says plainly.

"From Ontarom?" I echo, for some reason not immediately attaching significance to the place name.

"Your last mission."

With Aria. With the reckless sex and with the Cortez guarantee that it did not make it past the shuttle comms.

Fuck.

"Fuck."

I can tell that she's expending most of her energy into keeping an expressionless face.

I wish I could do the same but the gaping look is one I'm sure I'm wearing well.

"H— what… what did you hear?"

"From the beginning of your, what I can only assume to be, an accidental broadcast following comms open with Cortez, to however long it to me to turn it off. It took a second to recognise you were not in distress and I shut it off."

"You were listening to see if I was in distress?"

The pitch of my voice scares her, or perhaps it's encountering a hereinbefore undiscovered octave that has her eyes wide and body rigid.

"No, Shepard, no," she vows. "The algorithm looks for transmissions of unusual quality, rather than straight chatter. Measuring high-levels of stress or disturbance in vocal sounds. Looking to catch anyone in need of evac even if they can't communicate off-planet. It's automatic."

"Right," I say, head too muddled to be convinced.

"This may be hideously awkward, Shepard, but I'm telling you because I didn't want you to think that I was spying on you. I don't do that," Liara mutters. "To you. Anymore."

I would have considered a snide rebuttal if my brain was not pre-occupied with the thought of what Liara may have heard. Given how cruel and counter-productive that would be, I am presently glad I don't think as fast as a Salarian.

"OK then," I say, through puffed up cheeks.

How much did she really hear?

How much do I really want to know the answer to that question?

"I'm sorry you heard that, Liara," I say eventually, letting out the reserves of air that I had been hoarding.

"I just didn't want you to think—"

"I don't," I reassure her, eyes still darting everywhere but upon her. I try to force out a wry chuckle, but it comes out more like a wheeze. "Bet I've taken a hit in your estimations, though. Professionally speaking."

"It is none of my business," Liara says definitively. If only I could look at her face I might better be able to gauge what she's thinking, but my gaze is now firmly fixed on the ground at her feet. "But… Shepard. Can I ask a question that you have every right to refuse to answer?"

"Of course," I nod, the shame of it all still weighing my head down.

Her voice is small. She forces the words out. She forces them out clearly, so she doesn't have to repeat them, I expect. "Was that what you wanted of us? Of me?"

The thudding in my chest is harsh and unexpected, much like the XO hammering at the barracks door, demanding an impromptu bunk inspection on your only damn day off in the month. "What do you mean?"

"Risk, and thrill, and passion so immediate that you end up… doing that," Liara mumbles.

"No, Liara," I say softly, lifting my eyes to hers. I can see through the steely exterior now. She can never keep that wall up for too long. "We aren't those type of people. That wasn't us."

"Does that mean it's you now?"

"No," I say, barely having to think on the answer and somewhat surprising myself. "No, it's not me. It was reckless. Unprofessional. Inappropriate."

I have a feeling the next question she wants to ask is: But, why?

I don't have that answer, so I'm grateful as she reconsiders delving deeper.

"I should go. I had to tell you. And I have now," she breathes out, her eyes to the floor. She looks a little exhausted. I can't help but wonder if it's this conversation that has her like this, or if she's not sleeping again.

She raises her head to give me a sad smile, aiming for friendly I think. With that, she turns to leave.

"Liara," I call after her. "Next mission, following Kai Leng's trajectory to Horizon, I was planning on taking you and Garrus as shore party. But if after this you'd rather not—"

"No, absolutely, Shepard. Whatever you need," Liara says firmly, drawing herself up to look strong and able and squash the sadness down inside.

"And I don't know how your shoulder is…"

"My shoulder is fine. I'm ready," Liara says. "Right behind you, Shepard."

I don't know why she came back. I don't know why she stayed. I'm just the luckiest Commander in the galaxy that she did.

"Thank you."

Gone now, I ease back down onto the couch with a sigh.

If the shoe was on the other foot and I heard something like that with her in it, I don't think I'd be able to tell her so, the oath of honesty be damned. And I don't think I'd particularly upright either. I imagine my shape would be more foetal.

Even now, the thought of any foreign romantic incursion for Liara really wounds: a big hypocritical gash from breast to navel, and likely a mortal one at that.

What a difference a year makes. A year ago, I stood on Horizon basking in the disdain, disappointment and indifference from Ashley to my resurrection, due to the strings attached by Cerberus. This followed me having prevented the abduction of two thirds of the colony, and standing over the corpse of the fearsome Praetorian, and still I found myself on the sharp end of her fury.

The Illusive Man was playing games that day, luring the Collectors to the colony with me as bait, and ultimately playing god by sacrificing the lives of a third of the colony. The pre-packaged evil factory he placed on the planet should be no surprise; now luring people with hope to a "Sanctuary" to feed them into his conveyor belt through the Cerberus sponsored lab of nightmares. Anyone who considers themselves a utilitarian should seriously look how he justifies his means with the end.

Families and desperate people fleeing the machine wrought destruction on their homes, to find that the galaxy's organics have worse in store, pioneered by us – the Humans. Cerberus and Henry Lawson were a marriage made in Hades, and they produced the beasts to crawl from the hellmouth itself.

The reverberations of the horror of Sanctuary can be felt throughout the ship.

While Garrus is picking out his good skull-carving knife, Joker is snapping at EDI's efforts to make logical and philosophical sense of it all; and Liara is burying herself in work – checking in with absolutely any colony she can patch a feed through to. In between managing evacuations, she's making damn sure that no one seeks Sanctuary on Horizon.

Ashley's ready to tear the Illusive Man apart with her teeth, never mind her hands; and James is bizarrely pragmatic in his reading of the situation. Javik, however, has seen it all before.

And through it all, Tali is getting very, very drunk.

Miranda was conscious enough to send a comm to let me know that she and Oriana are safe, but I can't help but be furious at myself for not taking them with us. I know that the Normandy barely stays out of trouble, but I can't help but feel that seeing she's safe would have been better, considering Miranda's condition. I have to trust that she is safe, and that she'll endeavour to remain so with her sister in her care. They no longer have to run from her father, but it's not known whether the Illusive Man is too far gone to care for revenge on his once top lieutenant.

As I approach my post at the CIC, I see that tilt of the head from Traynor to acknowledge my arrival.

"Shepard, Miranda and her sister appear to be en-route to the Citadel," Traynor says. "We're tracking their signature. Flight path looks clear."

"That's great. She sent me a message to say they were safe," I say, "but with her you never really know what safe means."

"Dr T'Soni's provided them with the latest theatre charts; and she's advised on a safe course. So far, they're sticking to it," Traynor says.

I hope they're headed to the Citadel. I know that Miranda feels it's risky, but she needs medical attention. She'll be no good for her sister if she haemorrhages internally and dies.

"It's less and less like Miranda to stick to a plan," I muse. She has done well going to ground and doing the unpredictable in order to stay undetectable since leaving her Cerberus post – particularly when law and order were her bread and butter. She's a survivor above all else.

I check my terminal, knowing already that it has nothing to offer.

No New Mail.

I am surprised that Aria hasn't mailed by now. The fight we had was inconsequential compared to that horror factory – it essentially boiled down to Are we there yet?

Well - Could be said that it indeed started there, but it certainly finished somewhere else.

It took a diversion through the relative ethics of each of our chosen professions; a historical exploration of why certain activities are considered crimes (mostly hers) whereas mine aren't; and the comparative notches on our killing knives.

Everything ends in murder – or the activity of killing in the course of discharging our duties. There is a difference between protecting an outpost from criminals, and as such, wiping a large squad out; and killing one soul in furtherance of your own aims – emotionally or financially.

Numbers don't always make the worst body count.

The difference (I argued) between the two is duty. Aria defined duty as killing in blind obedience to what someone else told you to do, rather than of your own volition with your own reasoning and conscience.

I really didn't think that the "who's the baddest" argument would be the one hardest contested.

And I really don't think it's me.

And even if it is her, she's not all that bad. Not really.

Seeing Sanctuary crystallised to me what evil really is. It's not just a different point of view – Like the Batarians and Humans essentially disagreed on humanity's rights of colonisation. That doesn't make either side evil. That means we're in a dispute. That dispute turned into a war, and an entirely uncivilised one, on both sides, but it was still living beings fighting against living beings.

Evil is something which devolves One from the base status of living being. The level of intent, action and malevolence required to even imagine such a place is astonishing: to build it from the bricks up; to form and shape it into being as a real place; then to market it aggressively as a safe haven for normal people to escape the terror of war – a place to keep themselves and their families safe; and to then to strip them, process them, disregard everything they need, think, feel and to de-humanise them to use their meat as commodity for your experiment…

To do all of that degenerates one so far they cannot and should not be saved.

I know that Aria would have felt the same.

If Aria was on Sanctuary, she would have kept me angry. She would have kept me focused post-mission. I try not to be angry with her for abandoning me, either for Horizon or the aftermath. It is not her purpose to be at my feet to make my life easier.

But I wish this fight would end. I try not to, but I miss her.

I'm not ready to take this easy escape.

I have tried to write. I haven't only been waiting for her to make contact. I tried to write to her the night after sanctuary; when I couldn't console my shipmates anymore, when there was nothing left to give. As such, as many words were swirling inside of me, there were none to give.

Now – I don't even know how to start. I imagine her on the Citadel – hell, she could have returned to Omega – carrying on business as if I never had any mark on her from the past few months. She may have a new plaything – perhaps it was the soldier thing all along. There will be plenty docked for the last time at the Citadel and ready to do as she bids, should she choose to look in their direction.

It is better this way.

It is definitely better not having her on my ship, as that was a cat-5 space-borne catastrophe waiting to happen with Liara on board. The tension of waiting for the other shoe to drop, or the other biotic fist to land, was unbearable. It was like having an angry puppy that you sincerely did not want to give away, nor have them bite anyone, and consequently your every waking minute was dominated by watching the puppy to make sure it didn't take a chunk out of someone.

Or something like that. Goddess, she would hate the puppy analogy. She would see it was damaging to her mystique and her threat.

But then she went six rounds with me over who is the worst killer – so she can't have it both ways.

I miss the way she would complain about the Alliance basic coffee, and that she would insist on checking and adjusting her stocks for the morning (who knew she had some legit business interests?) before rising from breakfast. Breakfast for me used to be a scant to non-existent affair, but with Aria it was the better part of the morning.

Now I feel I have entirely too much time on my hands. Not so much time that the Alliance slow-as-shit elevators can be forgiven when you're just trying to move down a floor. I would consider rappelling down the outside of the ship if there wasn't an issue with access hatches and such.

All these years and I still habitually drum out a chorus and two verses of my favourite earth song with my nails on the metal elevator walls before the damn thing makes it down a floor.

Liara is in her natural position, hunched over her work. I'm at least gratified to see a mug of green tea set next to her – her preferred beverage in the morning.

"Liara, morning."

"Morning Shepard – is there something I can help you with?"

She's rather distracted, as she hasn't taken her eyes from the screen.

"No. Just checking in. But if you're doing OK…"

There's not much response as she looks to be pulling files from different screens down onto the screen that she's working on.

I shrug, hoping that whatever has her attention isn't as grave as it looks to be, and turn to exit.

"Shepard – wait," she flashes up a quick eye, and then back down again. "Sorry, I'm just trying to decrypt this message but I think it's something you'll want to see."

"Sounds ominous. As everything does these days," I sigh, leaning back against some of her spare modules.

She works quickly. I can see that she's decrypted it when her own head scans back and forth fervently, and then she bows her head.

"Got it?"

She exhales and turns to face me. "Have you spoken to Admiral Hackett?"

"In debrief," I shrug. "Why?"

"This didn't come from me," she murmurs, using one hand to send the decrypted message to display on the screen nearest me. "But we've been scheduled for docking at the Citadel."

"We're nowhere near on course for the Citadel," I dismiss, not looking. "And I thought you didn't infiltrate Alliance networks?"

"I don't. This comes from Citadel sky control. A dry dock for an extended period. Request placed by the Alliance."

I lean forward and skim the message on the screen. Liara's absolutely correct in what I'm seeing.

"That doesn't make any sense," I say slowly. "Unless we're being pulled in for inspection or service."

"I thought you should be fore-warned, Shepard," Liara says.

"Thanks… I should go. Check this out," I stutter, finding my way to the door to leave Liara's office.

Kai Leng. The Illusive Man. Cerberus – all in my sights. I had my fist raised, ready to strike. I started planning the assault in my mind the second that Miranda passed me the tracker. Now is the time to move. Now is not the time to sit around dry dock for the inevitable weeks it will take. As tightly maintained as the Normandy is, Alliance inspectors can always find something wrong. They're known for their brutal hit rate. They pride themselves on it. I think they actually keep an office pool going for who can ground ships the longest, and I doubt the war has changed their outlook much.

I take the elevator to the top, and march through the door to my quarters, making a beeline for desk. The flashing green light alerts me that I have mail before I've even sat down.

Priority: Citadel Shore Leave

From: Admiral Hackett

Commander Shepard,

I'm ordering the Normandy into dry dock on the Citadel for much needed repairs. She's seen a lot of action lately and needs a little TLC.

A small army of techs will take care of the details once you arrive, so let's get your crew out of there. You're all on shore leave: that's an order. We need everybody at their best.

One more thing: Admiral Anderson has an apartment on the Wards. Head over there when you arrive. I hear it's a nice place.

Admiral Hackett

Goddammit.

Note - Thank you to anyone reading for still being there for me to share this with. You are beautiful people. I hope you're all keeping safe at this time.