The new team is fresh and eager to reclaim their pride and the Archives. Vega distributes fresh clips, while an asari tends the wounded commando. Coates is angry, Shepard thinks, noticing the set focus in his eyes, the way he moves with no nonsense. But he is a patient man – Anderson told Shepard the story of Coates' three-day stand, holed up inside Big Ben sniping anything that moved. Shepard admires patience, has always strived for it in a profession that often rewarded the hot-headed over the wise. They were lucky that they had Hackett and Anderson in control of Earth's reclamation: not some blood-eager younger man, or anyone else seeking revenge over survival. Coates will be Anderson's replacement one day, Shepard is sure of it.

Patience be damned. The Normandy is ten minutes out, the landing zone has to be cleared, the comm systems are down and she has no time for anger or fear or the unbalance threatening to tip her over every time she glances behind her and sees, not Garrus or Kaidan, but a half-dead asari and James' batarian-stained shoulders.

Shepard shoves two spare clips into her pockets, missing her ammo belt, and moves to the lift. The rest of her motley crew follow her: only the turians and one krogan are wearing armour, the asari commandos wearing light bodysuits with strong shields. None of the Alliance soldiers are armoured. A salarian bobs up behind Coates: Shepard catches sight of him and salutes. Major Kirrahe returns the gesture. By the state of his armour he has taken out several batarians already.

"Move it, people, we've got less than ten minutes to clear that landing zone."

"Commander Shepard, come in."

"Go ahead, Cortez."

"Hostiles cleared from comm relay. Repairs will take me a few minutes. I'll let you know as soon as I can raise the Normandy."

"Copy that. Let me know the minute you reach Joker." Words she never thought she'd say again.

She turns to face her Alliance force. "Alright people, no heroics today. Airfield is an unknown quantity. Our priority is to get to the AA gun on the far side of the landing zone. We don't know how many batarians we're facing, but from their attacks down the halls, I'm guessing no more than thirty. Snipers, keep them busy and stay in cover. Major Coates, Major Kirrahe, hold the lift and entrance. Do not let any more batarians get inside. Lieutenant Vega, you'll lead the asari commandos in a flanking action along the cliff-face. Use all the biotic power you can muster to keep them off-guard. The rest of us will punch through whatever resistance we find to get to that gun." She pauses, and catches the eye of the one krogan. He's a big old beast, scarred headplate and missing teeth all the reassurance she needs that he can get the job done. "I need a charger."

The krogan bares his teeth and lifts his monster of a shotgun. "You got it." He shambles forward to the end of the lift, Coates and Kirrahe behind him.

Shepard taps the lift controls and adds, as the lift sinks down to the ground, "If you find the batarian leader, engage but do not kill."

The rattle of guns and armour is all the answer she needs. The asari commandos charge up their biotics: she can feel the dark energy hissing close to her skin. The krogan bounces on his feet, rumbling a war chant deep in his chest. Shepard checks her shotgun.

The doors open to a storm of red sand and gunfire: the krogan roars and hurtles forward, smashing into a waiting batarian and sending him flying. Shepard follows, diving for cover behind a Mako, Alliance soldiers providing covering fire beside her as the krogan charges on, straight across the landing zone toward the AA tower in the distance. A shockwave tears past the Mako, tossing two more batarians into the air, their guns still firing crazily as they crash back to earth. The second's grace is all Shepard needs: she looks out, takes in the explosive battlefield. The batarians have spread out, clearing the landing zone of Alliance shuttles and crates, moving fast to cover each other. They are heavily armoured, well armed. She pulls back into cover as a sniper bead fixes on her chest – the bullet crashes past her and takes out an Alliance soldier. She's counted perhaps thirty batarians. Ten more than her own force.

Shepard rolls out of cover, leaps up and follows the krogan's path. The sand is gritty in her eyes and skin, tugging at her hair – she misses her helmet badly, but it doesn't matter, the batarian in blue armour has his assault rifle raised – she fires easily, the kickback softened by her own momentum, and the batarian falls. From the corner of her eye she sees Vega's familiar outline pushing forward along the cliff, providing covering fire for the asari commandos busy pulling, tearing, warping batarians in all directions. Shepard takes cover behind a crate, fires over it at the batarian about to take down a fallen turian, reloads. Coates and Kirrahe have the door locked down, the salarian standing tall while the human covers his flank. She doesn't have to worry about them.

The krogan is still moving, three batarians dead behind him, bullets puncturing his shields. He needs support. Shepard rolls, forgetting that she has no armour and the ground is damned uncomfortable, and runs forward, gesturing to her following soldiers to join her. They're halfway across the landing zone, the crack and snap of bullets tearing through the blood-red and blood-stained sand and air. She hasn't run this fast in months, she doesn't care – Shepard fires one-handed at a batarian aiming at the krogan's back, distracts him long enough for Vega to take him out.

The clamour of gunfire is subdued by another voice joining the conversation. Shepard looks up: the batarians have the AA gun firing, swinging it steadily around from the sky to the landing zone. For a moment Shepard can only feel a selfish relief that they've distracted the batarians from the innocent Normandy, then she hears the wet thud of a bullet hitting the turian running behind her. They're going down fast. Dimly she hears Coates' rough snarl ordering soldiers forward, doesn't care, she has to reach the krogan. Now Vega is almost parallel with her, both sprinting to join the krogan – his charge has taken him nearly all the way to the AA gun, but he's caught by two batarians, one with a long savage biotic whip – four more appear, racing ahead of Shepard to join their comrades. One of the asari commandos goes down: the second trips over her body, rolls, shouts at Vega to go on, she'll cover them from here.

The krogan swings his smoking shotgun like a club, battering one attacker out of his way – he's reached the AA tower, his battle cries silenced by the heavy punching snarl of the massive gun above him. Shepard fixes her eyes on the AA tower and forces her lungs to breathe, breathe, breathe. There's a batarian right in front of her, too close, she doesn't have time to reload, keep moving. He fires, and she feels the bullet sink into her arm, but hasn't got time to deal with pain, that will come later – her foot hits a loose rock and she falls, automatically tucks into a roll but the batarian still has her in his sights –

Crack.

The batarian arcs backward, blood flowering from one eye. Shepard clambers to her feet, mentally thanking the sniper behind her. Forward. Just keep going. She reloads her shotgun with her last clip.

The krogan is overwhelmed, shotgun lost, headbutting one of his attackers, shields fried, armour punctured in a dozen places. Shepard looks wildly around – she's scarce of friends, but there's Vega, alone, a scavenged assault rifle in his hands – he reaches the krogan and tears a batarian off him. The three of them are all that's left of the attacking force. Another batarian drops down from the tower ladder, falling half on top of James. The krogan is on his knees, Vega's rifle knocked out of his hands, five batarians surrounding the two of them – she's twenty metres away –

Without thinking, heedless of the fact that she has no armour, no shields, Shepard calls on her biotics. Energy flares through her bones; she's half-blinded, ears ringing, doesn't matter – she takes a breath and throws herself forward. Surrounded by the crackling fury of biotic power, she charges across the gap; smashes into the closest batarian, throwing her already-injured arm forward to cover the worst of the impact. Her biotics ricochet outwards, blasting the last five attackers away.

Shepard crash-lands on the batarian she just hit; her body rolls over out of sheer instinct: dazed, she shakes her head and thinks she probably won't do that again. Her amp burns hot in the base of her skull. She staggers upright, Wraith hanging useless from her good arm – the krogan and Vega are still standing against her crashing attack, the krogan out of sheer stubbornness, Vega only because he was half-shielded by the old beast. Her breather mask is smashed: she remembers to hold her breath, spits out a mouthful of blood and dirt and snatches a mask from the dead batarian at her feet. In swift, efficient motions, Vega takes up his assault rifle again and shoots the last living batarians.

Shepard presses the breather mask to her face and sucks in a breath. She nearly screams from the unforgiving pain. Chakwas is going to kill her. Miranda will kill her. She glances down at her arm: it's still attached, not bleeding out, all that matters. Her amp flickers, sending tendrils of energy down her arms. She breathes out and gestures with her shotgun at the AA gun ladder. Vega is already moving, the krogan covering his back as he clambers up the ladder. The heavy gun is still firing, keeping Coates and Kirrahe pinned by the door.

She levers herself to the tower wall and puts her back to it. The wind has died down: now she can see the carnage strewn across the landing zone. All the batarians are dead, or down. She sees two Alliance soldiers still stirring, one of the asari emerging from cover to limp toward the tower. Sweat trickles down Shepard's back, cold against her hot skin. She looks up at the sky, dust-red and dull in the evening light. Is this what hope feels like?

A dead batarian crashes down from the tower, unused pistol in one hand. The AA gun falls silent, a crashing emptiness in the air. A moment later, James slides down the ladder and salutes Shepard. He has a deep slice torn out of his right forearm, but otherwise seems well. "Gun secured, ma'am."

Shepard rests her head against the wall. "Well done, Lieutenant."

So this is what hope feels like.

"Commander, comms still not operational. Normandy ETA, three minutes."

The sky is empty. Shepard takes off her breather mask for a moment to spit fresh blood and says, voice dry against the cold wind, "Don't panic, Cortez. AA guns secured. We have time: do you need reinforcements?"

"Negative, Commander, Lieutenant Reegar and I have things under control. Word from Hackett: reports from west and south entrances, all batarians down. Repeat, all batarians down."

The krogan beside her snorts and picks at one of the dents in his bloodied armour. "No stomach for a fight."

"Copy that, Cortez. Tell Hackett we're secure. We'll meet Liara and Wrex back in the main room."

"Aye aye, ma'am."

The pain is beginning to creep over the adrenaline. If she could remember how to open her fingers she would drop the Wraith on the ground. She is so tired. Major Kirrahe emerges from his cover and begins to pick his way across the battlefield, meticulously checking each body for signs of life. Coates is down, propped up against the wall, uniform torn and a bullet through his side, but breathing.

The last asari reaches the tower, and salutes Shepard. "Orders, ma'am?"

Shepard forces herself to stand straight, and says, "Secure the gun until reinforcements arrive, soldier. Good work."

The krogan, unfazed by the scattered shots across his armour and fresh tear in his headplate, says, "I'll stay here until Wrex sends more. Don't feel like losing this gun again."

Shepard thinks that he deserves at least a salute, at best a good meal and a medal, but settles for a weary nod. "You're a hell of a fighter."

"Never thought I'd see a soft-bellied human take down five batarians. You're alright, Shepard." The krogan rumbles away to join the asari by the tower ladder. James, having finished his check of the attackers' bodies, rejoins Shepard. He's still running high on adrenaline and bloodlust.

"Fucking batarians," he says, "We do everything we can to save this galaxy for them and they still come after you."

Shepard says nothing, but moves forward across the battlefield, the landing zone, toward Coates and the lift. Vega follows, tugging at his face mask with one torn hand. The sky is still empty.

"We got comms back yet?" he asks.

"No." She diverts to Major Kirrahe, the salarian inspecting a dead batarian with his omnitool. She's almost beside the Major when he leaps back, reaching for his pistol – the dead batarian lifts one arm and shoots. Kirrahe falls back, and Shepard looks down into the four eyes of Balak. He fires his pistol again.

Something throws Shepard aside: blinded by pain, she cries out and lands on all fours, Wraith landing with a thud beside her. Balak is up and running, stumbling over the bodies of his dead brethren. Another body hits the ground beside Shepard. She turns her head, blinks until she can see straight, and sees Vega grimacing, one hand pressed to his side. The panic that hits is so instant, she can't move. The ground tilts beneath her: not now, not now. She will not lose her crew now.

Balak.

She wonders if there will ever be a moment where she doesn't endure pain again. The Commander hauls herself upright, scavenging for her Wraith. Concentrate. Kirrahe is beside Vega, long fingers quick with medigel. He looks up briefly to gesture at Shepard: she nods, does not let herself look at James, bleeding from the shot he took for her – not now, not now. She will not fall apart.

Shepard sucks in one sharp breath against the splintering agony through her ribs, and chases after Balak. He's through the jammed door, Coates half-sitting beside it, still firing his assault rifle, one-handed, wildly, after the escaping batarian. The lift is rising, Balak at the controls, and she tries to call on her biotics again. Energy hisses across her skin and dissipates. She throws herself forward, calling on the last non-reserves of non-energy she demands her body gives her, dashes past Coates, and jumps for the rising platform. Her fingers catch the edge – it's still going up, she'll be crushed against the door: again she demands it, and her biotics kick back in long enough for her to pull herself over the edge and roll to safety. Her foot catches on the junction between door and lift: there's an awful crunch as something in her ankle snaps, but she's on the lift.

Balak fires, but he's either wounded or scared and his shot goes wide – she throws the last of her biotic power out at him, knocking the batarian off his feet. She crawls, then limps toward his sprawled body, and levels her shotgun. Four eyes stare into two.

Balak snarls. "Finish what you started, human."

She says nothing.

She could kill him now, and no one would care. She could pull the trigger and that would be the end of it. The batarians would never have a strong leader like Balak again. Beaten, lost, scared, they would roam the galaxy with no friends, no reason to fight or survive except for that same driving goal that sent her skittering from planet to planet, seeking any way at all to stay alive. Stay alive.

Balak has killed humans, sabotaged and schemed and murdered, and now James lies bleeding in the red Martian sands, with a bullet in his side that should be in hers. She could kill this reckless, desperate batarian now, and no one would care. She would be lauded for it.

Shepard stares down at him, this man who fulfills all the reputation his kind has earned: scum, villain, cruel, death-seeking. She has killed most of his followers. Their bones will bleach beside those of the dead Reaper that mocks her dreams. What is one batarian more or less?

She thinks, suddenly, of the beautiful and alien understanding of the geth consensus, of EDI's myriad of questions, her decision to seek a path of altruism and love. The guilt rises up so suddenly, her hand would shake if she let it.

Balak doesn't dare move, the ugly barrel of Shepard's Wraith pointed at his head. He does not blink.

She licks her lips and says, "Did you really think you could control a mass relay?"

Balak snorts. "I could have controlled them all."

She considers this, and realises that, perhaps, he is right. Times have changed.

"Finish what you started, Shepard."

The lift has stopped. Shepard smiles, and she sees the first hint of fear in Balak's dour face.

"I will," she says.

#

The walk back through the Archives is long and painful: but the past years have taught her to endure, so she endures. The central room is alive with military, the dignitaries surrounded by more guards than Shepard can count. When she appears, pushing a bloodied, disarmed batarian ahead of her, there are cries of fear and anger, guns appearing from all quarters. Shepard ignores them all, pushing Balak straight across to the central hologram. She has to do this now, when she stinks of the battlefield, when she can hardly see straight and she has a bullet in her arm, when her amp is burning a new scar into her neck. Let them all see, just for a moment, what this has cost her. They wanted the saviour of the galaxy, and they shall have her.

"Stop," she says, as Balak reaches the central hologram. No one moves, Hackett holding off the Alliance from taking Balak. She does not take her eyes off this desperate enemy, but says, "Where is Liara?"

"I'm here, Shepard." Liara appears, slightly breathless. Wrex is still beside her, still following orders.

"Liara, I need you to write something." She pauses, and now Balak can't see her, takes a moment to breathe. Liara has a datapad ready.

"Write this: The Mass Relays are, from this day forward, to be neutral territory. Any attack on a relay will be met with swift and thorough retribution from the Council, and the Spectres. No race, species or group shall attempt to control, interfere, restart or develop the mass relays. All species will nominate a neutral group of military scientists to maintain and guard the relays, together with all other species. Any attempt to sabotage or destroy the relay guards will be met with swift and thorough retribution from the Council and the Spectres." Shepard thinks for a moment, and adds, "If any species does not agree to this new law, they will be methodically and patiently stripped of everything they hold dear." She waits until Liara stops typing, and says, "Councillor Tevos, if you would sign this new agreement."

The asari Councillor, in silence, strides forward and takes the datapad from Liara: presses her hand against it. Shepard keeps her shotgun on Balak, and says, "Admiral?"

"Shepard ..." Hackett takes the datapad, but looks deeply unhappy. She waits for him to overcome the natural suspicion of a man desperate to protect his planet at all costs. She hopes she does not have to remind him of the value of alliances. He signs it.

Wrex takes the datapad next, and without hesitating, presses his hand to the screen. He hands it to the Primarch, who takes one look at Shepard, and follows suit.

Admiral Raan is less convinced. "Commander Shepard, you have no authority to demand we all unite in this manner. We have done all you asked of us, and –"

Shepard's voice drops. "I saved your galaxy, not just your planet, Raan. Would you like me to take them both back?"

There is a short, ugly little silence. Raan signs the datapad, and returns it to Liara. The asari brings it to Balak, holding it out for him to press his hand to. The batarian does not move.

Shepard is running out of patience. She does not let herself think: the Normandy will be here any minute, the Normandy will be here. She presses the shotgun into Balak's shoulders.

"Sign it," she says.

"No."

She kicks out with her injured foot: the batarian falls to his knees and she presses the barrel into his head.

"Sign it."

Balak laughs, an exhausted, half-hysterical double-sound that rackets across the uneasy room. "Human, all you ever do is talk. You convinced me to give you my ships when I had a gun to your head. You threw away my people to save the entire galaxy and now you won't even look me in the face. You're too damned soft, too fucking broken to ever go through with your threats. So kill me now. I won't sign your idealistic little law, Shepard. You couldn't shoot me if you wanted to."

The silence in the room is so tight, Shepard can hear her heart beating erratically in her chest. She contemplates the back of the batarian's skull. It would be very easy to pull the trigger. She doesn't.

"You're right, Balak," she says, so softly she can feel everyone straining to hear. "I am the saviour of the galaxy. Idealistic. That's a good word. I destroyed Aratoht to save the rest of us. But do you know what I was before I ever became the Saviour of the Citadel, Spectre, Defeater of Saren, the Saviour of the Galaxy?" The proclaimed titles are bitter on her tongue. She is aware, distantly, that she only has a few more seconds before her body gives out.

Shepard leans forward, her words only for the batarian's ear. "Before all that, I was the Butcher of Torfan."

Balak flinches.

Her blackest moments of deepest vitriolic ruthlessness feel like three lifetimes ago: she does not recognise the cold-hearted woman who emerged from Torfan, and does not care to. But she is still that woman: she knows, and knows without running from it any more, that if she must, she will kill every batarian in the galaxy to keep the peace.

They stand for a moment, Shepard towering over the batarian on his knees, and then he leans forward, and presses his hand to the datapad.

At once Shepard lifts her shotgun away. Three marines dash forward to take Balak into custody. The metallic taste of blood is rich on her tongue, and she looks away from the flickering blue hologram. She takes three steps across the room and holds her Wraith out to Hackett. He takes it. She looks him in the eye and says, "I am done."

She turns away, unsettled by the ease with which she has become Commander, Butcher, Saviour. She will not be their leader, their god. The crowd shivers under her stare, as if scared that her eyes will scorch. Their reverence makes her sick: she flicks a weak, one-handed gesture as if to throw it all away. She is done. She cannot do this any more. She has been Commander Shepard, and now she will never be again. Her breath comes short and fast, and she pushes straight through the crowd for the northern exit. Get out. Get out get out.

The last of the soldiers step aside: Shepard limps straight through the door into the northern corridor. The door shuts behind her on the sudden roar of argument and cheering and relieved celebration. She lifts her head to breathe in against the cracking pain, thankful for the silence of the empty corridor –

He is waiting for her.

He is thin, lines of exhaustion and stress scoring his face. His hair is greyer than it was five months ago. He stares at her with the battered, hungry gaze of a man too long away from home. She thinks, aha, it's happened, I've finally cracked. Even with the constant assurances of Hackett and Cortez that the Normandy was coming, she realises that she did not truly believe them. Hope is hope, and she had no room for it.

She can't move, words lost, thought lost, the last strands of pride tearing away from her bones. The red haze of the Citadel's sour end flickers across her vision and for a moment she can't see anything but the blazing light of her chosen, denied end. She closes her eyes against the blackness of the past five months, and opens them again. He is still standing there.

Kaidan takes three strides, and gently, lightly, touches her face.

She cries.