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In days of old, shepherds were guards. They did not peacefully guide, (though she had done her fair share of guiding,) but protected. They were the survival of that which they cared for; they stood at the edge of life and death and watched, and waited, and killed ruthlessly anything that threatened their flock.
A shepherd without a flock soon died, Liara told her, after reading about human agricultural practices. If the shepherd did not stop the wolves, the shepherd was as dead from hunger as they might have been from a ripped out throat. Merciless nature tolerated only those willing to do what they must without remorse or hesitation. Everyone else starved.
Shepard hadn’t thought about it much at the time. There hadn’t been time to think about things like that, not with the Reapers threatening Earth and the galaxy fighting wars on every front.
There isn't time to think about it now, either. Not with death stalking her, not with the way her body is rebelling against her. But Hackett is bleating in her ear and she must get up.
She has defeated death before.
* * *
“We need to fall back.”
Liara tries to explain, tries to find reason in the middle of a battlefield. “With Anderson and Shepard gone, command has crumbled. We need to get back to the Normandy and regroup, coordinate a rally.”
There is rage, sorrow, and a complete lack of reason in Garrus’ eyes when he rounds on her. The emptiness in him is almost worse than the Reapers.
He drops to his knees abruptly and crumples to the ground in a heap. Behind him, Tali meets Liara’s eyes and lowers her shotgun. Liara can already see the lump forming on the back of the turian’s skull.
“That is one way to calm him down,” she observes.
The women bend to gather him up, drag him to the extraction point. Liara puts out the call to retreat, to regroup, (where? Where can they go? There is no firm ground for them to stand on, not if Shepard’s dead.) Shepard and Anderson are MIA. Hammer is shattered, Shield is broken, Sword is snapped.
Cotez has the shuttle waiting.
“The commander?” Joker asks when they dock, his hands hovering as he waits for her confirmation.
Shepard had to make decisions like this all the time, Liara thinks. Decide to stay, to save every life she can, to be certain that only death remains in her wake, or decide to go, regroup, live to win another day. Lose herself or live with the losses.
“Gone,” Liara says and leaves the bridge.
* * *
Shepard stares at the glowing rush of destiny. The chance to become the mother to a new species.
Tiny krogan play hide and seek in the forests of her mind.
She looks at the seat of power that beckons with control and wonders what it would be like to be a goddess.
She turns her back on them both.
Even in the face of certain extinction, life finds a way.
* * *
Ten different doctors told Joker’s mother he’d never walk or have a normal life.
If Jeff Moreau were to design himself a new body, he would start by making it fast. Strong, too, and bigger-- he’d want the size, but not at the expense of speed. Defense isn’t as important if you are adept at running-- not running away, that’s running to the wrong place, but running toward the right spot. The difference between battles won and lost isn’t who fights the hardest. It’s who fights the best. And Joker will take speed over power, any day. Anyone who chooses otherwise is a fool and there are a lot of fools in the world, but he is not one of them.
He would design a body with an IES stealth system, a Tantalus Drive Core, and optimized for solo reconnaissance missions.
When the Alliance offered him the Normandy, Joker refused until they added a pay increase. The Normandy was a once in a lifetime type of ship, but he is a once in a lifetime type of pilot.
Which is why the rest of the ships, the best damn fleet anyone had ever assembled, stayed in orbit around the Earth, while Joker listened to the screaming part of his mind that howled fly seconds before the Citadel exploded into light.
They are barely clear of the relay when his brain catches up with his hands and asks what they were doing, running like hell from Earth?
Then the relays began to explode.
* * *
Dying is the same as she remembers.
* * *
They are broken, in paradise.
Garrus turns away from the breathtaking vista to the broken wreckage. Hunts through the kit near the exit. Finds a hammer, a screwdriver, and a flashlight.
“We’ll start with the drive core,” he says. Everyone else is still trying to sort out shock.
Joker adjusts his hat. “I’ll get communications back on line.” He hobbles back into the wreckage.
One by one, piece by piece, inch by inch, the galaxy begins to rebuild.
* * *
Synthetics are completely offline. The entire geth race is inactive. The husks of Reapers like monuments of destruction. The Illusive Man and her father dead, along with countless other Very Powerful People. The power vacuum is a black hole.
(Shepard missing.)
The Alliance fragmented.
(Shepard’s MIA!)
Cerberus gone.
(Where is Shepard?)
The Council fallen.
The aftermath is worse than the war. This is a scar not easily healed. But the power is still there. Miranda Lawson was bred for power.
She gathers the fragmented remains of the three headed guard dog. Finds the Alliance’s crown jewel on a backwards garden planet. Rights the Illusive Man’s throne. Seats the Shadow Broker in it.
Shepard fought overwhelming odds because it was always her destiny to save humanity.
Miranda is always the midwife of Shepard’s rebirth.
* * *
“Get up, Shepard.”
Rebirth is the same as she remembers, too.
“Miranda?”
Every breath is a bullet. She gathers them, loads them into herself, and fights back the haze of death.
“Shepard.” Liara’s voice now. Was Earth safe?
They needed her. She would rest when her flock was safe.
“Wh-what do you need--” liquid in her lungs, in her mouth. Spitting is harder than anything she’s done so far. She needs to get up. She needs to help. She can rest when everyone is safe. She can die when she knows they’ll live. “Me... to...”
Everything falls away so she can fight the encroaching darkness. The battle is long and difficult. The battle is overwhelming and impossible. She wins. She always wins, because losing is never an option.
“Shepard? Shepard, can you give us a location?” Miranda again.
She exhales a breath. Inhales.
Every breath is a bullet.
* * *
Shepard unites the galaxy twice.
Jacob reads the report handed to him, shakes his head, passes it to another doctor. The difference between soldiers on the battlefield and scientists with a deadline is not as big as most think.
The first time, she brought them together to fight the Reapers.
He meets Kasumi’s eyes as she points out another viable entrance to the closed and dead coffin holding Shepard’s body. There is a disagreement among those consulting with her. Miranda overrides it.
This time, Shepard gathers them together to find her.
* * *
Garrus sways with the shuttle, shifts his weight as it rocks and speeds up.
Kasumi is behind him. The Citadel is locked tight. That has never stopped her before. Kasumi is the best there is at getting into places she shouldn’t be. She sets a hand on his shoulder, brief comfort, then withdraws it.
Miranda is beside him. He can hear Shepard’s voice through her omnitool. Breathless, liquid gasps between broken words. He knows the feeling.
“Shepard,” he rasps. “I’m coming.”
* * *
The remains of the Citadel reek of death and decay, Keepers moving like Charon across the Styx. There is ooze underfoot, making progress slow and treacherous. It is better not to think about what the ooze is. Who it is.
If she won’t let death keep her from him, then Garrus will be damned before slippery floors and untold carnage will stop him.
Kasumi is at home in the shadows, tracking Shepard’s signal on her omnitool, a perverse Orpheus.
’I don’t know why, Garrus. They’re just myths. Stories behind names for planets.’
‘The Roman versions are better. Your Romans knew the score, Shepard.’
Laughter. A flash of flat, smooth teeth. Her skin on his.
Kasumi stops. They stand before a mass of remains, parts of things that were always meant to be whole. They are not parts of any one species, not any more. They all belong to death and the smell is overwhelming.
“Oh--” Kasumi stutters it out, shaking her head as she searches back and forth, tries to find hope amid the mountain of decay. “Here, she’s here. Somewhere. I can’t--”
There are other words after that, but Garrus has no use for them.
* * *
Blue, a flash of blue, a flash of light that does not falter.
It catches the eye, draws it to a body that does not match. A whole that is not made like other parts.
Miranda finds Aria T’Loak with her hand firmly wrapped around another part. A glowing part. Shepard’s omnitool, Shepard’s part, Shepard’s whole.
Shepard.
* * *
Mordin looks at Shepard from across the darkness.
“Had to be us,” he says, “someone else might have gotten it wrong.”
Life rushes back like a Reaper’s descent.
* * *
Garrus is waiting.
The others come and go. Drift in and out like the Keepers in the Citadel and he pays them similar heed. He remembers the exact moment he fell in love with sniping. It was the moment he learned to trade his awareness of passing time for focus on a single target. He’s watched other targets with this focus, but never this intent.
He’s watched Shepard in his sights before, but never with killing focus.
He waits. Through surgeries, through debates over treatment, through follow-ups and check-ups and mumbled assurances that she should wake up at any time, hidden questions of whether she’ll wake up at all, he waits.
And like all truly great snipers, his target comes to him.
* * *
Aria refuses to speak of survival.
Her lips curl at their questions. No, Aria refuses to speak of survival.
Instead, she speaks of debt.
* * *
It is a scene he has watched, again and again, in the peaceful moments stolen between years of war. Shepard does not approach sleep any differently from battle. It is complete, it is everything, and when she wakes, it is unconditional victory.
Her gasp silences the ship, fills it again.
Threat assessment. Her eyes flick about, take in her surroundings. He watches them pause on exits, escape routes, linger as she cases for weapons. And stop on him.
’Garrus, if you’re around, I know the situation is either secure or bad enough I would have heard the gunshots before I opened my eyes.’
‘That’s an interesting way of thinking about it.’
But there is pride and power in her trust.
“The Reapers?” she asks, her voice rough from abuse, disuse.
Garrus flares his mandibles wide, leans forward to press his forehead to hers. Too small a motion for emotions so large. He can still read the battles on her skin.
“Gone.” He tells her victory in one word.
Only then does her relief match his. Her flock is safe.
“Hell, Garrus, you weren’t worried, were you?” she asks, summoning most of her strength to stroke his cheek, scars familiar and coarse under her fingertips. They tremble at the touch.
She learns what it sounds like when a Turian attempts to laugh and cry at the same time.
* * *
There is sand and ocean. There aren’t any vids and no one has money for royalties. Not a mile away, reconstruction efforts toil away, countless workers attempting to rebuild what is left of Rio. The galaxy grinds on, relentless. But for now, there is sand and ocean and skin warmed by the sun.
Shepard and Garrus watch the sun set behind the empty husk of a Reaper.
“Next suicide mission they offer us, let’s try saying no,” he suggests. “It’s important to try new things.”
Shepard thinks of the future and her flock.
“Like raising children?” she asks.
“Definitely.”
* * *