Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Shepard. Good timing for politicking. For once. Need to go to Tuchanka anyway for further blood and dispersion tests, need to check rare chromosomal typing within males. Statistically dismissible. Do not think you want statistically dismissed krogan allies.” 

“No, I don’t want anyone left out,” Shepard flatly agrees. 

“Good. Within predictable bounds for action. Still know you,” Mordin says, happily and not at all smugly, despite the way Rana rolls her eyes at him in the background. 

They’re almost done packing for their (temporary) move. With the secession looming, Shepard isn’t taking any chances with her sensitive parts. Like Mordin and Mordin Jr. (Rana and Bakara too. Mostly.) She wants them off of Mindoir until she is absolutely certain nothing is going to happen outside of what she and Hackett agreed on. 

Despite their famous desires to leave races to their own problems, Shepard assumes the Council’s gonna pull some bullshit. She has two thousand credits in the Normandy betting pool for it. She’s not leaving her people vulnerable to said bullshit if she can help it, so now is an excellent time for Team Mordin to do some work on Tuchanka, under the care of several billion self-appointed bodyguards. 

“Also, small possibility for genome mutation if left untested,” Mordin mutters as an afterthought, then bustles away to pack up more of his equipment before Shepard can demand what the hell he means about mutated krogan. 

She takes a deep breath. 

Bakara shoves Mordin Jr. at her, who has been gaining weight by leaps and bounds, which is excellent for a growing baby but is already a strain. “Here. Stop looking morose.” 

“Thanks,” Shepard wheezes and rearranges the chunky infant in her arms. Giggling, Mordin Jr. immediately goes for her hair. “You’re lucky you’re politically vital and super cute,” Shepard tells her. 

Mordin Jr. smiles with nubby baby teeth around her braid. 

Since she’s self-designated Baby Carrier now, Shepard elects not to help them pack, and takes her charge outside. Mordin Jr. cranes her thick neck back to squint at the sun, still smiling and chewing. “You’re the nicest and smiliest krogan I’ve ever met, you know. But you better not be working on giving me a haircut right now.” 

“Ga,” Mordin Jr. protests in her own defense. 

“Say what you will, but you should know, I’m famously known to be a very stubborn human. I won’t be swayed that easily.” 

“Gabaga,” Mordin Jr. insists. 

“You do make a good point…” 

“Are you… having a conversation with a pre-language infant?” 

Shepard barely turns before Mordin Jr. has spat out her hair and is reaching for Garrus. He leans away from her tiny claws. Shepard shifts to compensate for the wriggling weight change, then tells him, “I haven’t had kids and I haven’t spent a lot of time with babies, but c’mon, Garrus. You talk to them. They talk back.” 

“They do?” Garrus asks apprehensively. 

“It’s good for language acquisition! How else are they supposed to learn?” 

“By listening. She’s just stringing together nonsense syllables to experiment with her developing vocal chords.” 

“God, I almost want to give you a kid to flail with full-time. You have a younger sister! I refuse to believe that the entire turian race doesn’t partake in the super important tradition of baby talk.” 

Garrus squints at her, mandibles tight, and after a weighted pause, he replies, “Solana isn’t that much younger than me.” 

Shepard hands him Mordin Jr. He staggers a second under the abrupt weight. “I’m getting you a baby book,” she tells him. 

“I know Normandy crew has debated at length about spreading certain rumors to distract from what we’re actually doing, but I don’t think the universe is ready for pregnant Commander Shepard. Let’s skip that idea.” 

“Ga!” Mordin Jr. agrees, the little traitor. She’s grinning even bigger in Garrus’ arms, and Shepard’s pretty sure she’s at least old enough to be smiling on purpose, considering she’s doing it so much. But she still doesn’t know very much about the krogan aging thing. 

“What are you doing?” Both of them turn at the sound of Grunt’s growl. (Mordin Jr. does not, given that she’s single-mindedly honed in on trying to grab Garrus’ nearer mandible.) 

With more inter-crew violence than Shepard has seen from him in some time, Grunt reaches up and smacks the back of Garrus’ head, forcing him down into baby-grabbing range. Mordin Jr. seizes his mandible with an exuberant squeal. Garrus swears. 

“She’s baring her teeth like a predator, so you have to pretend to be her prey so she learns to be confident! Do neither of you know a thing about babies?!” Grunt demands, tone acidic. 

“I swear, Bakara has been training her to target turian body parts. She shouldn’t know to try to bend inward like this,” Garrus complains between all of his wincing. But he stays with his head bowed and sensitive body part in Mordin Jr.’s clutches. 

“I thought she was smiling,” Shepard says, half baffled and half amused. 

“What kind of krogan smiles? It’s like you don’t even know us.” Grunt shakes his head with a scoff. 

“Shouldn’t have dangling face bits if you don’t want them pulled,” Bakara says as she lumbers past with one of Mordin’s machines in tow. A machine Shepard hadn’t thought was portable. Test tubes rattle with every step. 

“You know what, I’m going to go run through the plan with the mayor again. You all have a good time here, don’t break anything, and that goes double for the baby and triple for the pretty side of Garrus’ face.” 

“Of course. She should’ve learned to go for the weakened side, anyway. I suppose such an amateur mistake could be excused, since she’s an infant,” Grunt grumbles. 

“I hate you all,” Garrus informs them. 

“Gaba!” Mordin Jr. declares. 

—

“How did you meeting with the Prime Minister go?” Shepard asks, a touch hesitantly, because there was no need for Hackett to call her if everything had gone smoothly. They’re supposed to be semi-hostile entities to each other. Every call is a risk, no matter their precautions. 

“Well as can be expected. He’d been looped in prior, but Shastri isn’t a man easily shaken. Not that I’d say he’s shaken now, but…” 

“But,” Shepard repeats with a sigh. 

“He has concerns. He claims he won’t greenlight anything until we have another meeting, but I’m inclined to believe he wouldn’t throw us under the bus if we had to move.” 

“Always another goddamned meeting.” 

“With you, Shepard,” Hackett tells her. 

“With me? Why the hell would he want to talk to me?” Shepard asks, confused. 

Hackett’s silence is loud. 

Why would the Prime Minister of the Systems Alliance want to speak to the wanted criminal who is co-fostering a secession crisis in this fraught political climate (that she single-handedly helped create)? 

“Okay, then I’ll create some credentials for the call. I assume the human leader has access to some decent encryption, I’ll ask—” 

“No. In person. On Earth.” 

This time, the silence is ringing. 

“On Earth?” Shepard repeats, just to be sure. 

“On Earth. Paris, London, or Berlin. Your choice.” 

“You want me to go to Earth? Right now?” 

“Shepard, we are creating a very big crack in the very foundation of humanity’s existence in this galaxy. Some things need to be said in person. Some things need to be admitted aloud. Sometimes, a man really needs to look someone in the eye and hear the truth.” 

“Well, I’m a woman, so good thing I wouldn’t need anything silly like that. When?” 

“As soon as you can make it. As I said—we’d like to start this next week. We’re running out of mobilization time before your countdown finishes,” Hackett points out. 

As if she hadn’t heard of all of the points he’d already congregated most of the Alliance. But she understands that signing a document declaring a draft and having ready, trained troops are two very different things. One she wants significantly more than the other. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” Shepard says. 

“See that you do. I’m not asking, and neither is he. See you next week, Shepard. I’ll bring you another bottle of your choice of poison.” 

Considering she just left Mindoir and the mayor had kindly gifted her another fancy expensive bottle of apple liquor, she doesn’t need to start a collection. “Ryncol, sir,” Shepard tells him with a sharp smile. 

—

“Earth, huh,” Garrus says. 

“Don’t start. I can’t exactly say no when the leader of my entire race wants me to personally pinky promise I’m not doing this for shits and giggles. If the Hierarchy called you up right now, would you be able to say no?” Shepard returns. 

He puts his hands up in mock surrender, a gesture he learned from her. And thankfully, she doesn’t take it as further prodding by using it. “I’m just saying, it’s awfully nice that we have such a good stealth drive. Even dropping you off at Mars and backing off prickles my spurs.” 

Shepard sets her chin on her fist and staunchly ignores the beseeching looks drilling into both their backs. Her meal, a human attempt at recreating a salarian moss weaver, sits untouched on her plate. (Despite the glaring differences even Garrus can pick out, Mordin happily cuts into his.) 

Gardner has gotten a lot better with cooking up dextro food, considering he can’t taste test any of it, but he’s stopped getting creative with their meals. Garrus is privately thankful. Tali lies through her visor and says she misses the novelty. 

And Gardner, shockingly, is Beseeching Look Number One. 

The man is usually pretty stoic. Happy to chat, but not one to go out of his way to socialize. Stays in his lane, even when Shepard drags that lane into widening into dextro cuisine and hydroponics babysitting. 

But ever since Shepard has started foisting bulk packs of cooking staples upon him, he’s apparently realized that this stockpiling crusade of hers isn’t stopping, and he’s gotten picky about it. 

Or he, like most everyone else aboard, still isn’t over the palettes (plural) of utrimp beans he’s still working through. 

“It’s not like I’m going grocery shopping there,” Shepard says loudly, then finally, starts eating. 

“I’m not saying you have to pop down to the corner store, but we are going to be in human space for the first time in what, over a year? Ma’am, I’m not above committing mutiny to order real flour,” Gardner warns from across the mess. 

“You have real flour! You have what, half a ton of flour on the Normandy, with another two tons stockpiled—” 

“I want wheat flour, and the best wheat still comes from Earth. I want bread flour, pastry flour if you want to make Javik a proper cake, and on that note, we’re low on sugar, anyway. The Mars market outpost is one of the busiest markets this side of the galaxy, and some of us are a lot less famous than others. Let me make an order.” 

“I don’t want the Normandy anywhere near Mars!” 

“The primary reason Mars is so big is because it does semi-local deliveries to ships in the system,” Jacob says, because apparently he has a death wish or something. Shepard turns her frown on him next. Jacob only shrugs. 

“I don’t see why it’s any more of a risk than letting Commander Shepard sneak into Earth airspace,” Gardner adds. 

“Because I can run under an infiltrator cloak if need be. Huge palettes of dried foods being carted? Not fast things!” 

“Attempt at a moss weaver commendable,” Mordin says. Not even to change the subject, but like he’s sincerely enjoying his meal and this is a natural continuation of the ongoing conversation. “Local STG cell can facilitate pick-up past Jupiter, if ordered early. Now, probably. Would have to pay extra fee, but personally vouch for leader there. Unless it changed. Possible—probable. Harmok never had enough sense speaking to other leadership, many other cells hated him. But did good work.” 

“I’m sorry, did you just say there’s an STG cell stationed on Mars? Or close to it? Anywhere in the Sol system?” Shepard demands. 

Garrus sighs to the ceiling. Not a single one of this crew wishes to avoid provoking her, then. Do they do it for sport? 

Mordin glances up at her, then goes back to finishing his plate. “Officially, Jupiter. Works with Mars personnel. Salarian cuisine relies heavily on Sur’kesh flora called saeyoro, refining process takes nearly two solar years. Precious commodity. Not prohibitively expensive, but rationed, little black market availability due to high legal demand. Mess Sergeant, what did you use as replacement?” 

“What Mordin’s gettin’ at is that brown sugar is the common man’s version of that sigh-stuff.” 

“Saeyoro,” Mordin mutters around his mouthful. 

Gardner continues, “Ninety percent of the recipes I’ve seen have outright said to substitute human-made brown sugar for the stuff. Even recipes on asari sites. For that matter, asari like lemongrass and anything made with bell peppers, salarian cooking adopted most of our fruits too, Grunt’s developed a hell of a taste for barbeque sauce, and—” 

“Fine!” Shepard exclaims. 

Garrus glances over his shoulder, and Gardner looks uncharacteristically smug. Jacob shakes his head in disbelief. 

“Mordin, contact your guy, Gardner, give him your order. But I don’t want it near the Normandy. Get a geth ship over here to do the pick-up for us. Past Jupiter! Past Uranus and Neptune, even!” Shepard jams a huge forkful of the moss weaver into her mouth, then shoves her plate back, unfinished. 

Mordin calmly transfers the remainder of hers onto his own plate. “Can do, Commander. Look forward to further salarian dish attempts.” 

“I followed a tutorial from a dalatrass for that stuff. It was s’posed to be authentic,” Gardner grumbles. 

“Turned out fine,” Shepard says curtly. She jerks her head toward Garrus, then stalks off to the elevator, only huffy because she was bested. In the universe’s silliest argument. 

“You know, she would’ve gutted anyone else for pushing the issue,” Garrus tells Gardner. 

The man only shrugs. “No one gets that pissy with the cook. Plus, Shepard’s a real softie. She’s all bark and no bite when it comes down to it.” 

“Don’t let her hear you say that!” Jacob says and barks a laugh. 

But Garrus shrugs, too. “Eh, depends what kind of mood she’s in. Gardner had one thing right—no one stays mad at the cook. And maybe she’s tired of the utrimp beans, too.” 

“They’re nutritionally complete,” EDI says from one of her intercoms, since her body isn’t here. 

“Speaking of pushing uncomfortable issues,” Jacob says, and isn’t that an opener, “Garrus, mind if I pick your brain for a bit, before you head off to soothe the savage beast?” 

“I know she’d gut you if she heard that,” Garrus retorts. 

“I have half a hunch, but if it’s right, she won’t be mad at me for long, either. I wanna show you a couple pictures and ask if you hypothetically still have any access to any C-Sec records. Older stuff, but some of it might’ve gotten classified. If that hunch of mine is right.” 

Garrus had wanted to follow Shepard, to soothe not the so-called savage beast but her concerns regarding flying into sensitive territory. But his curiosity is piqued. Jacob is another straightforward member of the crew—so usually not one to approach something so circumspectly. 

“Alright, let’s hear it.” 

—

Garrus doesn’t follow her to her quarters, but Thane ducks in just afterward. (Not from the elevator she’d just vacated, but the vent.) “Enjoying not having Kasumi or the rachni soldier to share those with?” she asks. 

“The elevator was in use. I didn’t want to wait,” Thane replies. “I wanted to check on you in a moment alone. Are you alright, returning to Earth?” 

“Returning? I’ve only been there what… Three times?” The moon didn’t count and neither did that training exercise during N-school where they lied about their locale to trick them into a poisonous atmosphere. Shepard had almost passed out during that one. “Still, homeworld of the human race, but not like I ever lived there. Couldn’t afford the rent.” 

She knows she’s making light of the situation. Earth isn’t the issue. Her Wanted status from the Council is. Thane gives her the barest frown, just a twitch of a down-turned mouth, and she’s already folding. 

“Okay, yes, if it was anyone but Hackett and the literal leader of the entire Systems Alliance, I’d never have even entertained the idea. But if they can’t hold a secret meeting with the Council’s Most Wanted, then who could?” She plops down on her couch instead of going straight to her desk; a sign that she’s willing to assuage both their worries for the time being, instead of picking through the exact details of Gardner’s new grocery list. 

(She’s encouraged him to ask for more, given that he knows what is and isn’t feasible for cooking on a starship. They haven’t needed all of the MREs and dry goods she (maybe) panic-bought—yet. But they probably will. And she doesn’t want to deny her personal crew anything if she can help it.) 

(But damn it, flour secondhand or thirdhand from other suppliers isn’t that bad. Just makes for crunchier bread.)

On the couch, Thane fits them together like puzzle pieces, as he does anytime she’s somewhere that isn’t a work space. He studies her hand, held in his, instead of pressing for eye contact. “If you trust them, then we will trust them as well. But things can go wrong. Things tend to go wrong with this crew, defying all statistics. There are not enough extraction options for you.” 

“I’m not letting you come along as my shadow.” 

“I wasn’t going to suggest it. Actually, I ask that I accompany Javik to Kahje for his celebration—” 

“Why does Javik need to go to Kahje?” she interrupts, exasperated. She’ll let the hanar idolize him as they please, but she draws the line at demanding her crew’s presence. 

“Siha, it is the holiest day in the hanar religious calendar. It is newly announced. He does need to attend, if not for the entire duration,” Thane gently points out. “It’s best we do not alienate the hanar if we can help it. Does Javik need to be anywhere else urgently? I can protect him on Kahje and ensure he does not do anything ruinous.” 

Shepard, already having been cowed into common sense once today by a crewmate, doesn’t want to do it twice. So she sighs, aimless, and flops her weight against him. He shifts to allow this. And the conversation is likewise wordlessly shifted. 

“So what are your ideas of extraction contingencies for me?” she asks against his throat frills. She doesn’t mean it to be anything more than a conversation, but he shivers at the proximity, anyway. Whoops. 

His tone is all business when he responds, though. “Legion. He has stealth capabilities now and we’ve had practice smuggling unpowered geth platforms into places they shouldn’t be. Moreover, he maintains near-constant contact with the consensus. We don’t know if whatever secret haven they have planned for this meeting will allow outside communication.” 

“Not a terrible idea,” she allows. “And Hackett, at least, would recognize Legion as one of my crew, if he got caught somewhere. It’s not perfect, but it’s better than nothing. Other ideas?” 

“Call Kasumi back as your shadow. Have EDI utilize your likeness to attend in your stead. Refuse to attend.” 

“Can EDI impersonate me?” Shepard asks in alarm, because that’s not a sentence she wants to hear right now, with another prospective impersonator on the loose. 

They both glance toward the interface by the door, but EDI says nothing in her own defense. Suspicious. 

“She claims to have been working on the likenesses for all of the crew for use in case of emergency, with primary focus on refining the appearances of the female human crew, given her body.” 

Shepard imagines that that rack isn’t easily hidden. (She then wonders about the true purpose of metal boobs on a robotic body. Did they use it as extra hardware storage?) “Yeah, she’d have to drop a cup size or two for the rest of you.” She pats the bared section of Thane’s chest as punctuation. 

He makes a low sound, the closest he ever gets to discontent with her. Too polite to be exasperation, but a close cousin. 

“I don’t want to send EDI, both because I don’t want her that far from the Normandy, and because if it all goes to shit and she does get caught, we don’t want the universe at large to realize that there’s something that can copy me.” 

“Siha, there is a strong possibility that there is something copying you.” 

“Yes, and we don’t want to be the boy who cried wolf about which one’s the bad one. I’m not risking her. Legion or Kasumi—maybe.” She doesn’t think sneaking onto Earth for something she’d been invited to by a man she trusts is truly dangerous, at least not in the sense of how often they risk their lives in other, more violent ways. At worst, she’d be detained on the Council’s orders. It’s not like they’re aiming to execute her in the street. 

“I, among others, would feel greatly reassured if there were extraction options for you.” 

“What are the extraction options if the Council decides they’ll risk pissing off the hanar to kidnap Javik to draw me out?” 

“Siha, I am his extraction option. You can entrust his safety to me.” 

Shepard hums, thoughtful. “Technically, you’re a noncombatant, and also technically, you can’t go against the hanar because of the Compact. The hanar remain a Council race. I’m not saying they’ll do that—and if they do, I doubt it’d be Javik, specifically because the hanar literally worship him—but Kahje isn’t so safe for us. It definitely won’t be a secret.” 

“The Compact allows for free will, siha, and I serve under you. I will do my best to ensure he is safe and returns to the Normandy on time, unmolested.” 

She snorts an accidental, unattractive laugh. He makes a questioning noise, but she halts it there. “Don’t—I believe in your skills, it’s not that. Just a case of a bad mental image.” Even if his word choice was textbook perfect, she did not need to envision what the hanar could do to Javik under the verb ‘molest’. 

Good thing the vast majority of them seem to be too terrified to approach him to ever try something so stupid. 

“If Javik wants, he’s allowed to remind any particularly annoying hanar that he used to eat them,” Shepard adds, just in case. 

“Is that implicit permission for him to do so?”

“I trust your judgment in keeping Javik safe.” She pats his chest again. “But the standing orders are for both of you to return, safe and on time and unmolested.” 

Thane rumbles against her. “Your tone changed at the end of that sentence.” He can tell something is off, but knows it’s not important. She’s glad he’s not the type to poke at inadvertent silliness (like she is). 

“It’s an important order to me.” 

“I will consult a human dictionary before we depart,” he warns. 

“All the more reason for you to remain unmolested by everyone but me and only Garrus if he behaves.” 

“Ah. I see my mistake now.” 

“Standing orders,” she repeats, “so no molestation on your watch, Krios.” 

“I told you I would endeavor to do my best to never disobey you again, so I will keep my word,” he replies, full of humor. 

—

“Earth is less blue than the photos show,” Tali remarks as she peers out the viewing window with most of the rest of the nonhuman crew crammed in around her. 

“Is that the quarian critiquing someone’s homeworld?” Zaeed says and starts laughing even before Tali starts up her defensive sputtering. 

“We do doctor the big, famous pics, don’t we?” Jacob asks Miranda under his breath, making an uncomfortable realization. Humans always have to get the last word in on propaganda, don’t they. 

“Probably. Graphic design never came under my purview, so I never bothered to care. Have you seen Gardner? I’d like to add to that list of his, since Shepard isn’t bothering to double-check it.” 

“You know she was only being grumpy because she’s scared of getting picked off by someone while we’re out here. Also, Gardner gave it to Mordin’s STG contacts yesterday.” 

Miranda spares him a smile. “There’s always more available when one’s looking to spend credits.” 

“If Shepard actually looks at the receipt of that shopping trip, I’m not protecting you,” he informs her. She pats him on the shoulder and disappears past the rubberneckers eager to behold Earth. As someone who’s past rank allowed business trips to Earth, Jacob’s been there, done that for most of its big sights. Still, he’d been rightfully miffed that he missed the trips to Rannoch, so he can’t deny the aliens their awe at a homeworld.

Their not-so-distant view is swiftly overtaken by a chain of freighters passing. Tali and Grunt boo. 

“Alright, back it up, people. No one’s getting shore leave in Sol and you can circle back around at Mars to stare later.” In full armor, Shepard strides down the corridor, Legion at her heels. She carries her helmet under one arm. “Tali, I’ll bring you back a souvenir.” 

“And the rest of us are chopped pyjak?” Garrus quips. 

“I’ve heard that phrase before. I would like to try it, if it as common as everyone claims,” Javik says. 

Shepard shoots them each a finger gun in turn. “Tacky keychain for Tali, chopped pyjak for Javik, done. Garrus, you get your girlfriend back in one piece later, isn’t that enough?” 

Jacob shoots his Don’t Say Anything There’s No Right Answer There look to Garrus. Mercifully, the guy understands it. He thinks Garrus’ highly refined ability to dig himself into conversational holes is as funny as the next Normandy crew member, but Shepard gets snappy when nervous, and no one deserves that. 

And boy, is she nervous right now. 

“Hackett is still good, right?” Jacob asks, scrutinizing her exact level of nerves. It’d practically been why he’d been brought onto Project Lazarus; when Liara allowed him access to his own Cerberus dossiers and he found out he was meant to be a pacifying agent to the one and only Commander Shepard, he just about died laughing. 

But hey, old habits died hard. 

“Hackett’s good,” Shepard replies, eyes askance toward the viewing window, “and I doubt the Prime Minister managed to cook something up without tipping him off. It’s not them I distrust. It’s this location and having to kowtow one last time—even though I’m not Alliance anymore and we’re secret allies in the coming impossible war, not best friends. Open best friends. No, we’re not even secret best friends, either—then they’d be sneaking me carriers and dreadnoughts.” 

That’s about a seven on the Shepard Nerves scale. Within acceptable bounds. 

He drops his voice to tell her, “You don’t have to kowtow, you know. Technically speaking. You aren’t Alliance.” 

She gives him a tight smile. “Yeah, I know we’re independent pains in the ass of the Council, or whatever our official designation is these days. And I’m not running errands for Hackett anymore. But… I can’t dump the Alliance, Jacob.” 

“Yeah, I know.” Boy, does he ever know. He has fond memories, shitty memories, and a lot of mixed feelings, but the Alliance is a neutral, past entity to him. Emphasis on past. Gardner and Joker are still a little fond-at-a-distance, Cortez has a lot going on regarding his Alliance feelings that Jacob doesn’t feel ever prepared to delve into, and Chakwas is, as always, unflappable and unreadable. 

But the bulk of the crew weren’t Alliance and regard them as another entity to Deal With. 

“Shepard-Commander, our shuttle is scheduled to arrive,” Legion says. 

“Then that’s our cue. The rest of you—behave while I’m gone. I’m serious, looking from afar is one thing, but if any of you even think about setting foot on Mars or trying to do anything but sit here quietly and order things off of local delivery, I’m feeding you to Urz and the rachni.” 

“I don’t believe either of them can safely ingest metals in the quantity of this platform,” EDI says. 

“EDI, if you, of all people, are the one to cause this trouble, then I’ll pull your servers out of the back by hand and toss you out the airlock myself. Don’t joke. Also, I think Urz would try.” 

EDI blinks, twice, then frowns. “I don’t believe I like being the subject of these fierce return jokes. I’m recalibrating my humor protocols to reflect this future avoidance.” 

Shepard beams when she pats EDI’s shoulder. “Good girl.” 

“I am also recalibrating several protocols to reflect my future desire to hear that again.” 

Joker laughs, Jacob narrowly avoids making his own sound, and several others take a moment to process what surely only could be the AI’s equivalent of an off-color joke. An attempt at one. Another learning experience, probably. 

Shepard’s smile strains at the corners, and she opens and closes her mouth twice before picking her response. “You win this round, EDI. Just don’t let anyone fly the Normandy into trouble.” 

“Affirmative, Shepard.” 

Shepard jams on her helmet and leads Legion toward the airlock. 

The second it’s closed behind them, Grunt asks, “So we’re definitely going to go to Mars, right?” 

EDI replies, “Grunt, I have been given authority to space any troublemakers. Please, once Shepard and Legion are finished with the decontamination cycle, step into the airlock.” 

—

“You couldn’t have at least gotten us a view of the Eiffel Tower?” Shepard takes in the Montmartre view and tells herself to be impressed. But she isn’t. Not only is their sole window pointed away from the city center, Earth cities just don’t impress her. Everything always looks so crowded. Stations have excuses to look crowded, but planetside? She supposes all of the balcony gardens are cute, though. 

“You’re lucky we didn’t use the bunker under the port,” Hackett returns. “Wine?” 

“Champagne, since it’s the real stuff. What’s the ETA on the Prime Minister? I’d assumed I’d be the last to arrive,” she admits. 

“They’ll be here shortly.” 

“They?” 

“This is a meeting to hash out humanity’s precarious near future, Shepard. The big players need to be here.” 

She sighs in exasperation and swipes the champagne he offers her. She doesn’t even know the local leaders. Frankly, Earth is one of the more defensible homeworlds because of Sol’s relay placement, so this is edging into outright favoritism as it is. She doesn’t need to care this specifically about Earth. 

At least the drink is nice. Turns out there’s some truth to authentic things being better. Wild. 

“Do I want to know how many of your crew snuck along planetside?” Hackett asks conversationally. 

“You’d think any is too many.” 

“I haven’t seen your crew since Anderson’s promotion. Maybe I wanted to talk shop with that assassin of yours. His line of work is about to get a lot more important when indoctrination seeps in.” 

“I have never admitted to employing or dating assassins,” she points out. 

He inclines his head in acknowledgement of her thin plausible deniability. “What of the hanar, then? Are you going to move them any further or will they remain publicly neutral? They have a lot of sway with the Council. Still talks on the table about that Council seat of theirs, last I heard.” 

“I’m not here to discuss anything other than the Alliance and its colonies today.” 

“Or what are about to not be its colonies anymore,” he returns. 

She raises her glass to that, then drains it. 

The proximity alert chimes a full four minutes before the doors open. They don’t have any organic security, because this is so damn secret that trust is at the utmost premium, but the security systems on this place are better than the Citadel’s. She’s glad for such measures, but her minor gratitude falls flat when she sees who comes in with the Prime Minister. It’s not one of the local leadership. 

Udina laughs, open and genuine, something she’s pretty sure she’s never seen before. Amul Shastri grins right back at him. They look like men half their ages—and good friends at that. Their conversation dies a warm, natural death when they enter, and further falls into frigidity when Udina makes eye contact with Shepard. 

“Shepard,” he greets, deadpan. 

“Udina. In hindsight, I suppose I should’ve expected you to slink in to something like this. Even if this is an Alliance affair.” 

“This is the future of humanity, Shepard. Let’s not get nitpicky now—you certainly haven’t been with your methods.” The last part is an aside, inasmuch as he lowers his voice the tiniest fraction to make it seem so. 

Shepard crosses her arms. “Aren’t you duty-bound to report my presence here? Attempt to detain me? You’re the Council’s lapdog now, after all. Here I am. On a Council homeworld, without my ship or my crew.” 

“Most of them, anyway,” Hackett mutters and sips at his drink. He knows better by now than to interfere with their bickering. 

“And who put my name forth for the Council seat I now occupy?” Udina stands tall and demands—not with smugness, however, but weariness. 

Shastri looks between them, enthralled. “Donnel, I admittedly hadn’t believed your tales of Shepard’s…” 

“Temper?” Hackett suggests neutrally. 

“Pettiness or willingness to bicker like children?” Udina says, far less neutrally. 

“Let’s just say that you and Anderson paint her in very different lights and leave it at that,” Shastri says. A born diplomat. Hackett clears his throat to hide his chuckle. The Prime Minister continues, “Regardless of your feelings on present company or the dire consequences, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last, Shepard. As I’m sure you can understand, I’ve heard much about you. Especially in recent news cycles.” 

Shepard eyes him and debates her response. Udina’s presence is not a happy surprise, but they’ve been in rooms together plenty of times without a body count. And he is right—Shepard put her name’s weight behind his. He’d been useful—helpful, truthfully—during the hunt for Saren. He’s a politician and she had needed one of those. Humanity had. 

Hackett is a familiar presence and the Prime Minister is a neutral one. This is about their future. 

She highly doubts Udina would try anything, anyway. The man is a long list of adjectives, but stupid isn’t one of them. 

“Thank you for meeting with me, Prime Minister, sir. And Councilor. Even with the inconveniences of our schedules and the ridiculous security measures, it’s worth it to be here today,” she settles on saying. There, and Garrus says she can’t be diplomatic. 

“The four most important humans in the galaxy—we need some ridiculous security measures, don’t we,” Hackett says. 

Damn if it isn’t weird to think of herself as important, though. She’s known she’s responsible for way too much and she’s moving an awful lot of pieces around the galactic map, but important? Compared to the military and political leaders of humanity, compared to one of the Council’s own? Weird. Shepard still thinks of herself as a (un)lucky survivor who could be taught to shoot well. 

“Speak for yourself, Admiral. This is my cousin’s apartment—according to my schedule, I’m visiting her for the week, taking in Paris. I’m on vacation,” Shastri jokes. 

“Radhika lives in Paris now?” Udina asks in surprise. 

“She only bought the place when Adeeth started uni. You recall how protective she is.” Based on his tone, Shepard gets the sense it’s some kind of inside joke. Especially considering Udina’s good-natured eye roll. “Good for us, given how many of her security systems we could rely on today, eh?” 

Their apparent familiarity isn’t like the usual brown-nosing she sees from Udina, but it rankles her all the same. “Convenient,” she flatly agrees. “So—the meeting today. On our side, we’ve decided to let Feros make the actual announcement—” 

“Jumping straight into business,” Shastri interrupts with warm humor she doesn’t share. He refills Shepard’s champagne, then pours himself a glass, and hands the bottle of white to Udina. 

“Some of us don’t have a week vacation lined up to have so much free time,” Hackett points out. 

“Steven, I have never once seen a time off request from you in all my years in this position. It wouldn’t kill you.” 

“With this timing? It just might.” 

Shastri sighs and shakes his head. “Feros, then. Why Feros? I’ve read the reports—Mindoir is on your list, and Eden Prime is thinking about it. Both are far more known—especially because of you.” 

“That’s exactly why I’m fine being a heavily implied icon during this, and we can’t control what other races not in the know will think, but I don’t want to announce my hand in this with fireworks and a marching band. Feros has a lot of recorded, concrete reasons for their discontent. They’re defensible. They’re a lot more neutral to the galaxy at large than Mindoir.” 

“It’s a good move,” Udina agrees. “And as I told Hackett, I’m against Eden Prime being looped in fully. Not to mention the optics of that.” 

“Fair enough. How will the initial colonies be treated compared to later ones who defect, wholly believing in this cause?” Shastri asks. 

“As much the same as possible. We’re offering defenses and labor to these colonies,” Shepard replies. 

“Geth,” Shastri clarifies with visible uneasiness. “I’ve receive the reports, seen the photos. That won’t stay secret for very long, Shepard.” 

“Those damned geth shadowing your every move,” Udina says in disgust. “If I had a credit for every time I heard a comparison to Saren Arterius on the Citadel, I could fund this endeavor by myself.” 

Odd to have such a moment of camaraderie with Udina. They catch each other’s eye and a year of political stonewalling, dismissive racism, and terrifying conspiracy passes by. She couldn’t have done it in time without him. And he, too, would have enough knowledge of the truth as well as personal stake in it to be as offended by the parallels as she is. 

“But,” Udina continues, ripping his attention from her to return to the other two, “I had a thought about those annoying machines. We could use them more efficiently.” 

“I can assure you, the geth and how I’m deploying them are very efficient,” Shepard retorts. 

“You still don’t have a single brain cell for common sense in all that muscle, do you? How do you think the Council is going to take all of this? They can do a lot more than appoint Williams to harass you, believe me.” 

“On that note, why the hell did you pick Ashley to—” 

“Colonies and their jurisdiction have always fallen to their own races,” Shastri interjects. “This is a thoroughly Alliance affair. They didn’t do much outside of that single aid package when our colonies were being attacked by the Collectors.” 

Shepard and Udina roll their eyes in unison. “Tell me about it,” she groans. She hadn’t even heard of the aid package. 

“If the Council decides to investigate the geth presence officially, they will certainly choose to act. They only reasons they haven’t sent further forces against Shepard are Williams’ potential unique handling of the situation and the fact that she hasn’t been directly implicated in most of the trouble she’s caused. Even if everyone in the Council chambers knows, we’re bound by law as much as anyone else. Officially, Shepard is wanted for questioning about her many, many actions, not so much one specific crime. Yet.” 

She can’t help a laugh. 

“But the geth,” Udina goes on. “I understand you think them useful. To be sure, so far they appear tame. So let’s officially utilize them.” 

“Officially?” Hackett repeats. She can practically see his mental calculations of what geth fleets could do for Alliance numbers. 

“Officially—legally—the geth are barely off the shoot on sight list, Donnel. Not to mention that absolute circus regarding the guns and the quarians,” Shastri says. 

“Exactly. Regardless of how the legal proceedings play out, the geth belong to the quarians again. Slaves or allies, it doesn’t matter. But the quarians.” Udina gestures to Shepard with his wine glass. “Tali’Zorah nar Rayya is famously good friends with Shepard.” 

“Vas Normandy.” 

“Pardon?” 

“It’s Tali’Zorah vas Normandy now,” Shepard corrects with pride. 

“…I don’t even know what that means, I hardly understand quarian names as it is. Why did she—nevermind that. The point is, Tali’Zorah was known at Shepard’s side for some time. The common man knows next to nothing about quarians, but the common man probably knows her name and face. Er, mask. It’s completely feasible to believe that Tali’Zorah, inspired by her friendship with Shepard, would speak to her people about supporting human colonies.” 

“The quarians hardly have the funds or supplies to be sharing—” Shastri starts, but cuts himself off, eyes going wide. “The geth.” 

“And the quarians aren’t a Council race. Not to mention how openly they’ve been broadcasting their displeasure with the Council as of late,” Udina says with the kind of manic joy of one whose puzzle is coming together. “The Council very well may decide to buck tradition and ‘help out’ with seceding human colonies, especially if they claim the geth are influencing them—or heaven forbid, attacking anyone again. But if the geth were doing all of this as a symbol of old friendship? Donating labor to protect brand new galactic outcasts, as they so often fashion themselves as? If the Council intercedes outside of some investigation for show, then they risk publicly overstepping. If there’s anything the last three years have taught me—the Council does not want to publicly do anything negative.” 

“You could’ve just left it without that last word,” Shepard mutters. 

“So the quarians ‘loan’ the geth to colonies, like how they’re helping out Tuchanka?” Hackett asks. 

“What about Tuchanka?” Shastri asks with sudden alarm. 

“Nevermind that,” Shepard says, “but yes. I like it. Force the Council to back down or further acknowledge the quarians’ power—they’ve claimed for so long to stay in their lane, so let’s make them keep their word.” 

“Can you ask the quarians to publicly support this maneuver? It’ll bring a lot of heat down on them,” Hackett says. 

“Oh, like they haven’t already gotten used to being denigrated by every other news cycle? It’ll be fine. From what I understand, their legal department is having a field day with that lawsuit, so I’m sure they’ll have fun with this, too.” 

So they have a reason for the geth to be working openly at any seceded human colony. The quarians’ control over the geth is reinforced publicly, as well as some good press for them once Shepard gets the right people talking about it. Helping out fed up human colonies when the Council couldn’t even do more than a single aid package when entire colonies were getting kidnapped? 

Oh, this will be great. 

—

Legion, hard-wired in to the apartment system because several feet of solid metal and concrete perimeter does not stop a Collector beam rifle, ponders how four organics of the same race could have such vastly different opinions. They had all arrived to the meeting with the same background information, context, and necessary shared goal. And yet, they counted that as consensus? 

He wonders how the creators ever got anything done. There are many more of them in the Flotilla and the primary decisions were made by the Admiralty Board, of which there are (usually) five members. Five organics arguing over meaningless details seems even less efficient than the four he’s spent the afternoon eavesdropping on. 

He will need to ask Tali about the creators’ planning efficiency. He will also need to ask Shepard about humanity’s. Perhaps her apprehension about the meeting was related to that. Though he cannot feel it, Legion understands that he ought to be embarrassed, too, if four geth programs took so long to reach consensus about the future (especially when they had been briefed beforehand; going through static information more than once is already illogical and extraordinarily inefficient).

But based on her vocal patterns, Shepard sounds pleased by this meeting. That is the most important thing. She is pleased when the results are satisfactory, regardless of time cost or inefficiency. 

Legion’s programs do not care that the quarians have been enlisted to politically shift their situation. The geth will do as told regardless. He’s heard that many geth units have experienced gratitude from the colonies they’d already helped (after the krogan stopped shooting at them) and that’s novel. Fascinating to record. Still a minor ongoing debate about seeking gratitude from the creators, too. 

(So far, they have sought and experienced gratitude from one thousand, seven hundred ninety-eight creators when these creators have been asked. They have sought gratitude and been dismissed by two hundred eighty-three creators. They have sough gratitude and experienced hostility from nine hundred twenty-two creators. Each individual quarian must have consensus reached about whether or not to seek gratitude, and then their reactions are recorded and added to the growing new information about their creators.) 

(The geth have experienced gratitude from seventeen thousand, four hundred seventy krogan. The geth have not sought gratitude from any non-quarian source, and yet received it regardless. This is also added to the geth’s growing dataset about interacting with organics.) 

Legion has been thanked by Shepard one hundred eighty-one times. Most of these have been what organics call casual or reflexive instances. 

Legion, for reasons his programs refuse to seek consensus about, had anonymized her data before reporting it. The geth do not need to know how many times Shepard has thanked Legion, because Shepard sees Legion as an individual, though he is not. 

Except. 

Legion has made the distinction that Shepard thanks Legion. 

When the inefficient human leader meeting is concluded, Legion resumes his stealth capabilities and makes it back to Shepard’s shuttle before she does. She doesn’t look for him when she comes aboard. She checks that no one else is present, that the route back to Mars is already loaded correctly into the VI’s navigation, and that the doors are locked securely. Legion has already done these things, both when he boarded and after she did, in the span of milliseconds. 

He drops his cloak. Shepard smiles at him. “Thanks for covering me, Legion. I bet it was boring to listen to me and Udina pick on each other for two hours, though, huh?” She plops onto the shuttle’s seat and fans herself. Her cheeks are notably red. Legion records her minor intoxication level while simultaneously lowering the shuttle’s temperature. 

One hundred eighty-two times. 

“Geth do not experience boredom,” Legion points out. Shepard rolls her eyes in the manner he’s understood is fond and not annoyed. “However, it was valuable data to understand how human leadership interacts with one another,” he adds, for reasons his programs do not reach consensus on. 

He also does not inform her that the valuable data was based entirely on organic ineptitude. 

“You know how creepy that sounds, right,” Shepard says without sounding creeped out at all. She still maintains her fond vocal patterns. 

“This unit never intended, or intends to, ‘creep you out’, Shepard-Commander.” 

“You don’t really. Anymore. Once I got used to the whole… you know.” She waves her hand over the length of his platform. Legion is the most advanced geth platform ever produced and the most understanding of organic interaction, thanks to being the initial data intake point for the bulk of the geth’s knowledge of modern organic interaction, but he does not understand what she means now. 

Geth do not experience the organic notion of confusion. They either know information or they don’t. 

Legion says, “This unit does not know.” 

“I hope the geth aren’t insulted if some of the coming work with the human colonies gets iffy. For as long as we’ve been on the galactic scene, the geth have been the scary secret boogeyman. And then you came out from behind the Veil with Saren—well, geth were scary. I had a couple nightmares about geth beeps and stuff the first time one of you got close. Humans are usually pretty good at understanding when they truly need help and not to turn away those offering it, but not always. So don’t take it to heart if you hear about some particularly ungrateful human colonies in the near future, okay?” 

Legion prioritizes the Shepard Data that geth are potentially a source of fear for humans for the consensus records. Given the hostilities the geth had experienced from every organic until very recently, they had never dissected why the hostility may have come about. 

Outside of the heretics shooting at them, anyway. 

“Krogan have destroyed seventy-three geth platforms before aggression and ‘bored shooting’ ceased on Tuchanka. We doubt that humans will be as problematic, given how they idolize you, Shepard-Commander,” Legion says. 

“I don’t like either parts of that. Idolize, sheesh—but come on, damn it, Wrex, he says he has those hotheaded lizards under control.” 

“We did not shoot back. We did not escalate hostilities.” 

“You realize that’s worse, right? I know he made a joke about shooting at your guys, but ugh.” 

Legion narrows his light. “It is not worse. We did not escalate hostilities. No krogan were harmed due to geth action on Tuchanka.” 

Shepard pats his shoulder armor (that had once been hers, and soon will have spent more time affixed to this platform than to her body). “Legion, I know you can download programs into new bodies, but you’re important, too. The geth are vital to this, you know that. If the krogan start using geth as entertainment again, let me know. I’m not above being petty about the genophage cure, you know.” 

“The krogan are vital to the war effort against the Old Machines.” 

“Not as vital as the geth are.” 

Legion ponders nine hundred twenty-nine milliseconds before reaching consensus on the coming phrasing. “You care specifically about the reproduction capabilities of the krogan. Organic notions of the ‘future’ hinge upon reproduction rates. The geth produce platforms at whatever rate we need to fulfill demand. You do not need to worry about geth reproduction rates based on available material, Shepard-Commander. You do need to worry about krogan reproduction rates. Accordingly, it is acceptable for the krogan to receive higher emotional priority from you.” 

She smiles, but it is not completely warm. Legion does not comprehend the difference, but he recognizes there is a difference. Strange. 

“Legion, I am forever going to be someone who cares about people. I don’t mean that in the organic sense, I mean that about individuals, and I think it’s gonna be best for me to start looking at numbers instead of thinking about people en masse, anyway. I care about Wrex and Grunt, way more than I care about the whatever-billion krogan milling about on Tuchanka.” 

“Three billion, one hundred twenty-eight million, three hundred four thousand, five hundred krogan,” Legion reports. 

Her smile tightens. “Right. Damn, Wrex is moving fast to mobilize them. But anyway! I care about you way more than I care about the don’t-correct-me-five-hundred-billion-whatever geth programs and platforms in existence.” 

Legion does not correct her egregious error. 

“If you tell me that geth are being bullied by krogan, I’m going to care. If Wrex tells me that krogan are being bullied by geth, I’ll care—after I get done laughing. I’m playing favorites. The entire galaxy knows I’m playing favorites, and frankly, everyone is lucky both Normandies were mixed ships, because otherwise that could’ve gone very badly for the galaxy at large. So use the fact that you’re my favorite, okay, Legion? I’m asking a lot of the geth. You’re allowed to ask stuff from me, too.” 

“Three hundred forty-eight million, four hundred thirty-five thousand, seven hundred thirteen credits and an additional Old Machine corpse to study,” Legion says automatically. 

Shepard stares for a beat, in the way organics do when processing new information, then grins a brief moment before laughing. Her teeth are very flat and unlike quarian teeth. “Right, that money! Sorry, it slipped my mind with the Noveria shitshow, and you never reminded me.” 

“This unit was unaware we were meant to remind you about low budget priorities.” 

“As the leader of the Normandy Pact, I’m now declaring this a high priority. Higher priority, anyway. So, what is it?” 

Legion looks to the shuttle’s viewing window instead of at Shepard’s face. “The geth need to pay for an organic breeding program.” 

“…What? I mean—what? We’re already good on most of the genophage funding, buddy, and I’m really sure that the quarians don’t need any adjustments to however they handle their populations. And they definitely don’t want it from geth data sets.” 

“Based on certain data harvested from low security Shadow Broker files—” 

“You shouldn’t be doing that—” 

“—there is STG funding for bringing back extinct species from existing DNA samples. We wish to return the creators’ livestock species to them. We wish to repopulate Rannoch with lost native wildlife. We geth do not possess the capabilities to begin such projects for ourselves, given our limited understanding of organic species. We seek to hire independent offshoots from the primary STG programs. Anonymously, of course.” 

Shepard’s human face softens in a way that Legion had only before recorded when in proximity to crewmates Garrus or Thane. Geth do not panic, but Legion does not want to become something akin to crewmates Garrus or Thane to Shepard. He does not possess the requisite parts. 

“The credits are yours. And you know what? The corpse is yours, too. And you know what else? I hope we’re so good at this coming war that you get all four of those on the first week, if not the first day. Haul ‘em out of the Kite’s Nest yourselves,” she tells him. 

Legion dutifully sends the updated payment of an additional Old Machine to the consensus with high priority. The consensus records positive reaction. The consensus records further positive reaction to the information regarding the breeding programs, too. 

It is highly improbable that the coming war will be as successful as Shepard believes. Shepard tends to warp statistical probabilities, but some math cannot be defeated, even by Commander Shepard. It had taken several fleets to successfully defeat Nazara. The Kite’s Nest will be a source of organic egress and blanket destruction. No Normandy Pact forces have been planned to defend the Kite’s Nest. 

Legion does not point this out to her. “We hope so, too, Shepard-Commander.” 

—

“Son of a bitch, that’s him,” Jacob says, pointing at the grainy vid shot. 

Liara and Garrus both lean in to squint. It isn’t as if she distrusts Jacob, but she may be distrusting human eyesight, because the shot is old, at a distance, and rather dark. It is a human man, easily confirmed. A large frame and in black armor, also easy to see. But as for his actual facial features? 

Jacob insists, pointing harder. “No, see, here—he got part of his ear bit off in a fistfight with a vorcha once, he loved to tell that story. And I recognize that huge gun of his. Why do old mercs always have such obvious, favorite weapons?” 

“Don’t let Zaeed hear you say that,” Liara advises. She supposes the few pixels of the man’s profile could be missing part of the ear. 

“Don’t let Shepard and her Black Widow hear you say that, either,” Garrus adds. 

“You’re the one who just called her old, not me,” Jacob says. “Look, man, trust me. I served with that guy for four years—I could Where’s Waldo him in a Citadel panorama in sunglasses and a fake mustache. I served with him longer than I’ve been with Shepard, you realize? Or any of us have, subtracting the years she was dead?” 

“I thought his name was Nyaro…?” Liara double-checks the old records Garrus had pulled from C-Sec. 

“Nevermind, human joke. Point is, I knew him. I know that’s him! And that armor?” 

It is very familiar black armor. Not as good as what they’d seen recently, due to the several years between this shot and the Illium media screaming about it, but same type and same forced anonymity. 

“They’re called CAT6,” Jacob says triumphantly. 

“And why didn’t you share this with us before?” Garrus asks, annoyance vibrating in his words. 

Why don’t I have anything on them? Liara wonders, perhaps more pertinently. While she would love answers about who those people are, there are few answers outside the grasp of the Shadow Broker. 

“It’s an Alliance ghost story. A whisper of a rumor of a story you heard once. I had no idea they were real until… now, really.” Jacob looks down at the vid shot with a little less excitement, and a little more melancholy. “Think of CAT6 as the actual secret, actual evil equivalent to the STG. Except they aren’t government-sanctioned. According to the rumors, they do anything for enough credits. But this isn’t another merc group. Nyaro was N5.” At their lost look, Jacob scoffs and explains, “Like Shepard is N7! It’s a scale. She’s at the top. He was pretty damn close to the top, considering how few people N-school takes.” 

“Oh, yes, that’s right,” Liara says. But given that, then she can go consult with her records of N-school graduates. Does N5 not count as fully graduated…? She runs the search anyway, and comes up at once with a record for Nyaro, Mihail. Alliance with a suspiciously sparse career record. The dead giveaway for black ops. Jacob had freely admitted as such, but it’s nice to know not everything escapes her net. 

So why doesn’t she have anything on CAT6? 

Garrus asks, “Aren’t cats an Earth animal? They’re one of the ones you say are pets.” 

“I know that tone, and they really are pets, not something Shepard is trying to convince you is cute again. It’s a shortened form for Category 6, anyway. Dishonorable discharge from the Alliance. Which I can also personally confirm. I watched Nyaro go down in flames, man. It was bad.” Jacob shakes his head at the memory. “Saw him exactly once afterward. Said he was running with a new, better crew, and that I better hope I never ran into him again. Haven’t, either.” Jacob gestures to the vid shot again. “But that’s him, swear on Shepard’s grave.” 

“I don’t like that phrasing,” Liara says, nose wrinkled, as she reads over the rest of Nyaro’s known contacts. Jacob is linked through his classified Alliance service (that only took Liara another extra thirty seconds to track down). 

“So you have a bunch of ex-Alliance with grudges and bad track records. And they somehow all joined together to form a merc company that even the Shadow Broker doesn’t know about?” 

“This is the cream of the crop stuff. I’d say it’s barely a step above your hand-picked revenge spree squad,” Jacob says pointedly. 

“I understand what you mean, but low blow. Still doesn’t answer how the Shadow Broker doesn’t know.” 

“The Shadow Broker didn’t know you were Archangel,” Liara can’t help but point out. “It’s not a perfect, infallible role, Garrus. This just means that no one within the group has ever let it leak. It’s statistically unlikely, but not impossible. Jacob, how long has this group been around?” 

But he shakes his head. “I don’t know a thing. This is about all I know—CAT6, named because they got booted forcibly from the Alliance, and they mean business. Only other reference I’ve ever heard is something that may have been attributed to them. Corporate colony start-up got wiped out, and that corporation had some big debts. No survivors, no witnesses, no evidence, no public answers.” 

“I still had very few humans who were on my list for who could’ve possibly tracked down Hagalaz and the ship,” Liara replies, “so is our going theory that whoever is behind that and Shepard’s impersonation hired these people? Is it really as simple as a mercenary company?” 

Again, that ugly disgust rears its head: she had expected whoever assaulted her role to be better. Not hired muscle. Formidable hired muscle, yes, but there was nothing more to it, then. And if the mastermind hadn’t even been there, then her entire search through possible alibis had been moot. 

She had never once considered that whoever would have tried to seize the Shadow Broker role wouldn’t have done so personally. 

She digs her knuckles into the furrow in her brow to ward off her coming headache. Garrus pats her shoulder, then says, “It’s a good lead. Better than anything we had before. Is this something Shepard would know more about?” 

Jacob shakes his head again. “No, probably not. I mean, I’m sure the Spectres or the STG or someone is aware of the messes they’ve left behind in their work, but not by name and certainly not any individuals. Shepard is… Well, she’s not perfect, but she does good work. She tries real hard to be good. And that’s not the kind of person who finds out about CAT6, no matter what else her resume holds.” Before they can ask, he adds, “Williams, too—they’re just too aboveboard. Hell, it’s practically luck that I heard about this. Normally it’d be more someone like Zaeed’s thing, but he wasn’t Alliance.” 

“Too busy running his own criminal empire,” Garrus quips. 

Liara rereads the sparse file on Nyaro, Mihail. Hasn’t been sighted in six years. Presumed dead. Would it be worth it to see what files would turn up if she created that loose of a filter?

They’d have no way to confirm or deny any guesses. And if anything, this de-prioritizes it: it’s a bunch of (dangerous, skilled, greedy, immoral) soldiers who have been hired to do a job. It doesn’t answer who is behind it all. 

—

Ashley watches the press conference with her arms crossed tight over her chest. She’s shared drinks with those people. She’d helped save their lives. Feros hadn’t even been Alliance; it’d been one of those corporate start-ups that the Alliance had fostered afterward. 

Some gratitude. 

“…which is why, formally ceasing at the end of this current cycle, we and our named allies have chosen to secede from the Systems Alliance and all of its powers,” Arcelia reads off her cards. Representatives from Mindoir and Tiptree stand on either side of her. What she supposes are the colonies’ flags drape across the table in front of them. “We do this not in hostility, hatred, or having been coerced in any way. Our colonies and those that choose to join us by democratic majority vote are hereby declared independent.” 

She continues reading from another card, declaring that they will hereby follow all existing laws of Earth and honor existing trade agreements and treaties, but Ashley has seen enough. Somehow, she hadn’t thought this farce would go through. 

But colonies are seceding from the only defense they had against a very unforgiving universe. And Ashley knows exactly whose arms they’re running to.