Chapter Text
James Vega was on his third mug of whatever slimy drink the Batarians fancied as quality ale. It was not his first choice of drink, but he had grown accustomed to it if only as a challenge to them. He took another look at his hand of halocards before taking another sip of his drink and pushing in the rest of his chips.
“All in,” he said as the Batarians around him sneered.
Behind him, he heard the sound of Omega One, the largest news broadcast on the station. He did his best to ignore it (he tended not to listen too hard to news stations that were rather staunchly anti-human), but eventually, the broadcast caught his ear.
“While the Citadel Council scrambles to denounce the so-called terrorist acts allegedly carried out by Commander Shepard, Batarian Officials are demanding retribution.”
There is was again. The name of Commander Shepard, either hero or antagonist of the galaxy. Even someone like James couldn’t help but admire her; she took out the Collectors when no one else could, when people like him failed.
“Councilor Udina has publicly denied that the Human Alliance had anything to do with the destruction of the mass relay.”
James smirked at that. It was like news channels to always speak in hypotheticals with all their “so-called” this and “allegedly” that. It infuriated him; too many people stood by the sidelines and judged those who went out and tried to stop the end of all civilization. Civilians only ever judged the actions and the histories, never thinking too hard about those that had to make them. Others, like Commander Shepard, were only ever abstract ideas to civilians, not people who had to suffer the consequences of their actions every day.
He had no doubt that Commander Shepard had grappled with the destruction of the relay, had to make a decision in an instant that would change and end the lives of hundreds of thousands, maybe even the whole galaxy. And the worst of it was, that hadn’t been the first time she had done that. Somehow, one human had been able to change the galaxy time and time again, never breaking, never faltering.
He knew that she was not the heartless, anti-alien ape that the news portrayed her as; he remembered the stories told by other, quieter voices, those that spoke of her helping colonists or saving lives, and he knew that those were the hardest decisions to make. It took a lot of energy to care about the little man, an amount of energy that seemed to escape him. He found it hard to care about anything after Fehl. That’s why he came to Omega in the first place.
“Batarian leaders are calling for Shepard’s head—”
Before he considered his actions, he set his holocards down and rose from the table.
“It’s your bet, human,” one of the Batarians—a mercenary named Dhormak—said.
He did not pause and walked straight over to the television and tore it off of its mount with ease as the rest of the bar fell silent, the only sound the buzz of tearing electrical wires.
“That’s gonna cost you, kid,” the Krogan bartender Serax said.
“Take my winnings. That should more than cover it,” he replied as he dropped the dark TV. He looked back towards the table where an impressive stacks of chips stood abandoned by his seat. “Keep the extra,” he added. “As long as I don’t have to listen to that bullshit.”
Dhormak stood up. “Don’t you think the Batarians deserve payback?” It was more of a threat than a question.
“Yeah,” one of his particularly hot-headed men said. “You a Shepard lover, Human?”
James rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles. “Why don’t we all just sit down and finish our game.”
Time seemed to slow down as the Batarians quickly glanced towards each other before Presk leapt from his seat and lunged at him with a knife.
James easily sidestepped the first swipe and hefted the TV up as a shield. The second swipe came, and he caught the knife directly in the center of the screen before tearing it out of the Batarian’s grip. He flipped the television over to stab the Batarian with his own knife. As he slumped to the floor, James squared himself and turned back towards the rest of them.
“Anyone else want a turn?” he quipped.
Dhormak barred his twisted teeth at him. “Alliance scum, you’re all the same, thinking you’re so much better than us.”
“Well, better looking for sure.” There were six Batarians surrounding him now, and he knew that he had to move fast. Even he couldn’t take them all out; he needed an escape, and his eyes set on the glass wall behind the first group of Batarians.
“We’ll see how you look after we—”
James didn’t let Dhormak finish before he lunged at him and slammed him against the window behind them. For a instant, he feared that the glass wouldn’t snap, but as the thought briefly came, the glass shattered around them. They tumbled to the street a story down, and when James landed on Dhormak, the Batarian didn’t move again.
Dazed as he may have been, James clambered to his feet and ignored the pain as he felt blood begin to swell and ooze down his left arm. He took a moment to square himself once more as the remainder of Dhormak’s crew rushed out of the first-story door.
“You boys just don’t know when to give up,” he said as he prepared for another brawl.
When one of the Batarians lunged at him, James twisted around to catch him on his back before throwing him to the ground. Two more were upon him as they drew knives from concealed sheaths. James slithered between them and dodged one of their blows only for it to strike the other opponent. Without wasting a second, he slammed his forehead into the Batarian’s cartilaginous face and pulled both of them to the floor. James prepared a series of wicked blows to his opponent’s bloodied face before a laser bullet struck the ground next to him.
“Enough!” a voice called out.
Expecting to see the Omega guards once more, James stood up and rolled his shoulders. As he turned around, he saw not the police but rather an Alliance road cruiser and several uniformed men.
“Lieutenant James Vega. You’re a hard man to find.”
He couldn’t believe his eyes. He blinked twice to clear his vision, but the person in front of him didn’t change. “Admiral Anderson?”
“Dust yourself off and follow me,” the Admiral’s deep voice said. When James didn’t immediately move to follow him, the Admiral added, “That’s an order.”
James legs moved to follow the Admiral before he could ask them to. Once a military man, always a military man.
He wiped some of the blood off his face. “Where we going,” he asked. He never was a man for formality.
The Admiral waited until the entire party was safe inside the cruiser before answering. “I’m ending your leave of absence early and taking you back for more training.”
Of course he couldn’t get a straight answer—CO’s only knew how to answer related inquiries. “What the Hell for?”
“It’s time you got over the incident on Fehl. Time for you to be the soldier we expect of you.”
“No disrespect, sir, but I’d rather not just get over it.”
“You’re a damned fool if you think I’m going to let a soldier as good as you pass your life away in this shithole. You’re coming to Earth with me. Now.”
There was no room for disagreement, and they spent the rest of the short journey to the spaceport in silence.
“Forget it,” Vega finally said. “There’s nothing for me there.”
The Admiral smirked, but Vega could tell that there was a rather important detail that he was admitting. Again, a strong suit of commanding officers. “I’ve got something for you, something you haven’t had before.” Anderson opened the cruiser door and stepped out, nodding to the driver and the rest of his party. James stepped out to follow him.
“Well it certainly isn’t answers” he mumbled just loud enough for the admiral to hear.
If Anderson had a reaction, he couldn’t see it.
They headed straight through the security checkpoints and towards the back of the space port. Vega looked over the spaceport and saw the usual pirate and mercenary ships, but the two flashiest ships docked caught his attention. There was the battle-weary frigate proudly named SSV Hastings, but docked behind was the massive Normandy SR-2, it’s gleaming plating marred by recent burns and scars of battle.
Everyone had heard the talltale that Shepard was going straight to the lair of the Collectors and destroy them within, but that was a suicide mission. It was the suicide mission as far as anyone was concerned, and yet here the Normandy was—battered and bruised it may have been.
“Does that mean…”
“That the Collectors are destroyed? Yes, Lieutenant. As far as I know, not a single one made it out.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. By all means, none of them should have returned, but the Normandy isn’t your concern and neither are her crew.”
As they traveled closer to the two magnificent vessels, the eyes of every Batarian, Vorcha, Turian, Asari, and Human fell upon them as they passed. It was an eerie feeling, but he resisted the urge to mention it to the Admiral.
“Well what the Hell is my concern then? You haven’t told me a goddamn thing! If you’re going to, just through me in the goddamned brig and be done with it.”
Anderson was silent for a moment as they passed a ring of Alliance soldiers blocking off entry to the two vessels. “You know, you’re not far off, Lieutenant,” he began. “Only you’ll be guarding the brig, one prisoner in particular.”
Realization hit him. “Commander Shepard.”
The Admiral’s curt glance was all the confirmation he needed.
When James didn’t immediately follow, Anderson looked back at him. “Close your mouth. I doubt that’s the impression you’ll want to make. Now shut up and let me do the talking.”
James did not particularly care for the Admiral’s tone, but perhaps now was not the time to bring it up. He was in the Alliance again, it seemed, and he would have to start acting like it. Fortunately, it was not something you forgot easily.
Anderson waved to the two privates guarding the door to the Normandy. There was a particularly deep scar sliced across it’s front and the silver metal beneath the shiny coat of paint was exposed. Even the legendary and infallible Normandy and her crew, it seemed, had their own scars.
The door opened as they approached and they stepped inside. There was a soft redlight that illuminated the corridor ahead of the recompression chamber, and the Admiral led Vega and the small entourage behind him to the right. There was a massive, beautiful command center at the heart of the ship, and standing behind the map of the galaxy, was Commander Shepard.
She was less impressive in-person than the news vids would have him believe. Her shoulder-length brown hair was pulled into a tight bun behind her, and her stern face seemed older than she was. Her expression was surprisingly blank as she stared at the Admiral’s ensemble, and she outstretched her hands on the steel guardrail behind the map.
“Admiral Anderson,” she said, her voice surprisingly calm. “Do I take this to mean that you have accepted my terms of surrender?”
“In part, yes.”
“Explain. I’m not in the mood for circuitous answers.”
“The Cerberus defectors will be admitted into the Alliance as you have requested—provided they pass the necessary checks and make it through basic training—but the remainder of your squad, as you say, will be tried in the Alliance Court as complacent in the charges placed against you.”
“Fine, though I doubt you’ll manage to find them. You’d think that going through the Omega 4 Relay would toughen up those bastards, but they scattered like rats as soon as we made port.”
Figures, James thought, though he couldn’t help but wonder how a squad almost as legendary as Shepard herself would scamper away with their tails tucked in.
“Yeah, well not all of them could make a break for it,” a rather lanky man behind Shepard said. “Some of us have to do things properly, you know?”
It took a moment for James to place his face, but he recognized the man as Jeff Moreau, one of—if not the—best pilots in the galaxy. After the loss of the first Normandy, Moreau had fallen off the radar, and James now knew that he had found his way to Cerberus.
Anderson looked back just enough to catch the eye of one of the men assembled behind James. “Search the ship,” he said sternly.
“Shep, you can’t just let them do that. We haven’t given her up yet!”
“Let it go, Joker,” Shepard said without looking back at her pilot. “We all know how this will go down. Though,” she said a little louder. “I would say that you don’t have to send your men away. It’s a big ship, and we can prove that there is no one outside of the CIC.”
Anderson shifted on his feet. “And how do you propose to do that.”
“Joker.” The command was nothing more than a name, but it carried weight behind it. Shepard, James knew, was a commander through and through, nothing that he could ever hope to be.
“EDI,” Moreau said. “How many organics are aboard this ship right now?”
“Fifty-two, Jeff.”
The members of the Alliance shifted uncomfortably. VIs were not standard on their cruisers; too much to go wrong.
“It’s a lady VI,” James murmured.
A faint smile pulled it’s way across Moreau’s face. “And where are they located?”
“They are all located in the CIC except for Engineer Donnally who is turning off residual systems in the engine room. I can summon him if you’d like.”
Moraeu looked back at Shepard who nodded before saying, “Please do.”
“Does the VI only respond to Moraeu?” Anderson asked.
“Sure does,” the man responded. “Cerberus does things a little atypically, if you know what I mean.”
“And what of the Normandy?” Shepard asked, reaffirming her control over the conversation.
“It will be repurposed as you requested. God knows we need the ships these days. She’ll be taken back to Earth with us and modified for our use.”
The Commander’s eyes darted around the room for a second as her face grew more stern, and James could have sworn that he saw the mental calculus she was doing. “Then, Admiral, my crew and I surrender to Alliance command and present you with the SSV Normandy SR2.”
“Then, by the power vested in me by the Systems Alliance, hereby strip you of your rank and charge you with the following: willful and reckless killing of innocents, joining a terrorist organization, abandoning—”
After the first few, James tuned the admiral out. Those that had chosen the charges had no business doing so; they clearly did not understand the first thing about military command, Alliance command or not. Leadership required choices, hard choices. Sacrifice. The good of the many over the good of the few. He knew that all too well.
“Men, arrest the Commander and prepare the Normandy for transport back to Earth.” Anderson turned back and walked stridently towards the hatch. As he passed James, he said in a low voice, “Take her to the Hasting’s brig. I will meet you there.”