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Most people would be a bit concerned if they saw a duffel bag floating mid-air. Not so much for Captain David Anderson—particularly because he recognized this particular duffel bag and was quite familiar with its owner.
Several other patrons look up, then immediately look away; the damned thing was a hideous orange colour so bright that it hurt the eyes. The bag itself pauses in the entrance for a moment before it circles around the edge of the room and doubles back to Anderson's table.
He's just barely able to make out the fuzzy edges of refracted light making up a silhouette, and then Shepard deactivates her tactical cloak and appears in the seat across from him.
"Got your message," she says. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"
"Permission granted."
"We're in dire fucking straits."
One of the staff comes over to take their order. Anderson orders for both of them—vodka for himself, ginger ale for Shepard. Shepard frowns. "Would've preferred to make my own order," she says, voice quiet enough that it almost can't be heard over the thumping music of the club.
Anderson looks at her. "Shepard, you said you were through with that stuff. The last thing you need right now is to fall back off the wagon."
She looks at him blankly. "...But I wanted lemon-lime."
It takes him several moments to figure out a reply. "But you never drink lemon-lime."
"I wanted lemon-lime," she says again.
There wasn't any use arguing with her over it. Even if she never drank lemon-lime soda, even if she'd previously professed her hatred for it, right now she wants lemon-lime and there was no changing her mind over it.
The yearly performance reviews said many things about Lieutenant-Commander Joan Shepard (service no. 5923-AC-2826). No black marks, aside from the bar fight that appeared on every marine's record at least once in their careers. Intelligent. Exceptional awareness of her surroundings on the battlefield, and the ability to remain calm and focused even when everything had gone to hell. Excellent teamwork skills, part of the reason she had been attached to a squad as designated marksman despite excelling at fieldcraft training.
("Sharpshooter," she'd grumble in response to that. "Snipers snipe, infiltrators infiltrate, sharpshooters sharpshoot, but someone does not 'designated marksman.'")
But stubborn, sometimes to a fault, with a quirky sense of individualism that boot camp hadn't quite been able to stamp out of her. It was something that many commanding officers were either unable or unwilling to put up with, and it was their loss—because she was a damned good soldier.
"So. Guessing you heard they pulled me off the mission." She folds her arms and leans back in the chair. "Like they pulled you off Normandy."
"I'm sorry," he says. "I wanted to warn you, but there was no way to get a message to you before you docked."
"No need to apologize. You did what you could." Their drinks arrive, and she takes a long sip of ginger ale. "...Still wanted lemon-lime. But no. Dr. T'Soni and I have a…theory on what the Conduit is, and if we're right about it then parking a couple of patrols on the mass relays won't be enough."
"I know you're pissed off right now, but you can't give up."
"Wasn't planning to. I owe it to Jenkins and Williams to see this thing through." She frowns. "Thing is, I'm running a bit short on options right now. The only ship that can get me into the Terminus without starting an outright war is grounded. Supposing I got aboard her and got the systems online—those mooring clamps are electromagnets, and even with Moreau at the helm I don't fancy my chances of getting her through a relay with half the hull torn off."
She takes another sip of ginger ale.
"And if our ambassador has a better nature, appealing to it didn't work. Had a meeting with him, and throughout the entire thing he made it quite clear that the matter's settled."
"Udina's made it personal." Anderson looks over at her. "Citadel control's locked out the Normandy's systems. But if you override his orders..."
"Thought about that myself. But even I'm not quick enough to get back to the Normandy before control locks her down again. Then I'd likely get arrested, Spectre status or no."
"But if somebody else were to override the orders," he says, "you can be in the Terminus Systems before anybody even knows you're gone."
"Then said somebody else would be left holding the bag. I'm not asking that of any of my crew." A few seconds later, her head jerks up. "And not of you. Stealing the Normandy is mutiny. Udina isn't going to let this slide, Captain. You'll be charged with treason, and I'm not entirely sure that they've abolished the death penalty for it."
"And if Saren finds the Conduit, life as we know it is over. The Reapers will destroy us. Humans, asari, everybody! You're the only one who can stop him, Commander, and I'll do whatever it takes to get you onto the Normandy."
"If you're sure about this," she says. "All right, then. I won't forget this, Captain."
Anderson nods. "I can unlock the Normandy from one of the consoles in the Citadel control center. You'll have a few minutes before anyone realizes what's happened."
"Hm." Shepard's eyes narrow and she crosses her arms. "Restricted area. Going to be a lot of armed guards."
"Leave that to me, Commander. Just make sure you're in the Normandy when she comes online."
"No," she says. "You're taking a big enough risk as it is. I can't let you chance that when there's a better option. The lockdown order was issued from the ambassador's office…"
"I see where you're going," he says. "But he's not going to stand by and let me use his computer."
"About that." Shepard leans back in her chair, rolling her shoulders. "I suspect he'll be, ah, otherwise occupied for at least a few hours."
And at this he raises an eyebrow.
"Shepard, what did you do?"
"Me? Nothing." One corner of her mouth quirks up in a half-smile. "I think we can blame it on Udina himself. Our ambassador has quite a fondness for candy, and I thought my appeal would fare better if I sweetened the deal, as a manner of speaking. Thing is, I hadn't actually expected him to eat them all in one sitting."
"Chocolate laxatives?" Anderson crosses his arms.
"Of course not. I'm a reformed character. No, the culprit is gummy bears." She tilts her head. "Sugar-free gummy bears. Apparently meant for salarians; they like artificial sweeteners more than actual sugar. As for humans, well, they're quite fine in moderation. Even had a couple of them myself. But eat a full bag of them over the course of an hour..."
She shakes her head.
"He excused himself pretty damn quickly after our meeting. And I don't think he'll be returning to his office for at least a few hours. So you'll probably find it quite easy to break in there to hack into his computer."
"I see," is all Anderson says about the matter. It's all he can say. He has a very difficult time believing that Commander Shepard hadn't expected Ambassador Udina to eat an entire bag of guilt-free gummy bears. She's tricky like that. "So, are you ready to get the hell off this station?"
"Armed with will and determination and grace, too. Not to mention my sniper rifle." Shepard nods, gets to her feet, and hoists the orange duffel bag over her back. "One last thing. About the Conduit— shit, I really hope our theory's wrong. But it'd really put my mind at ease if you kept a weapon on your person."
Anderson raises an eyebrow at this. "Understood, Commander. You get down to the Normandy and tell Joker to stand by. And if we both get out of this in one piece, I'll make sure you get your lemon-lime."
"Appreciate it. Whatever happens, it's been an honour. Now if you'll excuse me, time's real short, the distance is long, and I've got a ship to steal." Then, with the exception of a gaudy orange duffel bag, she disappears.