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Allison Shepard all but collapsed onto the sofa the minute she was within range, a low sigh escaping through her lips. Her prosthetic leg wasn’t fitting correctly. Third adjustment in as many days, second physio visit in the same length of time. The continued barrage was hitting her harder than any point in the Reaper War, and all she wanted to do most of the time was sleep.
She grabbed the nearest pillow and shoved it under her head, ignoring the fact that she was getting one (likely dirty or muddy) boot on the upholstery. London may have gotten warmer over the decades, but it still seemed to rain at every opportunity. Less ‘light rainshower out of nowhere’ and more 'huge booming rumbles of thunder and bright flashes of lightning giving you three seconds’ notice before it chucks it down’.
At least it watered the allotment hers and five other prefabs backed onto. One less task to do, one more excuse to stay inside and avoid having people watch her. She’d thought the publicity after Elysium, after the Battle of the Citadel was bad, but nothing compared to being the saviour of the galaxy.
Allison let out another sigh, pulling her left leg towards her. Sleek metal jutted out from beneath her knee, the design of the prosthesis giving her an almost turian or quarian look. She’d opted for the simpler blade-type prosthesis, the design made in the early twenty-first and not changed much. More natural looking prosthetics had been refined a lot more, bio-materials carefully layered to make it look no different than any organic extremities.
She fiddled with it absently. She was no tech-head; that was left up to her crew. What was left of them, anyway. She knew how to shoot straight and incapacitate with bullets; any tech skills she had came from VIs and programmes handed to her by numerous people.
Allison stopped fiddling and let her leg flump back onto the sofa. She needed to take her boot off, needed to take her prosthetic off and give her leg some rest, needed to take a shower, needed to find something to eat. All took effort.
Allison compromised by bringing her right leg up and hurriedly yanking off the boot, tossing it beside the sofa. She did the same with her prosthetic, that clattering rather loudly as it joined the boot on the floor. Crutches were right where she’d left them that morning, beyond her head and just within arms’ reach. She’d get up later. Yeah, later was good.
Allison loaded up her omni-tool, patching into the programme that controlled the radio. Another post-war compromise – audio-only entertainment was cheaper and quicker to produce than any kind of vids. No messy set up, no complicated computer imagery or stage work, just a group of people in front of a microphone.
Within a few seconds, light music began playing, and Allison turned up the volume a few notches. Her mother liked having it as quiet, barely discernible background music; Allison liked it more obvious, though never loud enough for any of the neighbours to hear. She flicked through the stations, passing by easily listening and years-old popular music (that she actually recognised). She paused on one station briefly when it stuttered out some news, but nothing of interest – more clean-up attempts, more debate on what to do with the Reaper carcasses, more comments on large space debris flung into the sun, small into the atmo. That crossed over with the weather report; Another good night to see artificial shooting stars with clear skies.
Allison flicked through a couple more stations before finding a rock-based one. Deep rocking bass, sound slightly distorted and not up to the usual quality. Home recorded most likely, post-War creation and sent in on the hopes it would be played.
Allison turned off her omni-tool and rested both arms over her eyes. A cloudless day but the sun was hidden behind tinted glass and carefully positioned blinds. Specifically positioned blinds so that the late afternoon approaching early evening sun didn’t get flung onto the sofa.
The ding of the front door drew Allison’s attention, and she removed her arms from across her face and shifted herself up just in time to see her mother walk through the door, paper bag in arms. Acting on instinct, Allison struggled up from the sofa only to partially pitch sideways when she forgot that part of her leg simply wasn’t there. Hannah didn’t notice, or if she did she didn’t make a fuss of it. Rather than fiddle with putting her prosthetic back on, Allison instead grabbed her crutches and within a few seconds was moving over to the kitchen area. She leaned against the table for support, crutches dangling from her forearms as she began helping Hannah unpack.
“What’s the word?” Allison said, trying to seem unbothered. She pulled out a couple of apples from the bag, losing herself in the dull shine of the skins. She blinked, looked back up at her mother and realised that she’d missed whatever had been said.
“I said that Murney’s got his trading stall finished. Not official, but it helps some people focus on a central trading area. Who knows,” Hannah added, turning back to finish unpacking the rest of the food. Allison looked back to the apples, finally placing them down on the table as Hannah folded the bag up. “Are you feeling all right, sweetheart? You’ve been a bit distant.”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Allison started to move to sort out the food, but was stopped short when Hannah pressed the back of her hand against Allison’s forehead. Allison sighed and rolled her eyes. “Mum, I’m a biotic. I always run hot. Running hot is a good thing.”
Hannah said nothing, keeping her hand on Allison’s forehead for a few seconds more. After that, she moved away and busied herself putting the food away. Allison glanced around, but by the time she really thought to start moving to help, over half of the food had been put away and Allison instead moved back to the sofa. This time Allison sat down in a more graceful manner, taking up the appropriate amount of space a single person should.
Hannah bustled over a few minutes later, omni-tool lit up and fingers tapping in rapid commands and notes to herself, most likely. She shut her omni-tool down as she sat down next to Allison, closing her eyes as her head tilted back.
“I’m not old enough to be filing paperwork behind a desk,” Hannah muttered. Allison snorted and Hannah opened her eyes, looking back at her daughter. “Don’t feel like that, Allison. You’ve done more than enough. You’ve earned a rest. You need this time to recover, sweetheart.”
“You ever think I will?” Allison knocked a hand carelessly against her crutches, the metal clanging together. “I’m retired and I’m not even thirty-five yet.”
[ - ]
A few more adjustments, and the prosthetic finally fitted perfectly. The technician had made comments on additional structures, atypical fittings, and Allison had just sat there and nodded while the technician busied herself with tests and checks. Allison could ditch the crutches, she was told, and rely on using her prosthetic only.
The session finished, she thanked the technician, snagged her jacket, and began to make her way back home.
The thought that a small, two-bedroom prefab was home was both laughable and inconceivable. 'Home’ for Allison had always been in space, on ships and stations, among the stars. The longest she had spent in one place was her final year of high school, and another nine months before she turned eighteen and signed up for the Alliance. Even that was of her own accord; she was on Earth (again), stuck in temporary accommodation (again), with no ability to head anywhere (again). Normandy SR1 had been her first command, albeit untimely ripped from Anderson. The SR2 had come along and, once liberated from Cerberus, had felt like a home. Then that had been ripped away for six months, given back, and held under Alliance colours. If she missed spaceflight, she missed Normandy even more.
She could head to the spaceport and beg a lift – no one would deny her – but it was a waste of time and resources when needed the most. Bad enough that they’d fast lined accommodation for her and her mother, bad enough that she was on biotic rations (an adult and a child could almost survive on the rations she was getting on her own), bad enough that everyone was letting her be and not requiring her to help out.
The main roads and pathways had been the second things to be repaired, after main buildings. The FOB had been converted into a main Alliance hub, hospitals had been patched up for the many wounded. Old buildings still stood empty, the contrast of a few prefabs in front of them.
A few people nodded to Allison as she walked by, and she returned the greeting. She never paused, never slowed down, just kept on at her steady pace. The path between the hospital and her home was a well-trodden one, and it gave Allison a good option to walk on autopilot and test out her prosthesis out, double-checking that everything was all as it should.
She brushed past a rickety stall, one that she presumed was Murney’s new trading stall. Nothing was left on the counter aside from empty boxes and crates, the day’s wares not yet placed up for barter. That was if anything was being placed up and anyone had anything excess they didn’t need.
The front door of Allison’s prefab bleeped happily as it registered the code on her omni-tool – new model, civilian tech. No excess to give her a military one, and being semi-retired it also made no sense. No data transferred – none of her old music, books, or contacts were retrievable from the melted slag that was her old one.
Allison immediately went for her room when the front doors opened. She grabbed the paper and pieces of charcoal that still remained and sequestered herself away, drawing.
[ - ]
Allison scrolled through a data pad as she sat on the sofa, Hannah seated opposite. Both of them were going through Alliance paperwork, Hannah having given some to Allison on the pretence of helping out. Allison knew that it was just something to keep her occupied, but she took it gratefully. Nothing she’d been looking over had really required any kind of security clearance, just line after line of status reports and repair information.
A hurried knock on the front door sounded, and both Allison and Hannah looked up then at each other in confusion. It was late in the day, the high almost-summer sun setting. After a few seconds and a second quick succession of knocks, Hannah placed her data pad to the side and moved over to the front door.
“A-Admiral.” A young enlistee was standing at the doorway, a harried look on her face. Her dark hair had come loose from its quick ponytail, the light wind blowing it into the enlistee’s freckled face. She looked past Hannah and met Allison’s gaze “There’s been a transmission at HQ.”
“And it’s gone nine in the evening.” Hannah fixed the enlistee with a steady, neutral look as Allison put her data pad down to the side and stood up. “Whatever transmission from whatever ship it is, the details can wait until morning.”
“I–” the enlistee wrung her hands. “That’s just it. Alliance doesn’t want you to wait.” She took a deep breath. “It’s the Normandy, ma'am. They got a QEC transmission from Major Alenko.”
[ - ]
Allison’s left knee was hurting by the time the three of them reached the old FOB, now the Alliance’s repurposed HQ. Once the news had filtered through the shock she’d made her way to HQ as quickly as she could manage, though her leg was now making it painfully clear its objections to the quick travel.
Some more people nodded Allison and Hannah through as they went, not bothering to stop for security checks. They’d all known her in some context, and no one would try and imitate Allison with a prosthetic leg.
“Comm. room,” one Ensign said, almost sounding bored. He pointed them to the relevant room, the door hissing open almost on his command. Allison walked through first, then Hannah. The young enlistee, job done, disappeared into the building.
Allison’s heart caught in her throat as she saw the QEC. Hackett was standing there, straight and professional, eyes never wavering from the scene in front of him. Opposite Hackett, in clear QEC quality, was Kaidan. Even at the distance across the room, Allison could see the slump in his posture, the weariness under his eyes. As she drew closer, she could even make out the long stubble running across his face. Even given all of that, he still did his best to be professional.
Hackett briefly broke off talking to Kaidan, turning to look at Allison. He gave her the briefest of nods before resuming his conversation with Kaidan.
“No crew fatalities,” Kaidan said, and Allison let out a breath of relief. “Some injuries which we’ve been able to mend but strongly suggest having a medical team on arrival. Current navigation puts us still at ten days to two weeks from Sol.”
“Good work, Major,” Hackett said. He moved back, out of range of the QEC, and Kaidan’s brow crinkled in confusion.
“Sir?”
“Someone else needs to speak with you.” Hackett was out of visual range of the QEC, but audio could still be picked up. He turned to Allison, then to Hannah. “Admiral, Major.”
Allison saw Kaidan’s hope rise, then come crashing right back down. It was the briefest of flickers, something that Allison was certain only she would have picked up on. Being talked to by another Admiral and a Major meant more questions, more documentation, more needing to understand just what had been going on.
But Hackett had asked for her, and had stepped away almost the moment Allison was in the room.
Kaidan was still downcast as Allison moved forwards, Hannah a couple of steps behind her. His attention had been taken away by something in the room – no doubt someone giving him a report of some kind. She had no idea how damaged the Normandy was, no idea if the QEC was one of the first or one of the last systems to repair.
Allison cleared her throat. “Good to see you, Major.”
She had to fight to keep the grin off her face as Kaidan’s head snapped around, a smile that was equal parts relief and joy spreading across his face as he saw her. The sag disappeared from his shoulders; belatedly, he looked behind Allison and saw Hannah. He snapped off a quick salute. “Admiral.”
Hannah laughed and waved him off before placing a reassuring hand on Allison’s right shoulder. “You’re family, Alenko. You can drop the formalities.”
Kaidan’s smile dropped and he looked back at Allison. In response she reached underneath her top and pulled out her dog tags – still burned and blackened, but with two rings in place on the chain almost untouched. Edi’s Victory ring and the ring Kaidan had given to her.
“Everyone kinda knows.”
Kaidan moved to speak, but his eyes had drifted downwards. The QEC wasn’t good enough to show off all the scars she still had, but it was more than good enough to show than she had a chunk of metal and plastic where her lower left leg used to be.
“Another battle scar. I’m racking up quite a few.” Allison tried to be light hearted, but she saw the guilt in Kaidan’s eyes when he looked back at her face. Guilt for not being there. “You’ll be home soon enough.”
Kaidan smiled. “Yeah. Home.”
[ - ]
Eleven days later, the area surrounding London’s main spaceport was packed solid. The news of Normandy finally arriving back had spread exponentially and anyone who could make it was there. Allison was one of the first in the queue, having been placed there the moment she arrived. She was standing right on the edge where the dock extended to, and the waiting was starting to get to her. She was standing as still as she could, parade rest, but her fingers twitched and her right leg began to protest.
Eventually, a whoop of joy from the amassed crowds drew her attention skywards and she saw the sleek form of Normandy descending from the clouds. Allison moved forward onto the dock, being careful to stay a safe distance away from the landing pad. The landing was point-perfect, nothing less expected of Joker, and Allison waited for the airlock doors to open.
After what seemed like forever, the doors finally opened and Kaidan was the first out. He scanned through the crowds, seemingly taken aback by just how many people were around, but that faded to a smile as he caught sight of Allison. She began to walk forwards as he too closed the gap between them, meeting in the middle.
Kaidan wrapped his arms around Allison, firm and strong and holding her close. No slouch, Allison wrapped her arms around Kaidan, cheek scratching against his scruff. Despite herself, despite trying to maintain her composure, Allison let out a sob. That soon turned into multiple sobs, tears trickling down her face, her knees collapsing beneath her. Kaidan kept a hold on her, kneeling down himself and continuing to hold her. One arm wrapped around her waist, the other stroked her hair.
Slowly, Allison pulled her sobs under control and she pulled back. Kaidan moved a thumb across her cheeks, brushing her tears away, and frowned as he fully, truly looked at her. No QEC to cover up the details, no long dock for him to see her across, the multitude of her scars were exceedingly visible. The one on her face, mostly covered by makeup, was still visible at close distances, and Kaidan frowned more when he grabbed her left hand and saw the thin white scars tracing across her joints.
“Doesn’t matter,” Allison said in a soft voice, barely carrying the small distance between them. “Doesn’t matter. You’re back. Welcome home.”
“Glad to be home,” Kaidan said. With another smile, he pulled Allison back into his embrace.