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“Man, that’s bold,” Cortez said, eyebrows raised. “Didn’t figure you for a fan of self-inflicted pain.”
James snorted. “Buddy, after Palaven, this was a vacation.”
A few of the nearby deckhands chuckled. One of the engineers whistled appreciatively. Vega flexed, the movement making the fresh lines of his tattoo ripple slightly, and winced only a little.
“Shepard’s gonna love this,” Joker’s voice crackled over the intercom, dripping with sarcasm. “Real morale booster, Vega. Maybe get her name under it next?”
James rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “You volunteering to hold the needle, flight jockey?”
“Not a chance. I’d ruin that masterpiece, and then you’d cry.”
James Vega sat shirtless on one of the equipment crates, grinning like a fool while Cortez leaned in to inspect the fresh ink across his chest. The new tattoo was still red around the edges, a band of irritation cutting through the solid black and crimson N7 insignia.
Cortez laughed, shaking his head. “Alright, alright. Don’t make me clean blood off the deck, boys.”
“Hey, I earned this,” James said proudly as he looked back down at the tattoo in the mirror hanging from the side of his pullup bar. “All those years busting my ass to get here. N7, baby!” He thumped his chest once, pride still strong beneath the joking tone. “About damn time.”
Garrus leaned one shoulder against the railing above the shuttle, taloned hands clasped, head tilted in amusement. “Humans putting their ranks on their skin, huh? I guess we have more in common than I’d thought.”
“Yeah?” James glanced up at him, smirking. “You got a secret C-Sec tramp stamp I should know about?”
Garrus gave a raspy laugh. “Not exactly. When a turian squad finishes its first major campaign together, some of them etch the unit crest into their plating. Back home they call it marking the carapace. You do it to remember who you fought beside.” He tapped a claw lightly against his chestplate. “Mine’s under this. Still itches sometimes, but… I like that.”
“Damn,” James said, impressed. “Wish I’d known about that before I started this one.”
“I think the branding iron might’ve scared you off,” Garrus teased.
“Please,” James scoffed, flexing an arm. “You should see the one I got on Arcturus.”
“Pretty sure no one wants to see that one,” came a voice from the upper catwalk. Shepard’s boots clanked against the metal steps as she descended into the Normandy's cargo deck. “And don’t think I don’t know where you got that. You DO realize there are still some legitimate tattoo parlors on the citadel rather than random popup shops in the refugee sector, right?”
James straightened a little, instinctively at attention. “Commander! Uh, hey. Yeah, I know but. ehhhh.” He shrugged. “It felt right. What d’you think?”
She came over from the bottom of the stairs, eyes catching on the fresh tattoo still shining with antiseptic. “I think Doctor Chakwas is going to murder you when that scabs over in your armor.”
“Worth it,” James said immediately, grinning like a schoolkid caught doing something reckless but harmless.
Shepard folded her arms. “So, this is the famous N7 ink, huh?” Something softened in her face. For a heartbeat she looked tired and older than she had any right to, but then she smiled and that disappeared. “Welcome to the club, Vega.”
“Hell of a club,” Garrus said from above. “The kind where the membership fee is usually fatal.”
“Hey, easy,” James protested, but his grin faltered just a little. “Shit, man … You uhhh, even think there’ll be a club left next year?”
The question hung in the air. The background hum of the ship seemed louder for it. Shepard exhaled slowly, stepping closer until she could see the small tremor in the newly inked skin.
“That’s the thing about this symbol,” she answered. “It isn’t just for the ones who make it to next year.”
James perked up a bit, obviously trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere he’d just created. “You know tomorrow’s November 7th on Earth, right, Commander?” He leaned back on the crate, flexing again theatrically. “Figured you might, I dunno… have a parade lined up or something.”
Shepard huffed a small laugh. “Yeah. You didn’t hear? Joker’s bought the fireworks, Cortez is baking a cake, and I’m giving a motivational speech in the war room.”
“Can’t wait,” Garrus said dryly. “Do we get party hats?”
“Only if they’re rated for vacuum,” Shepard shot back. She let the silence stretch for a moment, gaze drifting to the far wall where the shuttle’s plating still bore scorch marks from Palaven. The humor faded as fast as it had come.
“Hard to believe,” she said finally. “Used to be a big deal back home. N7 Day. Kicked off Veteran’s week, you know. Ceremonies, recruitment drives, veterans giving speeches. I went to a few as a cadet.” She smiled faintly, a ghost of pride mixed with loss. “Back then it felt like we were unstoppable. Like we were the sharp edge of something that would never dull.”
James watched her carefully. “And now?”
“Now?” she repeated, exhaling, “Now it just feels like a number on the calendar that’s ticking down to … well. Whatever end we get from all of this.”
Garrus tilted his head. “We don’t mark days like that in the Hierarchy in general. Too many calendars, not enough planets left to keep track of them. But when I was a kid, there was Vak’rest - just on Palaven, mind you. One night a year, my father would polish his armor, light a small lamp, and leave it by the window. For those who never came home.”
James nodded slowly. “Guess that’s one way to do it. Simple. I like it.”
Shepard looked between the two soldiers from two worlds, both scarred in their own ways. “Maybe that’s what it should be now. Not the parades. Not the speeches. Just… remembering.”
Garrus gave a soft click that might’ve been agreement. “You’ll have to forgive me if I skip the tattoo part.”
James grinned. “C’mon, Vakarian. You’d look good with a little more color.”
“Shepard, control your men,” Garrus deadpanned.
“Don’t look at me,” she said. “I’ve tried-” she gestured indicating Vega who was now doing a bare chested pullup to see what the tattoo looked like during a workout. “-and this is the result.”
The ship’s comm system crackled overhead. Joker’s voice, sarcastic as always: “Uh, Commander? Just FYI, we are not having fireworks. Unless Vega plans to light his arm on fire.”
“Copy that, Joker,” Shepard said. “We’ll keep it to small explosions.”
As the laughter faded, she found herself glancing at James’ tattoo again. The bright red stripe, the stark black. N7. It looked so clean, so certain, in a world where nothing was anymore. She reached out and tapped the edge of it as he dropped down from the pullup bar, careful not to touch the raw skin. “You earned it, soldier,” she said proudly. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
He nodded, a rare seriousness settling in. “Yes, ma’am … Guess I’ll find out next year if it still means something.”
Shepard met his eyes. “It always will. Whether we’re around to see it or not.”
Cortez passed by again, wiping his hands on a rag. “You all planning to stand around being inspirational, or should I dim the lights for mood lighting?”
James chuckled. “You jealous of my ink, Steve?”
“Not unless it comes with hazard pay,” Cortez said, smiling faintly before heading back toward the shuttle.
The sound of his footsteps faded, replaced by the constant heartbeat of the ship. Shepard leaned against a bulkhead. “You know,” she said, “Anderson used to say N7 wasn’t a rank. It was a promise.”
“To who?” James asked.
“To everyone else,” she replied. “To the ones you drag out of the mud, to the ones who don’t make it home. To keep going when it’s easier to quit.”
Garrus gave a soft, vibrating hum. “That’s not so different from us. In the Hierarchy, we swore to protect all turian citizens. Out here, it’s… everyone. All species, all people. The line just keeps getting longer.”
James looked down at his tattoo, thoughtful now. “Feels heavy, when you put it like that.”
Shepard smiled faintly. “It’s supposed to.”
Garrus shrugged. “Maybe when the war’s over, you can show it off somewhere that doesn’t involve blood and medi-gel.”
James huffed a laugh. “If the war’s ever over, I’ll tattoo a damn Reaper skull next to it. The ladies won’t be able to stop lookin’!”
“That’s the spirit,” Garrus said dryly.
Shepard pushed away from the bulkhead, stepping closer. “When the war’s over,” she said, “I’ll be there to see it. That’s a stars damned promise.”
James looked at her, jaw tight, eyes brighter than he wanted to admit. “Yes, ma’am!” He gave her a formal salute in agreement.
Garrus folded his arms, mandibles twitching in what might’ve been a smile. “You humans and your ceremonies,” he said. “But I’ll admit, this one… I like.”
“Yeah?” Shepard said. “Maybe we’ll make it a tradition. N7 Day on the Normandy. Quiet night. Bad jokes. Better whiskey.”
“Don’t forget the tattoos,” James added.
Garrus groaned. “If Joker shows up with a stencil, I’m transferring to the next turian cruiser I see.”
Shepard smirked. “You wouldn’t last a week without the Normandy’s coffee, dextro or not.”
“Fair point,” he conceded.
They stood there a while longer, three silhouettes against the wash of engine light, sharing a kind of silence that only soldiers understood. Outside the hull, the stars drifted by, patient and unbothered, the galaxy still turning despite everything.
James checked a nearby clock and grinned. “Midnight on Earth, HQ time. Happy N7 Day, Commander,” he said at last.
Shepard exhaled slowly, her voice soft but steady. “Happy N7 Day, LT.”
Garrus raised an imaginary glass. “And to Vak’rest,” he added. “May we never run out of reasons to remember.”
James nodded, quiet now. “Here’s hoping next year, we’ll be remembering the ones who won.”
Shepard met his eyes. “Next year,” she said, “and we’ll make damn sure there is a next year.” Shepard finally tilted her head toward the elevator and raised her voice a little into a mischievous lilt. “Come on. If it’s N7 Day, we should at least pretend we’re celebrating.”
James smirked. “You mean shots in the mess?”
Garrus’s mandibles twitched. “That’s how most human traditions seem to go.”
“Then shots in the mess,” Shepard said. “Just … do me a favor and let’s sneak passed Javik’s quarters? I don’t need another lecture on how us primitives won’t get anywhere by drinking.”
James chuckled and assumed a bad rendition of the prothian’s accent “You mean that fermented poison? The one your species drinks to forget how fragile it is?”
Garrus chimed in. “I think you mean the ‘primitive ritual poison. Taken socially to dull the terror of existence. Efficient, in its way’.”
Shepard just laughed. “Yeah, that. Whatever, come on. The longer we stand here, the less time we get to celebrate.”
*
The mess was quiet, lights dimmed for ship’s night. Shepard pulled three glasses from the dispenser. Two were the recycled stuff that burned like engine coolant. Garrus poured from his own flask, presumably dextro safe alcohol.
“To N7 Day,” she said.
Garrus lifted his glass. “To Vak’rest. To the ones who didn’t make it home.”
James nodded. “And those of us still fighting.”
They clinked their glasses and drank. The silence afterward wasn’t awkward, just full.
“Guess it’s weird,” James said, looking back down at where his tattoo was under the t-shirt he’d reluctantly donned before coming upstairs. “Something this small still feels like such a big deal.”
“That’s because it should,” Shepard said simply.
Garrus tilted his head. “You humans do have a talent for finding hope in the ashes.”
“Only way we make it out of this,” Shepard replied.
James raised his glass again, faint grin returning. “Then here’s to next year.”
Garrus touched his glass to his. “To next year.”
Shepard met their eyes. “We’ll make it.”
The three of them drank. Outside, the stars kept moving in their steady, endless, and patient dance around the galaxy.