Chapter Text
“That painting has a special place in my heart.” Kasumi’s voice sounds like it’s a mile away, even though she’s just across the room.
Shepard has the presence of mind—barely—to register a modicum of guilt when her palm slams into the painting’s frame. She sways, but remains upright. That, at least, was a goal that she could accomplish.
“Shepard, the women’s restroom is on the starboard side of the ship,” EDI drawls from somewhere in the ceiling.
Shepard swears that there’s something unholy about that AI. She would like to respond with expletives, but has trouble arranging them in the right order.
Kasumi materializes behind her with soundless swiftness. Typical, but still surprising. “There, now.” She gently pries the shot glass—sticky with spilt cyan liquor—out of Shepard’s fingers. She loops an arm around Shepard’s waist and guides her backwards towards the couch. “Stay here as long as you need.”
As she flops backwards onto the cushions, Shepard raises a hand. It flails about like a dying fish before Kasumi takes it in her own. Kasumi’s fingers are soft and cool, yet hold with a grip that takes no questions. The last thing Shepard sees before she falls out of consciousness is the view through the observation windows overhead: the vacant blackness of space littered with beady, burning pricks of light.
She has never cared less about which one they were heading towards.
———
The next time she opens her eyes, they’re scalded by light. As her pupils tighten in protest, she recognizes the smooth ceiling overhead and the sharp smells of medigel and antiseptic. She groans; whatever she’d done had lasted long enough to land her in the medical bay.
“I’m fine,” she asserts preemptively, squinting. She tries to proper herself up on the cot, but her elbow slips and she’s flat on her back again.
“You’re mostly fine, Commander.” Dr Chakwas’s face appears overhead, fine eyebrows drawn together. “But you need rest before you go anywhere.”
“We can’t take any chances with you,” says a clipped, melodic voice from somewhere behind the doctor. Perfect. Just perfect.
There’s the unmistakable click of a boot heel on the floor, and Miranda appears at the doctor’s elbow, arms folded. Her mouth is a taut line instead of the familiar knowing smile. Shepard glares.
“It’s the Collectors that we can’t take chances with. I need to get back to work.” Shepard tries to sit up again, more slowly and with more success.
“You’ve already taken chances by consuming a dose of Turian ale that would kill fifty percent of human test subjects.” Miranda’s words are characteristically clinical, but her tone is uncharacteristically muted. “Just take a day or two, Shepard, that’s all we’re asking you to do.”
“‘We’? You two are on the same side, now?”
Chakwas flinches almost imperceptibly. Shepard hates herself.
“We three.” Shepard jumps. Kasumi is standing at the foot of the cot. Shepard is too tired to contemplate how she had arrived there, but a feeling of dread starts to unfurl in her stomach.
“Is there something I should know?” One could rarely find these three in the same room of the ship, let alone on the same side of an argument.
“You’ve been through something major,” says Miranda. Her violet-gray eyes hold an expression—guilt? regret?—that Shepard can’t be bothered to analyze. With effort, Shepard holds back the flood of sarcasm that threatens to stampede out through her teeth. Sure, what happened on Horizon had been a major event, but not the kind of major event that the whole crew needed to know about.
Miranda runs a hand through her silken black hair, as though grasping for an anchor. “You need to be in top condition before we move on to the next stage of the operation.”
“We all need you at your best, Shepard.” Chakwas leans away from Shepard slightly, as though waiting for an explosion to go off. Her glance flickers towards the flaming red scars that crisscross Shepard’s cheek.
As the three of them circle the epicenter, Shepard decides to barrel straight in.
“If you’re worried that I’m going to get sick over Kai—Alenko, then don’t. It’s over. He’s got his job and we’ve got ours.” Exactly the kind of dutiful platitude that he’d spout himself. She makes herself smile, but the muscles around her mouth scatter in different directions. The scars feel tighter than ever. “He certainly didn’t waste any time in getting back to work.”
“That may be, but he’s also had more time to process events.” Chakwas raises a hand as if to touch Shepard’s arm, but stops. “After he lost you, he had two years. You’ve only had hours.”
“However,” intones Kasumi with what Shepard believes to be an ominous smugness, “You have us.”
“We need to restock and re-arm, anyway. I’ve told Joker to set a course for the Citadel.” Miranda turns away from the cot and the door whooshes open in front of her. Before she exits, she glances over her shoulder at Chakwas. Sea green eyes meet amethyst ones, and for the briefest of instants, secrecy crackles between them like static.
Shepard rubs her head, which still throbs faintly. What the hell was going on?