Archive of Our Own

Lace is eighteen, freshly enlisted, and hates the Navy. There’s not much more to say than that.

Throngs of boys fill the boot camp base’s centre. Lined up row-by-row, shoulders mashed together, they chatter amongst themselves as they await the drill sergeant to appear. They speak about him like he’s some kind of mythical creature, a beast of yore. Did you hear he did this? And he said that? Oh, and one time, he made this soldier punch so-and-so!

Kids. All of them.

Lace brushes a strand of stray hair behind her ear. She knows she’s already going to get chewed out for not cutting it, but sue her— she wants to at least attempt to keep some kind of semblance of herself in this monotonous organization. The Alliance Navy, although decorated and lauded for its flexibility in strength, is perhaps the most human example in the entire Milky Way of falling in line, following orders, and doing your damn duty for the galaxy. That’s what was beaten into Lace’s head all throughout her childhood, what with a mother in the military who took no quarter from her children who wanted nothing to do with being good little soldiers.

Yet, that’s what they both ended up doing. Funny how that happens. Or maybe it’s not so funny because the only person who would even remotely be laughing at that is Lace’s mother and she never laughs. Ever.

Lace’s sibling went into spec-ops, planetside, which means that now everyone legally has to call them Phantom, their shiny new callsign. Lace had a good chuckle when she found out. Phantom. God. Who comes up with names like that? Spec-ops, obviously. But Phantom had been happy to let go of their name given unto them by their mother, and so Lace was happy for them, too. She was, if anything, a good sister.

Initially, Phantom had asked Lace to join them in spec-ops, although there were a few issues with that proposal. For one, Phantom already had military experience prior to joining— their name was fairly well-known on Earth and that meant they had some sway in taking their spot amongst some decently high ranks. The other problem was the fact that Phantom was literally scouted by spec-ops, meaning that Lace had no real chance to hop aboard unless she managed to gun down a target from literally across the planet to impress the captain.

So, she enlisted in the Navy instead. Because why the hell not. Also because her mother’s been breathing down her neck about it ever since she graduated from high school and being the good girl she is, she did it the moment that diploma hit her hand.

There are a total of five other recruits who are also women in the base. Three of them appear to be friends already, talking quietly with one another while stood in a line, hair cropped close to their heads. They’re ready for the first day of their lives to begin. Lace is pretty sure hers is about to end.

The drill sergeant is late. They’re always late. You might think that the military is all about being punctual and by-the-books, and for the recruits and privates, that’s mostly true. They’re too petrified of the higher-ups to step on any cracks, fearing that any wrong move will send them to do laps around the base until their heart gives out. But for anyone who’s lived the spacer life from ship-to-ship, they know that soldiers being on-time is a complete lie. The drill sergeants especially like to use it as a scare tactic for the kiddies.

Lace keeps toying with her hair. Although it’s been tied back, too many strands have escaped the hold. In curled coils, they spring about her face. If she were off-base, she’d probably be pleased to have such nice, face-framing pieces. Unfortunately, she’s stuck in Basic, which means that it’s just a hindrance. Maybe she should have cut her hair—

No. Stop thinking like that. You sound like your mother.

Which is just about the worst thing that Lace can imagine.

“Do you need another hair tie?”

The voice is cool, smooth. Like a glass of water on a blazing summer day, ice chips on the tongue. Lace turns and sees a woman— girl, really; they’re both just girls still, fresh out of school and expecting the world to be so, so different— holding out her wrist. She’s standing like a pole with a back as straight as the barrel of a rifle. Her head’s pointed forward, although her eyes are just slightly turned toward Lace, right arm extended like so. A brown hair tie is looped around her wrist.

Lace turns down the offer. “No,” she says. “I’m fine. Thanks, though.”

“The sergeant won’t be happy, you know.”

Of course, he won’t. Everyone knows that the moment you enlist, the first thing you do after crying and regretting the decision is cut your hair off. All those beautiful tresses, curled, straight, wavy, gone in a snipping instant. And then you cry some more.

“I’m aware.”

“I’m Hornet,” she introduces.

“Like the bug?”

Hornet sighs.

“Yeah, like the bug.”

There are worse names out there, Lace supposes. She introduces herself as well, which gets a small chuckle in return. A mischievous smile spreads on Hornet’s lips like jam, such a strange dichotomy to her regulation-standard hair, posture, and clothing.

“Like the fabric?”

Lace sighs, too.

“Yes, like the fabric.”

Then, as quickly as it came, Hornet’s smile fades and she locks her attention back to the front of the crowd. Their conversation dies like it never happened. Lace is perplexed until she realizes that the rhythmic thump, thump, thump of heavy combat boots are echoing through the training camp, and everyone else is silent. Her lips fall closed, arms sticking to her sides.

The drill sergeant introduces himself and Lace doesn’t bother to remember his name. He drones on about regulations and the Alliance’s duty to the galaxy; that while humans are new to space-faring life, journeys through the stars, we still deserve a seat amongst the other galactic powers, and the Navy is the sole reason for that. We didn’t lose all those good men and women in the First Contact War for nothing, recruits.

Lace zones out. She wants to go home. Actually, she doesn’t want to go home, because that would mean having to listen to her mother lecture her. This is the best way to shoot a target, Lace. This is the optimal method for scoping, Lace. This is how you make your mother proud, bringing home a chest decorated in sweet metal candy, Lace.

A hand strikes the back of Lace’s head. She swears her neck cracks at the sudden force of it, hunching over in pain as the palm makes contact with her skull. Although her recovery is quick, her mind is still reeling from the action.

She looks up to see the drill sergeant staring down at her. He looks like a sad man, the kind that has a terrible home life with a wife who hates his guts. He probably complains to his recruits that she doesn’t put out enough. And he most likely bitches about his daughters who never learned any respect— daughters who have plenty of respect, though they have none for their miserable father.

He scowls. Then, he looks down at Lace’s uniform, her nameplate etched on the top of her left breast.

“Recruit Lace!” he bellows. “Drop and give me thirty!”

Lace knows better than to argue with a drill sergeant, bunch of egotistical men they are, high off the power they have over teenagers. She musters down the urge to roll her eyes as she drops to the ground and gets into position, arms bracketing her head.

Above, the drill sergeant turns to Hornet. “And you too, Recruit Hornet!”

Hornet guffaws. She slowly gets down to where Lace is on the ground, though she makes the effort to argue back. Lace isn’t even sure what she did wrong, either. Hornet barely gets a word out before the drill sergeant cuts her off with another shout, screaming that if she doesn’t get down on the fucking ground that she’ll be booted all the way back to the hole she crawled out of.

Hornet snarls. There goes that mischief or politeness she had earlier— all that’s left in the wake is a burning anger on her lean, pale face. Lace finds herself joining her fellow recruit in her anger. It starts in her stomach and then climbs to her arms, a licking trail of flame.

The two of them make eye contact on the ground. An understanding sparks between them and they both nod. Nothing else needs to be said as they begin pumping their arms. They count in their heads, in-tune.

 The crowd of recruits have gradually broken formation to look on at the girls on the floor, but neither breaks their concentration. Sweat slips down Lace’s forehead. The droplets form a small pool below her chin, hair stuck to the side of her face. Out of the corner of her eye, she spies Hornet’s flushed cheeks, teeth gritting.

They hit thirty in no time. Neither stops. The drill sergeant just stands there, hands on his hips and boots just barely in Lace’s dizzying vision. This isn’t a question of pride anymore— hasn’t been for the last sixty some-odd push-ups. Now, this is about proving a point, proving that both Lace and Hornet have a reason to enlist.

Seventy-eight.

They press.

Seventy-nine.

They struggle

Eighty.

They cross the finish line.

The two of them end up getting assigned in the same training group after that. Oh, and bathroom-scrubbing duty for their so-called insubordination, but the win is sweet enough that Lace can stand having to wear big yellow gloves and scrub toilets with a toothbrush if it means she managed to rip that stupid sneer off the drill sergeant’s smarmy face.

Basic is boring and tiring. It’s filled with recruits who are on two ends of a distant spectrum, with boys who either think they’re too talented for boot camp or boys who are too petrified to even breathe in the presence of their sergeant. Lace fits into neither. She’s here because she has to be.

Hornet, on the other hand, chooses to be here. Ever since their meeting at the introductory training session, something of a tentative friendship has bloomed between them. They’re bunkmates and barrack buddies, admittedly a bit unwittingly.

Hornet is all regulation-this and regulation-that. She’s as straight-edge as straight-edge can be. Lace doesn’t think she’s some goody-two-shoes, but the recruit certainly treats the rules of Basic with a fair amount of respect. It’s no different than every other recruit in Basic, but seeing Hornet act that way rankles Lace like no other. Perhaps it’s because it’s such a jarring sight to see, so different from the way she acted in front of the drill sergeant.

Then again, is it really? Hornet seemingly breaks rules all the damn time, whether that’s grabbing an extra serving in the mess hall or whisking away an extra mag at the range. Although, she does it within the subtle confines of Basic’s rigid rules. She weaves her way through the complexities of the military world with a trained eye, like she’s done it before. A process, repeated. A familiarity.

That’s why it’s no surprise to Lace when she finds out that Hornet is a military brat.

“My mother fought in the First Contact War,” she tells Lace one night when the barracks are empty and everyone else is out off-base for a bit of R&R. The two of them elected to remain on-site to enjoy the quiet. “Commander Herrah.”

Lace’s own mother is an admiral, a ranking significantly higher than Hornet’s. She divulges this information as she has a million times to other people, and she expects Hornet to react the same way as everyone else has in her life. In awe and admiration; like, wow, your mom is an admiral? Does she have any war stories? Did she fight the turians? In her early life, those comments once brought a wash of pride over Lace, solidifying in her head the glory of being part of the Alliance Navy. It got you respect. Deference. People ooing and aahing, and damn it felt good.

But Hornet doesn’t do any of that. She only says, “I presume our mothers fought alongside each other, then.”

As if being a commander and admiral was the same thing. As if they had any kind of equation. Admiral Silk— a callsign that Lace can admit is a very good one, succinct and sleek— is more than just some decorated soldier. She’s got every damn medal in the book, clinking jewels on her uniform, certificates and papers telling her that she’s the absolute best. She commands massive fleets of soldiers and can tell them to do whatever she wants, when she wants. And yet, Hornet doesn’t see it that way. She just wonders if their mothers worked together, as simple as co-workers.

Lace wants to tell her that Admiral Silk could have ordered Commander Herrah to march to her death and the commander would have had to oblige. Out of duty, out of honour— whatever. An order was an order. She had to fall into line.

Lace doesn’t say it, though. No matter how much her tongue itches to lean onto that old habit, all bravado and chest-puffing.

“Is your mother still in service?”

Hornet shakes her head. She digs into her pocket and unearths a silvery necklace, although the Alliance would never use something so precious to make something so simple as dog tags. She hands the tags over to Lace, who cups them delicately.

That’s answer enough. 

In a way, Hornet is in the Navy also because of her mother, and yet it’s for an entirely different reason.

She chose this. She wants this, and badly. Lace is only minutely jealous, though that’s a lie she tells herself only when staring up at the barracks’ ceiling and wondering if it’s too late to call it quits. And then she remembers that a lecture and a half would be waiting for her at home and concludes that a few more months can’t hurt more than her mother’s cutting words.

Every friendship needs a catalyst to really kick it off.

For some people, it’s a secret shared and kept. For others, it might be a revealing conversation. Lace is one-thousand percent sure that the situation they’ve since dubbed the “Shepard Incident” is what effectively caused her and Hornet to tie themselves at the hip all throughout their military careers.

Lieutenant Jane Shepard is on-base today. She’s a war hero, well on her way up the ranks with a family that’s just as well-known throughout the Alliance. The Shepards are a bit of a legend in the Navy, with Lieutenant Shepard’s parents having fought in the First Contact War. That’s when they really made a name for their family— and while the father perished in the firefight, the mother still lives on as a captain.

This is all to say that the Shepards are kind of like Alliance celebrities. Their daughter is the real star, though; she’s got that blinding smile, blood-red hair, and verdant eyes that the recruits just can’t stop getting lost in. Lace is a bit taken aback when she sees her for the first time, too. The lieutenant is all corded muscle and whip-like finesse. Lace wonders what her hands look like wrapped around a pistol, and then has some not very safe-for-base thoughts that involve Shepard holding, perhaps, Lace. Unclothed.

But hey— it’s just a thought. No harm, no foul.

Today, Hornet is on some kind of shift that she can’t get out of. Lace thinks it’s hostage situation work, but she’s not quite sure. Whatever it is, it’s important enough that Hornet is stuck doing it for the entire day and she’s absolutely desperate to get some kind of signature or memorabilia piece from Lieutenant Shepard. Before she goes off to the training yard, Hornet pleads with Lace to try to get her something— anything— from the lieutenant.

“Are you kidding?” Lace guffaws. “You want me to go up to Lieutenant Shepard and— what, ask her for an autograph?”

“Lace, I wouldn’t ask you unless I really needed it,” Hornet says, doubled-over as she ties her laces. She rises, pats out her uniform, and readjusts her nameplate. “It’s important to me. Please.”

Maybe it’s the way she says it. The way her voices cuddles that ever-alluring word, please. It could also be because Lace is a weak, weak woman who wilts when she sees something she wants, like Hornet begging for something that only Lace can provide her with. Exclusivity has always been her worst vice.

“I’ll consider it,” Lace sniffs as she turns over in her bed.

“Lace, come on. I’m practically on my knees here.”

“Perhaps if you tell me why you need it so badly, I will.”

Lace already has a guess, though: it’s because Hornet is a mega Shepard fan. She loves Lieutenant Shepard, and has been following the woman’s career ever since she enlisted. It’s almost creepy how much Hornet knows about the Shepard family, actually. Lace never thought about it until now, but the number of facts Hornet can rattle off about battles the Shepard family has been in is extremely weird.

It’s her favourite subject aside biotics, Lace has found. Hornet can go on and on about Lieutenant Shepard, down to how the lieutenant shoots her guns to how she can take down a man three times her size. Sure, Shepard is impressive and hot— but is she really worth such a commotion?

Lace awaits Hornet to admit that it’s because she’s an embarrassingly big fan of Shepard’s, and that’s why she wants her autograph. Because for as much as Hornet has chattered about that lauded name, she’s never once admitted she’s a fan. It’s almost like she’s ashamed to confess it, as if it’s a dark secret.

The admission never comes. Instead, Lace’s prodding makes Hornet shut down. Lace looks over the edge of her top-bunk to see Hornet finishing her morning rituals and heading for the door. She doesn’t even say goodbye.

Well, now Lace feels like an asshole.

It’s not guilt that leads her out of the barracks. It’s not even spite. It’s some third, unnameable thing that doesn’t quite have a fleshed-out definition yet that forces Lace from her bed and into the mess hall where she finds Lieutenant Shepard and the drill sergeant discussing something that’s probably super important and not for the ears of little recruits. Lace pats her pockets and finds that she has a pen in there, as well as her small notebook that she uses to keep track of her training regiment. She tugs out a sheet and then strides up to the lieutenant like she’s on a one-track ride.

The drill sergeant stops her before she can get within a foot of Shepard.

Let’s not get into the nitty-gritty details of the Shepard Incident, shall we? Words are exchanged and not many of them are very becoming of either recruit or sergeant.

In short, the incident is embarrassing for all parties involved— Lace, especially— and it ends with the drill sergeant booming that Recruit Lace is one of the worst, if not the worst, recruits in the entire fucking base. She’s irresponsible. She’s disrespectful. And she clearly has no loyalty whatsoever to the cause. Shepard just looks on in shock, and while Lace would have really appreciated the woman to speak up, she can also acknowledge that most drill sergeants are too far up their own ass to see any kind of reason. He’s more senior than Shepard, and saying anything could risk their careers.

Lace sees Hornet near the end of the day just as she’s finishing up her final punishment lap around the base. Her lugs are heaving, burning like a supernova imploding in her chest. She’s sure her heart is about to beat right through her skin to spasm wildly on the green grass below. When it doesn’t, Lace just groans and collapses onto the hillside near the finishing line of her hundredth lap.

Hornet rushes over to her, face full of worry. God, it’s so nice to have someone worry over her.

“Lace— what happened?”

Lace is currently unable to explain what happened, thank you very much. After a few minutes (okay, like twenty), she gets her breath and brain back and is able to tell Hornet in colourful curses and descriptions exactly what occurred prior in the day.

When the story is over, Lace has to take another gulping breath, lungs once more depleted of precious oxygen. Hornet sits there in stunned silence.

In the ensuing quiet and gathering air, Lace lets her mind wander through her foggy haze of tiredness. She’s not sure who she’s more angry at right now— the drill sergeant, or herself. It’s hard to say whether or not she deserved the punishment; talking back to your superiors is an obvious no-no in the military, and pulling those kinds of stunts in front of bona-fide Alliance royalty usually gets you demoted or worse. But at the same time, the drill sergeant is a real fucker.

Lace’s conclusion is that she’s ready for the sun to set, to take her away from this stupid day.

Hornet sits next to her as the sun settles on the horizon, a fizzy orange blanketing the rolling hills surrounding the base. A few privates are out on a jog, quietly murmuring amongst themselves about heading to the mess hall soon. Birds fly overhead. Serenity seeps into the soil, dragging with it the day’s hours. Lace closes her eyes when Hornet finally speaks up.

“My mother,” Hornet starts, “almost died during the First Contact War.”

Lace opens her eyes. The sky looks like a painting, precise strokes mixed with large, coarse swipes; orange and pink and yellow combine with wisps of white.

“I don’t know the finer details. She had her back against the wall— crew wiped out, gun to her chest, a dire situation. She was ready to go out swinging with her rifle ready when suddenly the enemies parted and fell to the ground. There, on the horizon, stood a man.”

Lace connects the dots. “A Shepard?”

Hornet nods. “Captain Shepard. He cleared the path and hauled my mother out. His wife, Commander Shepard, rescued the few crew members who were still clinging to life.”

Proof, that autograph would have been of Hornet’s legacy. Some physical, tangible piece of history of Commander Herrah’s life, reaching through the arms of the only child of the Shepard name. It was more than just some symbol of a celebrity, but a memory made reality.

Lace sits up. Her arms pull her legs close, bundled to her chest. She’s long since regained the ability to breathe, though watching Hornet’s sad face warmed by the glow of the sunset punches the air right back out of her. Her hair shines in the dying light, strands so white that they appear almost translucent.

She’s beautiful, Lace thinks. Sadness doesn’t suit her, but the melancholy upon her expression is familiar. It’s visible in the grooves along her cheeks, lips pulled into a soft, yearning smile. Eyes reflecting a life without her mother.

Lace doesn’t normally apologize. It’s a mixture of ill-earned pride and rage that prevents her from admitting that she’s done wrong, most poignantly when she has actually committed a misdeed against somebody. She’s been told all her life that her snobbery will earn her no friends.

To be fair, it hasn’t. But Hornet is here, sitting next to her, with the knowledge that Lace made the brave attempt to get her that autograph though she failed horrifically. Failed because she wouldn’t pretend to respect her sergeant. And failed because she wouldn’t act like she was below him.

Failed because she was too damn proud.

Yet, Hornet stays. Yet, yet, yet.

Moments pass. Lace’s arm oscillates between rising and falling before finally reaching out to Hornet. Her hand lands on Hornet’s shoulder and the recruit turns, confused.

“I’m sorry,” Lace says. And she means it. “Really. I am.”

Hornet shakes her head, chuckling lightly. “It’s fine. I’m sure there will always be another time.”

Boot camp sprints by. The next thing Lace knows, she’s survived Basic and become a private. And then another handful of years run past her and she’s a sergeant, well-equipped with combat knowledge and all the other bells and whistles of what it means to be a solider. She’s fallen into line, resenting how easily it happened.

Being a good little sergeant has its perks, though. These days, she and Hornet no longer have to do mandated push-ups, range practice, or laps. No, now they’re the ones who get to boss around the privates and recruits aboard their assigned starship, only saluting to their lieutenants and commander. The weeks are replete with missions in far-flung places in the galaxy, flying through the stars. Right where they’re meant to be. Right where the Alliance wants them.

“Lace, your nine.”

Lace turns, aims, and shoots. The combatant goes down before he even has a chance to realize what happens. The barrel of her Mantis steams and sizzles.

“Nice aim,” Hornet says. “Too bad you need someone calling the shots for you to actually land them.”

Over time, Lace has learned a lot about Hornet. Some important, and some not-so-important. Things like how Hornet prefers sweet over savoury, and that she enjoys taking apart her shotgun and then trying to put it back together faster than the last time. She hates waking up early and yet she’s a military brat; and she can be very funny when she wants to be, although it’s always with a dryness that only Lace seems to understand.

And another thing: she’s terrible at watching her six.

Lace hears it before she sees the enemy. Hornet is too busy laughing at her own joke which honestly isn’t that funny but far be it from Lace to tell a pretty girl to stop giggling— and so Lace spins, aims again, and takes down another combatant with her sniper rifle. This time, on Hornet’s six.

Hornet’s neck should break with how fast she twirls around to see who Lace shot. On the ground, almost over a thousand metres away, a body lays dead. Not that Hornet would be able to see that, at least not without a scope. She squints anyways against the sun’s rays, attempting to see the enemy.

“A sniper,” Lace says as readjusts her rifle. She despises sudden shots like that, forcing her to move from her perfect perch. She does them anyways— for Hornet. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

She waits for the thanks to come. It doesn’t— not yet. Rather, Hornet slides her hand along Lace’s back and pats it a few times. If it came from anyone else, Lace might feel some kind of camaraderie between herself and them, but this is coming from Hornet. Even through the rigid gauntlets of her armour, the touch is warm and comforting, not unlike the sensation of sliding beneath clean sheets and fuzzy throw blankets. A head on a downy pillow, the window wide open to let the breeze in.

Their friendship is full-fledged now. In fact, it’s been like this for some time. Lace sometimes feels like a thief with just how much of Hornet’s time she occupies, yet she cares little for whenever someone draws attention to that fact. It’s a moot point.

But every now and again, a voice pipes up in the back of Lace’s head. It first started quiet, only having recently gained a megaphone to project its sound. The mantra is the same, always.

What if Hornet’s touch lingers?

What if Lace reaches out?

What if there’s something lurking between them, haunting the empty space that grows cold without either of their presence? A maw waiting for a meal, hungry.

Lace flushes beneath her helmet. Hornet thanks her. Lace grumbles something about having to do all the work and then Hornet’s laughter chimes out again, light and quiet like stardust falling from the sky.

It’s 0300 hours and Lace’s eyes are red-ringed and puffy.

“It’s my mother.”

“Isn’t it always?”

It is, and that’s the saddest part of it all. In spite of being a lieutenant, and in spite of having gotten there all on her own, Lace’s mother is still able to say a single thing and tear all those accomplishments down without breaking a sweat. She probably doesn’t even move from her office chair, a luxurious thing made of leather and some copyrighted colour that only the manufacturing company can use.

Lace rubs at her eyes and swallows another sob.

“I just don’t understand,” she croaks, “how a mother could say such things to her daughter.”

She refuses to recall the conversation. Over the comm, her mother had been curt and vicious, each word chosen specifically to draw the most amount of blood. Serrated and jagged. Every sentence was a fishing hook being torn from her stomach and out her mouth.

“Just because you turned down the position.”

Lace nods.

Yes. Admiral Silk had caught wind that her daughter had recently been offered the title of Commander, a promotion that literally anyone would have accepted. It was more than just validation, but the ultimate recognition that Lace had well and truly made it. Even Hornet, with all her biotic talents and leadership skills, hadn’t yet been presented with the chance to climb up to the next rank. It was Lace that the Alliance wanted to be promoted, and she turned it fucking down.

Admiral Silk hadn’t been pleased, and that is all Lace will say on the matter.

The fireplace crackles, jostling Lace from her thoughts. Hornet’s apartment is sparse, though cozy. After her conversation with the admiral, Lace had trudged her way through the Citadel trying to find anywhere— any place— besides her commander’s ship to stay for the night. She didn’t want to go back to her own apartment, and so her feet led her through the cold halls to Hornet’s, orange light shimmering beneath the steel door’s cracks.

They don’t work together anymore. Once they both became lieutenants, the Alliance decided that they would do more good separated, spreading their skills so that others may reap the benefits. The most they do with one another now is email because that’s all you can really do when both of you usually work on opposite ends of the Milky Way. It was complete happenstance that Hornet was home when Lace stumbled onto her welcome mat, eyes wet with tears and cries still coughing from her throat.

“It’s just—” Lace stops herself.

It’s what? It’s unfair? Stupid? Childish? Her mother’s words could be any number of things. Not even Lace herself can pinpoint with any form of confident accuracy what they are, though. All she knows is that they hurt. They sting like alcohol on a glutting wound. The blood bubbles, burns. The healing will come later, but not until the laceration scars over.

“You don’t need to explain,” Hornet says. They’re sitting on the ground next to one another, backs against her sofa’s leg rests; from behind them, Hornet grabs a throw blanket and flattens it over Lace’s lap. It’s stained with tears. “Your decision is your own.”

“I should have accepted it.”

“Is that what you truthfully think?”

Lace pauses, and then admits, “No. But part of me wishes I did, if just to have avoided hearing my mother— you know.”

“I know.”

The question hangs in the air, unanswered. Lace steels herself for Hornet to ask it, though it never comes. Hornet would never ask unless prompted, kind thing she is. Though she’s a hardass in the Navy, all business on the battlefield, she’s different with Lace. Willing to laugh and let her guard down, to have another look after her six and keep an eye on things she can’t keep track of. She’s— caring. Caring in a way that leaves space to breathe and let the moment settle. Reality sets and then Hornet swoops in, prepared with reason and understanding.

Lace has always been explosive. A stick of dynamite one spark away from a flash of fire. But Hornet cools her like none else. A balm, almost. Calm and tempered, like a well of spring water after a long drought.

Now look at Lace— getting all poetic. Ha.

She inhales. Readies herself for the confession. The words leave her lips before she can regret it, saying, “I didn’t take the job because it would have meant I would never see you. Like, ever.”

It’s the truth. Part of it. The part that’s easy to say aloud, admitting that she missed and misses her friend. The other, darker reason that haunts Lace’s turning-down of the promotion is more to do with wanting some speck of control over her own life. Admiral Silk would have done anything to have her daughter be Commander Lace. Lace would have done anything to prevent her mother from winning— again. She’s already in the Navy for life. Why is that not enough?

Nothing she does will ever be enough for the admiral, Lace has since learnt. Though, it’s a lesson gained much too late, for the tears have already been spent and the cries paid.

“Oh,” Hornet says, tugging Lace back to reality.

“I—” Lace starts, and then stops because whatever else she’s going to say will be monumentally stupid. “Actually, never mind.”

“No,” Hornet interjects. “I know what you mean. The ship isn’t the same without you. I don’t have my friend screaming in my ear about having the wrong ammo in my mag. I’m missing my daily reminder to unlatch the first rung in my armour. I’m missing my gossip buddy who tells me, ‘No, you’re right,’ when I say something that probably shouldn’t fly in the Alliance.”

All air flees Lace’s lungs at the words. Hornet looks terribly raw right now, half of her face lit by the fireplace. Orange flames dance along her lips and Lace has to stop herself from doing something even stupider than what she was going to say earlier.

Rather, she tightens her fists around the blanket and says, “Your promotion is probably next. I saw the report for your last mission on Captain Vespa’s desk.”

Skilled. Dedicated. Strong. Three words that Lace’s eyes had locked onto while Captain Vespa was telling Lace something she probably should have been listening to.

Recommendation: promotion to rank of Commander. Assign to SSV Alamo.

“I guessed as much,” says Hornet. She inches closer, and their shoulders bump. “I’m going to take it.”

“Of course. It’s what you’ve always wanted, right?”

“Sure, as a child. It’s different now, though.”

“How so?”

Hornet leans in, and her hand reaches out. A thumb swipes across Lace’s cheek to clean a tear she hadn’t realized dropped from her eyes. She blinks once, twice. And then Hornet does the same to the other side.

“Being a commander means I’ll have my own ship. My own crew. I’ll be able to request whoever I want aboard.” Hornet cups Lace’s face her hands, holds her like she’s delicate and precious. Like she’ll shatter at the slightest movement. “When your mother calls the comm, guess who has the authority to shut the line down?”

The laughter is sudden. It breaks the surface tension like a snapped string, yanking and yanking until the middle splits and frays. Lace folds over and cackles, a true ugly laugh coming out of what she tends to consider a perfectly glossed pair of lips. Hornet is chuckling and knocks her head against Lace’s.

And then, quiet. All that remains is the fizzing fireplace, the soft sound of dying laughter. Lace shuffles just slightly, and Hornet’s head falls into the crook of her neck. Her friend turns, lips just barely gracing the thin skin of Lace’s neck. Heat pools in her stomach, the same sensation of a good wine hitting the bottom of her belly.

“Lace,” Hornet whispers. “I’d have no one else as my second.”

“Don’t do this, Lieutenant,” Lace shivers out. “Not unless you mean it.”

A beat. Thinking. Both of them.

“And what if I do?”

“Then I’ll call you Commander, and nothing else.”

It’s a storm, a whirlwind, whatever other flowing word you want to use. Lips press against Lace’s throat and she’s lost all inhibitions, hands flying and touches grasping. Hornet pushes her against the couch, though they end up spending the rest of the night on the floor. The blanket beneath them is plush, at least.

Hornet hums promises into Lace’s mouth and she trusts them instinctively.

Life is good for a time.

Hornet is promoted. She gets the SSV Alamo. Her ship is filled with some of the Alliance’s finest soldiers, men and women who’ve clawed their way to where they are now. And, of course, she makes one very special request for a certain somebody, officially completing the crew list.

There are missions, to-dos— a long laundry list of things that need to get done by the Alliance’s newest crew. Hornet takes it all in stride and does the Navy’s dirty work, all the shit that none of the senior commanders want to get their hands bloody with. Everyone in the Alamo is happy to stand by their commander, a decorated woman who’s only goal in life is to do good by her soldiers. Lace lets herself be content with being lieutenant, and she eventually realizes that she wants this place in life. She likes the freedom of second-in-command, a responsibility that’s less daunting though still irreplaceably important.

Hornet lets Lace keep her hair long. Wear her uniforms wrinkled. Use rifles that are modded to hell and back with scopes that are probably on the harsher side of legally dubious— only because they’re so damn good that other folks would kill for one. For once, Lace feels like a person, free of tugging, pulling strings.

Sleeping with the commander also gets her some pretty nice perks. And if Lace feels a pang in her heart whenever Hornet rolls over and falls asleep, so what? They don’t need a name for what they have— they’re Lieutenant Lace and Commander Hornet, friends since Basic, soldiers against the galaxy. What they have doesn’t need a name. To even suggest that it requires one is asinine at best.

But on those nights— the ones where Lace stares up at Hornet’s ceiling and watches the stars swim by through the endless expanse above, she wonders if it’s possible to put a word to what they are. If she were younger, she’d probably be clamouring to answer that question. A grown woman now, she should just be happy that she even has some semblance of normalcy in life. She has a career. She has a home. And now, Hornet is her…

Her…

See? There’s no word to describe what Lace and Hornet are. That’s just how singular their relationship is.

Lace has a question. It’s a very good question, mind you.

If what she and Hornet have is so remarkable that it transcends language, why is it that it crumbles?

It happens after a series of missions gone wrong and a health scare. Hornet is high-strung after a number of messages come in about Captain Vespa’s health taking a turn for the worse. Captain Vespa is, for all intents and purposes, Hornet’s foster mother, and so it’s not shocking to see Hornet act rather agitatedly while someone so important to her is suffering. The doctors have assured Hornet that the captain will be fine, and so she steels herself and lets that serious personality of hers take the forefront.

Vespa bounces back— albeit slowly— and then the missions happen. Everyone is a little shaken up, but Hornet says that they’ll push through. It’s colony work, hostage extraction, and then a defense call. A bundle of crew members get seriously injured in the first. The hostage dies in the next. And then Lace has her arm blasted through with a biotic blast so powerful that it rips through her armour, shields, and takes a rather large chunk out of her forearm. The amount of blood is startling, to say the least.

When Hornet sprints over to help her Lieutenant when she should really be staying in cover and sending the medic over instead, she takes a bullet to the back. It rips through her shields and hits her right in the shoulder. She never watches her six, the stupid commander. Lace tried to warn Hornet, but all that got her was a stern order to shut the hell up because she’s going straight to exfil.

They argue because of course they do. They argue quite regularly, actually— it shouldn’t be anything new to them, the raised voices and the waving arms. And yet, this one is different as each word is spat with vitriol and the stress of gunfire around them. Emotions are running high, that dynamite in Lace’s chest ready to blitz to life.

The mission ends unsuccessfully. They have to call for backup. A commander is never supposed to run directly into the line of fire like Hornet did. It got her more than a few choice words from Captain Vespa, who chewed the commander out from a hospital bed.

The night after the mission report is sent out, Lace is called to Hornet’s room. Lace stalls for as long as she can before sighing and taking the elevator up to the top deck, right where the stars kiss the top of the Alamo.

They’re sitting on the bed. Usually when they’re on said bed, they’re touching, talking, kissing. Right now, it’s dead silence, tension heavy in the artificial atmosphere.

“It’s not working,” Hornet finally says.

“I know.”

“On the battlefield.”

“I know.”

“It’s getting in the way of our work.”

“I know.”

Hornet sighs and turns to Lace. “Can you talk to me?”

“I am.”

The commander’s voice adopts a new rhythm, one that’s slower and more tentative. Though it’s still understanding, Lace knows it’s going to be the one that Hornet uses when she needs to get her point across. A seriousness simmers in the undertones. She means this.

“Lace, what I did out there could have gotten us all killed. This mission’s failure is on me, just like all the others, and I’m fine with that. It’s my duty, my responsibility; sometimes things can go wrong quickly on the battlefield. But when I start putting everyone else’s lives on the line because of my emotions, it’s— it’s just not going to work.”

At first, Lace thinks that Hornet is putting the Alliance above their relationship. And, to be fair, she kind of is. It’s always the Alliance-this and the Alliance-that with Hornet, and Lace is very reasonably driven mad by it on occasion, as if the Navy is some kind of good ‘friend’ of Hornet’s that just always happens to exist in the same space as them both at every moment of their lives.

But the longer the words linger, the more Lace knows that that isn’t what this is about.

“You’re not going to get yourself killed, Commander,” says Lace, “because of me.”

Hornet shrugs. “I might. And even then, it wouldn’t be your fault. It would be mine. It’s my duty to protect you, Lieutenant— and I do it with my everything. I don’t want you to live with my death on your soul.”

“My soul, she says.”

“I’m serious.”

“Are you?” Lace pushes. She needs to know if this is true because if Hornet is just trying to spare her emotions, then this is absolutely not what she needs right now. “Is this what you want?

Lace’s hands are pulled into Hornet’s, cradled. In the space between them, the long distance of bedsheets, their grasps hang in the middle. Hornet smiles. Her lips are chapped.

They always are.

“I’m your commander. You’re my lieutenant,” she says. “Nothing is ever going to change that.”

Petulance rises in Lace’s chest. Explosives, sparked. The flare is lit, a blazing comet streaking from her left to right and leaving flames along her skin.

“I feel like this will.”

“Then, how about you choose?” Hornet suggests, calm and soothing. Water is dashed upon Lace’s wick, and it sizzles into nothing. The commander lets their hands fall and they return to their respective owners, the sudden wake of coldness overtaking any kind of beginnings of anger in Lace. She twists her fingers into her pants. “This is both of our decision.”

If there’s one thing the Alliance asks of its soldiers, it’s complete obeisance. Shoot this. Capture that. Put your life on the line and let the bullets rip through your heart. In some ways, Lace has forgone a life stringed to her mother’s fingers to one held by the men in uniforms. And she’s always hated the fact that she’s so easily traded one prison for another.

But even in the confines of the Navy’s strict rules and codes, Hornet has always allowed Lace to be that singing bird, no longer caged. Do what you want. Be who you are. Make a decision for yourself and even if it hurts now, know that you still got to make it with the entirety of your own self.

Be a fucking lieutenant and make the damn call.

Lieutenant Lace makes the call.

Something something for the good of the Alliance, something something for the good of the crew. Hornet just nods, smiles sadly, and tells her lieutenant that she respects her decision.

Lace will get over it. Eventually.

“The first human Spectre.”

“Really?”

“I just heard from Captain Vespa— it’s true.”

The Citadel is abuzz, the humans especially with the recent news that Commander Shepard has just become the first human Spectre. It’s a real milestone for all of humanity, and an even bigger one for the Alliance Navy.

Hornet is nursing a coffee as she looks out over the edge of the Citadel’s atrium. From so far up above, both civilians and soldiers look the same, small dots moving across the white tiled floor. Lace finds it funny how everything blends when you move far away enough; squint, and things become even fuzzier.

“Those Shepards,” Lace hums. Always making the Alliance proud, that family.

Hornet bumps her shoulder and a mischievous smile blooms on her lips. “I’ll never forgive you for not getting that autograph.”

“Oh, my God. I said I was sorry!”

“It would be worth millions now!”

“Like you ever would have sold it.”

“No, I was going to frame it above my bed and pray to it every night.”

Hornet’s deadpan expression makes Lace inexplicably break out into laughter, the kind that starts in your stomach and then worms its way up your throat. Once she starts, she can’t stop. The giggles keep coming at the thought of Hornet laid in her bed with the only piece of decoration in her room being a single framed image of some notebook paper with Commander Shepard’s name writ across it. Nothing else.

Lace isn’t even sure if Hornet is joking. That somehow makes it funnier.

It’s been years upon years since the Shepard Incident, but Lace has never forgotten the way Hornet had turned away and looked sadly at the horizon when she realized that the autograph wasn’t going to be hers. Some part of the commander must have known that she wasn’t going to get it— a recruit, striding up and asking a legendary soldier for her autograph while the drill sergeant stood by? Fat chance that was going to fly. But hope was one hell of a drug, and it kept people going until the supply ran dry.

Lace and Hornet have since shed their young skins and fitted themselves into the boots of adulthood. More than a decade separates them from the day their friendship first bloomed. Now, they’re well-established in their careers with medals under their belts and a crew to their names. Life should be good— and it is. It is certainly better than it ever could have been under the thumb of a mother who would have kept her youngest child close to her chest, if it meant that she could prevent that little daughter from tarnishing their family’s pride.

There had been a time when Lace wanted to run back to her mother. Through the sweat, through the blood, eyes blinking away the pain of training every single day under flashbangs and flying bullets, her mind had sometimes flitted to the thought of, “I’m not cut out for this.” That she didn’t belong in the Navy— that she was just here because her mother told her to be and that was that.

Being part of Hornet’s crew says otherwise. There’s a place for Lace there, a comfortable position next to the commander who still pats her on the back, hugs her when missions go well or poorly; a closeness remains in spite of the nameless relationship they both have and had. With Hornet, Lace is no tool nor trophy. She’s just a lieutenant.

And a damn good one, at that.

Freedom is a funny thing. Once people have it, they don’t know what to do with it. They sit and flounder, wondering about all the possibilities at their fingertips without actually making a concrete step forward. The only ones who truly know what to make of true, unfettered liberty are those who have lived under the boot of another. Their skin may be marked with metal, bruised and scarred and torn, but they rise to lift the weight, feeling like they can fly without all the burden of expectation upon them.

Lace looks over at Hornet. The commander is still staring out at the atrium, watching the people below. Then, her eyes lock on a woman in black N7 armour, red hair like a flame dancing against a snow-white background. Hornet points and nearly drops her coffee.

One day, Lace will get her commander that autograph. And just like last time, it’ll be her choice to do so.