Rogers looked over his shoulder as Donnelly came stomping back up into Main Engineering. The dark-haired assistant engineer had his usual peeved look on his face.

"Everything okay, Chief?" Rogers asked. "I heard some yelling."

Donnelly almost snapped at him, but then calmed himself. Rogers might be a sour puss, but that was no reason for him to bear the brunt of Donnelly's anger.

"It's fine," said Donnelly, almost gritting his teeth. "Everything's just fine. I'm going on break. Be back in a couple of hours. Ping me if anything crops up."

It was a pity the doors on the Normandy were all automated. Donnelly really wanted to slam the door as he left, just on general principle.

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Grunt hummed happily to himself as he finished sharpening his newest acquisition. The krogan sat on a small crate he'd appropriated as a chair, in the cargo hold that he's also appropriated for his quarters. The larger shotgun that Jacob was putting together should be very suitable for most situations. However, Okeer's memories and instructions also touted the virtues of a backup edged weapon in case of close-quarters combat. Since a simple knife did not have moving parts, Grunt decided that his imprinting gave him enough expertise to just make the requisition directly to the ship's AI. In short order, he'd received the weapon. All it needed was a little refining of the edge, and it should be perfect.

The door to the cargo hold hissed open, and Jacob poked his head in. "Hi, Grunt," he said. "I just got that prototype Claymore finished up. Wanna go try it out?" The human took a closer look at what Grunt was doing. "Um, where did you get that?"

"The Normandy's printing facility, of course," replied Grunt. He set down the sharpening stone and held the knife up. He tested the edge with one thumb. "The blade design is one from Okeer's memories. It should suffice."

"You should have asked me. We do have knives available."

Grunt shook his head. "Knives made for your hands are not suitable for mine." He held up one huge paw and waggled his thicker fingers. "Besides, you humans have silly notions about proper knife length."

"Okay, I'll give you the hand thing," replied Jacob. " But don't you think that's a little, er, too big? People will think you're overcompensating." The human gave a laugh.

Grunt just didn't get the human sense of humor. "Overcompensating for what?"

"It's a standard joke, you know, if somebody's got a big long...you know what? I'm not your dad, and I'm not going to explain it."

He suddenly understood what the human was implying. "Ah! People might see it as a symbolic mating organ! It is not a concern to me. Okeer made sure I was the ultimate krogan in every way." Grunt thought a bit more. "Do you think that carrying this will cause confusion as to its true purpose? I can forego wearing pants, just to make certain there is no doubt."

Jacob coughed a bit. "I really don't think you'll need to do that, Grunt. Go ahead, wear a big-ass knife if it makes you happy."

Grunt smiled. "Shepard has promised me that we will fight big enemies. They will require properly sized weapons."

The human shrugged. "If you say so. Speaking of big-ass weapons, let's go try out that Claymore."

That sounded wonderful to Grunt. He stood up and drove the knife into a nearby crate. It made a satisfying thunk and also made the human give an equally satisfying little jump.

----------------------------------------

One corner of the Normandy's hanger deck had been set aside as a makeshift gym. Aside from the usual weights and treadmills, somebody had put up a couple of speed bags and a heavy punching bag. The current heavy bag was a replacement, since Grunt had destroyed the first bag inside of ten seconds. The tank-born krogan had been given a support column nearby to beat on instead, and Donnelly checked it once in a while to make sure it wasn't getting too warped.

Donnelly was now working the heavy bag, shuffling, light on his feet. He relished the force of each hit, feeling the impact travel up his forearms. The old combinations he'd learned long ago moved through him, and he danced without thinking as the bag jerked on its chain.

"Marcus?"

He came to a stop, breathing heavily. His tee shirt was plastered to his torso, and his short red hair was damp with sweat.

"Hello, Ms. Chambers."

"Please, call me Kelly." The ship's yeoman and 'unofficial' shrink stood off just outside the little gym area. She had her usual perky smile plastered on her face. Donnelly looked over at her as his breathing slowed. Chambers was too much of a Cerberus fan for him to really trust her, but he couldn't be mean to her. It would be like kicking a puppy.

"Okay, Kelly. What can I do for you?"

EDI's soft, modulated voice filled the area. "Mr. Donnelly, I notified Ms. Chambers that you had been working out three times longer than your usual. Such a departure from normal behavior is an indicator of possible psychological stress. It is my duty to keep Ms. Chambers informed of any such departures from the norm. Logging out."

Kelly shifted on her feet a little uncertainly. "Don't get mad at EDI, Marcus," she said. "I've got her on the lookout for anything that could be an issue. I just wanted to check in, you know? It's good to get small problems taken care of before they become big problems."

Donnelly looked away from her. "I appreciate the concern, Kelly. But I'm alright." He began to attack the bag again. Jab, jab, cross. "Just realized I've been sitting on my arse too much. Getting fat." Straight, straight, and slip. Hook, straight, uppercut. "Too much work and no play, right?" He stopped talking as he really started to hit. Jab, straight, hook, overhand right. The bag really jerked at that last punch, and Donnelly smiled to himself. Since his youth, he'd been really proud of his overhand right. Of course, that had been before he'd met Grunt. He'd never thought he'd meet someone who could literally punch a heavy bag in half.

Kelly crossed her arms. "Getting rid of stress is fine, Marcus. But if the source of the stress isn't dealt with, it just doesn't help."

Donnelly almost told her to bugger off, but instead stopped punching and grabbed the bag to stop its swinging. "Fine. Let me ask you something, Kelly."

Kelly's smile brightened. "Of course!"

"You deal with people, right? That's your thing? Your unofficial role on the ship?"

"Yes...?"

He stared at the bag for a bit. "How can you stand it?"

Kelly shrugged. "I love people. It's true, while I'm in my 'unofficial' role I usually have to deal with people at their worst. But when you can help, there is no better feeling. And I'm not always on the job with them, you know. It may be unorthodox in the usual clinical circles, but it's great fun to go out on the town and cut loose with someone who's just made a breakthrough."

Donnelly began trying to take his gloves off. "Did you need a hand?" Kelly asked.

He considered using his teeth instead, but then held out one hand. Kelly yanked on the glove's velcro strap, then pulled it off.

"Thanks. See, the thing is," said Donnelly as she started on the other glove, "I love machines. They do what you expect them to do. No more, no less. Yeah, they break sometimes when you don't expect but that's entropy for you."

Kelly handed him his gloves and he nodded at her. "But people," he continued. "I just don't get people. Someone tells you 'This is the way I want it'. You say okay, and do exactly that. Then all of a sudden, they get pissed at you and say 'No, now this is the way I want it.' And it's somehow your damn fault for not realizing the rules have changed."

Kelly patted him on the shoulder. "I'm sorry, Marcus. Is it girl trouble?"

Donnelly gave a short bark of laughter. "Oh, please. I've been living like a damn monk ever since I got on this ship. You should know that. What with EDI keeping tabs on us and all." He put the heavy bag gloves into his duffel and pulled out a water bottle.

"It must be Jack, then."

He took a swig of water and looked at Kelly with new respect. "What makes you say that?"

"Because she's really good at pushing buttons. She's picked fights with half of the crew, and has the other half just plain terrified. I really don't know how Shepherd is keeping her working with the ground team."

"Well, that's his thing, you know? His specialty."

Kelly nodded and waited. Donnelly stared off into space, the water bottle forgotten.

"And what the hell do I care what some crazy murderer thinks, anyway?" he finally said, and took another swig. "I'm not stupid. I know you don't get sent to Purgatory for shoplifting. You gotta kill people to get in there, a lot of people. But I wasn't gonna judge, you know? What with me working for terrorists and all." Donnelly glanced over at Kelly. "Present company excluded, of course."

Kelly gave an arch smile. "It's okay. It's nothing I haven't heard before."

He drained the rest of the bottle. "Yells at me for looking at her," he grumbled. "Bouncing around with her tits hanging out, and I look once, and now somehow I'm the dirty bugger."

The psychologist tilted her head. "She does have nice tits, doesn't she? And I would love to grab a double handful of that tight ass."

Donnelly looked over at her, unamused. "You know," he said, "I think it would be better if she was some kind of horrible-looking beast. It would match what she really is inside. But nooooo, the mass-murderer has to look like a goddamn supermodel."

Kelly took a step closer. "Don't be too hard on her, Marcus. I've read her file. We're not quite sure where she's from, but Jack has never had what anyone would call a stable life. She's been on the run since she was a kid. Most...probably all of the people she's killed were about to do the same to her. You need to understand her."

"Understand. Right. I have to understand people." There was another long pause. "You know," he said, "back in the day I would have made a really good hermit."

Kelly touched his forearm, "It would do you good to socialize more. And drinking with Zaeed does not count. There's a lot of good people on this ship."

"I know," said Donnelly. And that was the problem, wasn't it? This wasn't a group of fire-breathing radicals, these were friendly, good people. He was sure that Cerberus had picked them all for just that reason. And Donnelly had, for his part, kept his distance from them all. Oh, he was polite and professional. But his off-duty hours were spent apart from them in meditation or in exercise or, yes, in having a few drinks with Zaeed.

"I'll keep it in mind, Kelly. Thanks." Donnelly had to admit, talking with her had helped him calm down. Now he just needed a shower and he'd be ready to face Rogers and his sour face. He heard the elevator door open, and after a bit Jacob and Grunt came around the corner into the hangar. The armorer carried over one shoulder a long, bulky parcel wrapped in cloth. Grunt followed him close behind, and was almost bouncing in excitement.

"I should be the first to shoot it, Jacob," said Grunt. His tone reminded Donnelly of a kid on Christmas morning.

"I'm the armorer for the ship, Grunt," replied Jacob. "I know what I'm doing. I need to do the first couple of practice shots, just to make sure the gun is working properly. Then it's all yours."

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Donnelly and Kelly looked at each other. "This had the makings of something very funny or very tragic," he murmured to her.

"Or both," she murmured back. "We should sell tickets."

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Jacob was now wishing he'd never brought up the damn Claymore as a weapon option. Grunt was getting to be a big pain in the ass about it.

"Now can you do the practice shot?" asked the krogan. Jacob tried not to notice how the alien was looming over him.

"Yes, Grunt. I just needed to check that the heat sink ejector works and that the sink magazine feeds correctly. Don't worry, I'm going to do the practice shots next." Jacob took a look over his shoulder and was irritated even further. It looked like half the damn crew was now lining the far wall of the hangar deck. Most of them seemed to have huge grins on their faces, as if anticipating some spectacular failure.

"You people are wasting your time," he called out to them. "It's a bigger gun, but there's nothing that dangerous about it." Jacob looked over his safety precautions again. He had a large pad of absorbing foam between the butt of the stock and his shoulder and another bit of foam between his forearm and the Claymore's barrel. Overall the gun was a little awkward to wield, since it was sized for Grunt, but that shouldn't affect things much.

"Okay, here we go," said Jacob, trying to sound very calm and in control. He tried to ignore the collective intake of breath behind him. "Firing in three...two...one."

BOOOOOM

"OUCHMOTHERFUCKINGGODDAMMIT!"

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"So, Jacob," asked Chakwas. "How did this happen, exactly?" She was a little peeved; she'd just been sitting down to a nice cup of tea when it seemed like half the crew of the ship came bursting into the medbay while carrying Jacob. This nonsense had interrupted one of the few calm periods she'd had, what with all of of the patching-up of the ground team and the physicals for new recruits.

"Just a little, um, training accident, doc," said Jacob. He now sat on a stool with his shirt off, and was cradling his right arm. As Chakwas prodded here and there on his right shoulder, he gave a couple of little grunts of pain. Chakwas heard a couple of snickers behind her, and turned. There remained a few stragglers still in the medbay, and she gave them her best 'Doctor In Charge' glare.

"I think I have everything quite well in hand, thank you very much," she said in a frosty tone. They at least had the decency to look a little ashamed as they slunk out. She turned back to the sheepish-looking armorer and examined a few more areas around his shoulder.

"Well, it looks like you somehow managed to dislocate your shoulder pretty thoroughly. We need to get this reduced. Now I'm going to move very slowly. You need to relax."

"This is gonna hurt, isn't it?"

"Yes but it hurts now, correct? This will make it hurt less. Give me your arm." She took Jacob's right arm and gently moved it into an 'L' shape. It wasn't as easy as it should have been; the young man was subconsciously fighting her. Given his sheer muscle mass, that would make this more difficult.

"I said relax, Jacob."

"I am relaxed," gritted the armorer.

"If you say so. Did I ever tell you about the time I went undercover as a pole dancer in Chora's Den?"

Jacob looked at her in shock. "What? When-AAAAH" Chakwas smoothly rotated his arm out and pushed up, and felt the joint slide back into place.

"Aaaand we're done. That wasn't so bad, was it?" She patted his other shoulder. ignoring his betrayed look. "Now hold that arm against yourself, I'll get you a sling and some medi-gel. Keep from using your right arm for about a day while you let the medi-gel repair any soft tissue damage. Would you like a painkiller or two?"

"No thanks, doc, I'll be fine."

She stood up and rolled her eyes. "Soldiers. You always have to prove how tough you are. From now on I'll just stock a selection of bullets for you to bite on."

----------------------------------------

The snow crunched under Shepard's boots. His surroundings were almost monochromatic, all black rock and white ice. The palette was only broken up by the occasional scrap of Alliance-blue metal. Shepard's breath sounded harshly in his helmet as he climbed a little ridge and gave one last scan of the crash site. The pouch at his side jingled with the dog tags that he'd managed to retrieve from the wreckage. It was very quiet, almost peaceful. All that was left was to place the small monument which Admiral Hackett had sent to him.

He almost wanted to place it right next to the largest intact piece of the Normandy. It was a swatch of the upper hull that still had the ship's name visible. But he took another circuit through the wreckage, just to make sure. He took a final, lingering look at the Mako. The vehicle was jammed at a awkward angle into a rock outcropping. Shepard smiled sadly. He could almost hear Lieutenant Williams' sarcastic comments. She had always been the most critical of his driving. And that thought made him finally decide on a proper location. He turned away from the Mako and examined the surroundings more carefully. If the Mako was there, then the hangar should be...ah, this must be the place. There wasn't much left, just a few scraps of bulkhead. But it was enough to know for certain.

Shepard knelt and placed the small bronze plaque. He touched a button on its side, and a holographic image of the Normandy in full flight appeared above the plaque. The monument had a small nuclear battery which should keep the image going for at least a couple of hundred years. He regarded the monument in silence for a little while and then finally spoke. They were the first words he'd said since landing on Alchera.

"I'm so sorry, Ash. It should have been me who stayed dead, and not you."

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Shepard sat on the couch in his cabin, nursing a glass of scotch. He'd procured the bottle from Kasumi, who had passed it over after one look at his face. He was a little afraid to go to sleep. Before his death, he would often have nightmares about the vision from the Prothean beacon. That was bad enough, with its glimpses of living creatures being shredded and warped into new and horrible shapes by the Reapers.

Lately, his death over Alchera had begun to dominate his dreams. Shepard would feel again that horrible strangling panic as the air in his suit bled out through a damaged connector. He would see again the tumbling wreck of the original Normandy as it was cut to pieces. He would feel again the knowledge that he was a dead man.

And now he was dead no longer. Shepard brought the tumbler up to eye level and regarded it. He let go of the glass and ran one hand thoughtfully over his chin. The glass began, ever so slowly, to drop. He watched with amusement as the brown liquor inside slowly sloshed and rocked like lukewarm molasses. Shepard tilted his head and kept watching the glass inch downwards.

He could have looked closer and seen his reflection in the glass, but he chose not to. Shepard didn't like looking in mirrors lately. The network of scars on his face from the Lazarus Project were almost gone. But also gone were all of his old scars. He'd had a small one that cut through his right eyebrow, picked up during his actions during the Skyllian Blitz. Another one along his left jawline, from a boarding action just before being assigned to Captain Anderson on the original Normandy.

They were all going away, leaving nothing but unblemished skin. Lately he was wondering if he was still really himself, still Shepard. Or maybe he was just an abstraction. Maybe he was just the idea of Shepard, cloaked in synthetic flesh and shocked into life by a genetically enhanced superwoman with a chip on her shoulder.

Eventually, Shepard put out his hand and watched the tumbler slowly nestle into his palm. A little of the scotch splashed over the lip of the glass, forming a droplet which dangled in space. He snapped himself back into normal time and watched the droplet land with the usual speed onto his hand.

At least some of the old crew was here. Joker, Chakwas and now Garrus. They were his anchors, they were the measuring tools that he could use to gauge himself. Shepard wished that Tali had been able to come as well. Seeing his quarian friend on Freedom's Progress had been heartwarming. He had been surprised at the lift in his chest when he had seen her. However, the joy was short-lived after her accusations of Cerberus involvement.

He'd told her he was using Cerberus, not the other way around. They had the resources and the desire to do what needed to be done, and so he would take what they offered in the name of pragmatism. But he wouldn't trust them, not one bit. Shepard wondered, not for the first time, if his eyes were beaming video straight into The Illusive Man's office. They had sworn no such tampering had been performed. Also, Dr. Chakwas had scanned him and pronounced him clean...using Cerberus-supplied equipment.

He yawned, and set the glass down on the table next to him. Maybe if he slept on the couch, it would help. He would take a stiff back over nightmares. It was s very comfortable couch; he was sure that Cerberus had spared no expense in furnishing his cabin.

Shepard dimmed the cabin lights and stretched out. He was just about to drop off when EDI broke in. "Apologies, Shepard. The Illusive Man has requested a call."

"Of course he has. Thanks, EDI. I'll be right down."

----------------------------------------

He clings to the hull, a small fragile creature facing the ultimate apex predator. The red eye glares, sending an angry beam lancing past him. He knows that, behind him, another ship has died. He screams in his helmet, feeling the sound of his panic reverberate around his head. It is too much, just too much-

And then the evil black shape speaks, a hideous horn-call of sound which somehow presses through the void separating them. A sound which has physical force and weight. It speaks his name, it knows him-

DONNELLY. JOIN.

The engineer jerked awake with a moan. The sheets of his bunk were thrashed and tangled around him. His shirt was damp. He took a breath and tried to relax.

Another nightmare. It was his first in a while; he had hoped that being on the Collector mission would have banished such things. Now that he was awake, he began to rationalize to himself. The dream was ridiculous. Yes, Sovereign had somehow made a sound that he had heard, but it had never spoken his name. That was a little addition by his stupid hindbrain.

He sat up and swung his legs down, letting out another little moan. His workout the other day had been the first serious one he'd undertaken since joining the Normandy, and his body wasn't yet used to it. It would recover, he knew from past experience. He'd be fine, he just needed time to get back into the swing of things. And he needed to get more regular exercise. He dressed, opened his door, and padded down the corridor to the men's communal bathroom. After using the facilities, he splashed cold water on his face. That made him feel better, although he decided that a cup of tea would be even nicer.

The mess was empty at this late hour except for a tattooed, half-naked figure eating at one of the long tables. Jack held a pouch of a pre-made ration in one hand, and was shoveling its contents into her mouth with a plastic spoon. Donnelly hesitated as he saw her, then decided 'to hell with it' and kept walking towards the kitchen area. He filled the electric kettle with water, then grabbed a mug and tea bag.

"Y'know, Assface," said Jack, "I'm glad you yelled at me." Her voice was slightly muffled, since she was chewing on a spoonful of goulash.

"Oh? Why is that?" asked Donnelly. He turned to look at her. She was facing away from him. The scars on her back were thrown into stark contrast by the mess's fluorescent lighting.

"Because I was starting to think you were a pussy. But you got some spine in you."

"I see." He almost said something else, then decided now was not the time for sarcasm. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

Jack turned and looked over her shoulder at him. The one eyebrow he could see was cocked upwards, as if to say are you fucking kidding? Then she shrugged and turned away. "Sure, why not?"

The kettle clicked as it finished heating. Donnelly grabbed another mug and teabag, then filled the mugs from the kettle. He brought the tea over to Jack's table and set one mug in front of her as he took a seat facing her.

"Thanks," she said. She spooned more goulash into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully as she looked at him. Donnelly looked back as he dunked his teabag. It seemed like Jack was sorting through several questions in her mind. "So how'd you break your nose?" she finally asked.

"I walked into a door."

"It's been broken a lot."

Donnelly smiled. "Maybe I'm really clumsy."

"Fine, be that way. You know, the 'dark, mysterious past' thing is supposed to be my schtick." She chased the last bits of food out of the pouch and chewed them with evident satisfaction while Donnelly took a sip of his tea. Oddly, he actually enjoyed the silence while sitting here with her. Jack set the pouch and spoon down, then rested her arms on the table.

"Okay, then," she said. "Fair trade. You can ask me something, if you want to. Even though you didn't really answer me."

Donnelly shrugged. "I don't have anything I want to ask."

"C'mon, there's gotta be something. You at least want to ask me about all the tats. Shit, everybody asks about that."

Donnelly sipped more tea. "I figured they were something you wanted to do, for reasons that seem good to you. It's nothing to do with me." He looked more closely at her. "Um, you did want to have all of those tattoos, right?"

Jack smiled. It was small and sarcastic, but it was a genuine smile. "Yeah, Assface, I did." Then she cocked her head in thought. "Actually, that's not really true. These ones here," she indicated patterned bands on both sides of her shaved head. "These are from when I joined a cult. That's also where I picked up the 'do." She rubbed her scalp. "But it wasn't like the cult guys held me down or anything. It was just a, whaddyacall, requirement to join."

She picked up her mug and regarded its contents with suspicion. "Anyway, that was my first bit of ink. After I...left the cult, I decided that since I had the first one I may as well keep going. See how far I could push it, right?"

Donnelly glanced over the patchwork of ink that covered Jack's slender, muscled frame. There were flames, skulls, mythic figures, and some abstract linear markings which reminded him of electronic circuit designs. "I guess they all have meanings?" he asked.

"Yep. Some only I'm ever going to know. Some are for people I've killed." Jack was watching his face closely when she said the last. "That doesn't bother you?" she added.

Donnelly shook his head. He'd thought about it further, since his conversation with Kelly. "No, it doesn't. Hell, I figure I've killed plenty myself."

"You? I can't picture it. You're Mister Squeaky-Clean Engineer."

He took a larger swig of his tea. "Engineers keep ships going. Warships, in my case. And warships kill people in wholesale lots." He looked down at his mug. "I've been on ships in a few engagements. And also in on one big battle. I figure I've probably helped kill at least two hundred, all told. Most of them were slavers and pirates, but still...it all adds up."

Jack finally look a sip of her tea, then made a face. "Ugh, this shit is bitter. I don't agree with that, by the way. You didn't shoot them directly. You didn't see their faces. I have. Well, for most of my kills I have."

He nodded. "True, but I still bear responsibility. I knew what doing my job would ultimately entail."

Jack thought a bit, and took an automatic sip of tea. She didn't make a face this time. "But you were wearing a uniform, too. I'm guessing you were Alliance, right?"

"Yes, I was. But the uniform was just a, I don't know, a societal nicety. It doesn't change the fact that I did those things, killed those people."

"Hmmm." Jack stared into space as she drank her tea. "Is that why you won't wear the Cerberus uniform? So you can show that you're still your own man?"

"A little bit, I suppose. Plus I tend to have trust issues with any organization that requires them. I didn't leave the Alliance on the best of terms."

Jack cocked her finger at him, like a gun. "Hah! Another piece of your mysterious past uncovered."

A loud alarm buzz suddenly filled the mess. Joker's voice came over the intercom. "General quarters, folks. We're heading for Horizon, just got word of a possible Collector abduction. We'll be there in six hours." The intercom clicked off.

"Ah crap," said Jack. "Just when this convo was getting interesting." She got up from the table. "I'll see ya around, Assface."

Donnelly nodded. "Be careful on Horizon, okay?"

Jack snorted. "Shit, dude. I'm not gonna be careful, I'm gonna rock."