“A doctor? Seriously? He has a PhD?”
She stares at the screen.
“Seriously. I would've figured him to be a college dropout or
something from the way he stalked me. Still, could use this.
Keyboard?”
She has five minutes until the date arrives. She has to talk with
Ash about this. This has to violate a huge amount of regs.
Matchmaking ones commanding officer should be against something.
Although they are right, she has been riding herself hard.
Especially with what's to come, but she just feels at...peace...more
than she has in years.
“Dear Doctor Conrad Verner,” she says, fingers typing in time
with her speech, “My name is Jane Shepard, and I have been studying
your doctorate paper. I wanted to get your input on a recent mission
which may support your doctoral thesis.”
She snickers. She can only imagine what his reaction to this would
be. Then she blanches, imagining what his reaction would be.
“I will be on the Citadel for the next day,” she continues, “If
you have the time, I would like to talk with you. Thank you for your
time, Jane Shepard.”
Hits the send button and pushes away from her desk, wheels of the
desk chair squeaking as she stands up. Piles of clothing are on the
cot of the Presidium apartment set aside for her during her brief,
enforced leave, her duffle propped up against the wall and pulled
open.
Turns, stares at the full wall mirror next to the desk. Black
sweater, tan skirt down to her knees, shoes. She turns to her side,
hands on her hips. Sweater's snug, but not tight. She grabs her
breasts, pushes them up, running a hand through her hair and deciding
against actually stylizing it. Comb works just as damn well.
Looking down at the skirt, she frowns. Technically, it's a good
skirt. Probably stylish. At least, not ugly. She's been wearing
military fatigues since she turned eighteen. Probably been that long
since she had a damn date. Turning to the mirror, she rears back and
kicks, aiming her foot to an imaginary head. Just in case.
“Fuck,” she says, “That's like a free show. Fuck it, we're
going with pants.”
The skirt joins its kin on the bed, and she buckles the belt, a pair
of tan pants going with the black sweater. Staring at the mirror,
she turns to her side. Pants are loose. She doesn't do tight,
though. What's the point of tight clothes when you spend most of
your time on a military ship?
“Fuck,” she mutters, “How long has it been since I've actually
had a date?”
She's already hit thirty, if she counts the three years she still
remembers. Given, she was either dead or in a stockade when she hit
the 3 and 0, but still.
The door chimes. Checking the time, she rolls her eyes, slips on
her shoes, and walks across the room and taps the green circle. The
door opens, Ossen hastily clicks the screen on his omnitool closed,
light on his mouthpiece blinking with his cough.
“Ah. Hello.” He reaches behind him, bringing up a mass of
hastily tied together flowers. Some of which still have leaves, and
if she looks closely, roots on them. “Sorry, I don't really know
that much about human customs. I...well, thought that this was
appropriate, considering that the other human insisted this was a
date.”
She hates flowers.
“They're fine,” she says with a smile.
She does, however, have to give him points for effort. It is kind
of charming.
“So,” she says, “Where're we going?”
“Movie,” he responds, “Hope you don't mind.
I'm...uh...something of a geek.”
He looks, sees a cup of water at the desk next to the door, and
drops the flowers in.
“I was going to go to the Cinema and see Star Wars, actually. The
new one.”
She cocks an eyebrow.
“They made a new one?”
“Nah, just remade the old ones,” he responds, shrugging, “Only
they replaced the cast with Elcor. Heard it was pretty good.”
She shrugs, nods, and walks with him. Walking beside her, he taps
his omnitool closed, folding his hands behind him as they walk from
the apartments and into the Presidium itself.
“I hope you don't mind,” he says, “But, well, I have been
studying up. Even if this isn't the typical customs, I do insist on
paying.”
She smirks. Rolling her head, rolling her shoulders, she takes in
the quiet moment as they walk towards the elevators, and the lift
towards the cinema and her first night off in god knows how long.
And as the doors close in front of them, she glances out over the
Presidium.
And she swears, for a moment, that she spotted Wrex on a dingy,
fishing.
*****************
OMAKE:
Dark Space. The void between galaxies. The only light in this
small patch of the void are the blue lights which run the length and
breadth of their forms, the blue and red lightning which travels the
lengths of their consciousnesses, and the golden lights of his eyes.
He is the Resplendent Harbinger of Ascension. Oldest and
wisest of them, their leader in absentia of their creator. He is the
One who sits above the Many. But He is only the one.
He is not the many.
Nazara has been destroyed. Our vanguard has been lost. We must
seize the initiative and attack now, before the Cycle is broken.
Blue lights before Him, the eyes and lights of many of the great
Mechanism. One of them, long opposed and antagonistic to Him,
uncoils his tentacles and twitches his optics at the others flanking
him.
“Harbinger,” the Reaper, Venerated Harmonious
Rejoinder, says, “How are you aware of this? What could
possibly have destroyed one of our own? The organics can not
possibly have created something that could destroy one as resourceful
and powerful as Nazara.”
I have seen it through the memory downloads of Nazara. Shepard
will find a way to break the Cycle unless we stop her.
Perfect Blossom of Bridging, to the left of Rejoinder, rolls
the eight blue optic ports.
“Ah, yes,” Rejoinder says, twitching the two tendrils
closest to his face, “'Shepard'. The supposed time traveling
organic who has destroyed several Destroyer-class Reapers, one of
whom she did on foot with a single gun. We have dismissed this
claim.”
And with that, the lights fade on Rejoinder, Blossom, and the other
Reapers as they resume their millennial slumber. Harbinger sighs,
turning back to the galaxy. He'll have to think of something.
She stares at the screen.
“Seriously. I would've figured him to be a college dropout or
something from the way he stalked me. Still, could use this.
Keyboard?”
She has five minutes until the date arrives. She has to talk with
Ash about this. This has to violate a huge amount of regs.
Matchmaking ones commanding officer should be against something.
Although they are right, she has been riding herself hard.
Especially with what's to come, but she just feels at...peace...more
than she has in years.
“Dear Doctor Conrad Verner,” she says, fingers typing in time
with her speech, “My name is Jane Shepard, and I have been studying
your doctorate paper. I wanted to get your input on a recent mission
which may support your doctoral thesis.”
She snickers. She can only imagine what his reaction to this would
be. Then she blanches, imagining what his reaction would be.
“I will be on the Citadel for the next day,” she continues, “If
you have the time, I would like to talk with you. Thank you for your
time, Jane Shepard.”
Hits the send button and pushes away from her desk, wheels of the
desk chair squeaking as she stands up. Piles of clothing are on the
cot of the Presidium apartment set aside for her during her brief,
enforced leave, her duffle propped up against the wall and pulled
open.
Turns, stares at the full wall mirror next to the desk. Black
sweater, tan skirt down to her knees, shoes. She turns to her side,
hands on her hips. Sweater's snug, but not tight. She grabs her
breasts, pushes them up, running a hand through her hair and deciding
against actually stylizing it. Comb works just as damn well.
Looking down at the skirt, she frowns. Technically, it's a good
skirt. Probably stylish. At least, not ugly. She's been wearing
military fatigues since she turned eighteen. Probably been that long
since she had a damn date. Turning to the mirror, she rears back and
kicks, aiming her foot to an imaginary head. Just in case.
“Fuck,” she says, “That's like a free show. Fuck it, we're
going with pants.”
The skirt joins its kin on the bed, and she buckles the belt, a pair
of tan pants going with the black sweater. Staring at the mirror,
she turns to her side. Pants are loose. She doesn't do tight,
though. What's the point of tight clothes when you spend most of
your time on a military ship?
“Fuck,” she mutters, “How long has it been since I've actually
had a date?”
She's already hit thirty, if she counts the three years she still
remembers. Given, she was either dead or in a stockade when she hit
the 3 and 0, but still.
The door chimes. Checking the time, she rolls her eyes, slips on
her shoes, and walks across the room and taps the green circle. The
door opens, Ossen hastily clicks the screen on his omnitool closed,
light on his mouthpiece blinking with his cough.
“Ah. Hello.” He reaches behind him, bringing up a mass of
hastily tied together flowers. Some of which still have leaves, and
if she looks closely, roots on them. “Sorry, I don't really know
that much about human customs. I...well, thought that this was
appropriate, considering that the other human insisted this was a
date.”
She hates flowers.
“They're fine,” she says with a smile.
She does, however, have to give him points for effort. It is kind
of charming.
“So,” she says, “Where're we going?”
“Movie,” he responds, “Hope you don't mind.
I'm...uh...something of a geek.”
He looks, sees a cup of water at the desk next to the door, and
drops the flowers in.
“I was going to go to the Cinema and see Star Wars, actually. The
new one.”
She cocks an eyebrow.
“They made a new one?”
“Nah, just remade the old ones,” he responds, shrugging, “Only
they replaced the cast with Elcor. Heard it was pretty good.”
She shrugs, nods, and walks with him. Walking beside her, he taps
his omnitool closed, folding his hands behind him as they walk from
the apartments and into the Presidium itself.
“I hope you don't mind,” he says, “But, well, I have been
studying up. Even if this isn't the typical customs, I do insist on
paying.”
She smirks. Rolling her head, rolling her shoulders, she takes in
the quiet moment as they walk towards the elevators, and the lift
towards the cinema and her first night off in god knows how long.
And as the doors close in front of them, she glances out over the
Presidium.
And she swears, for a moment, that she spotted Wrex on a dingy,
fishing.
*****************
OMAKE:
Dark Space. The void between galaxies. The only light in this
small patch of the void are the blue lights which run the length and
breadth of their forms, the blue and red lightning which travels the
lengths of their consciousnesses, and the golden lights of his eyes.
He is the Resplendent Harbinger of Ascension. Oldest and
wisest of them, their leader in absentia of their creator. He is the
One who sits above the Many. But He is only the one.
He is not the many.
Nazara has been destroyed. Our vanguard has been lost. We must
seize the initiative and attack now, before the Cycle is broken.
Blue lights before Him, the eyes and lights of many of the great
Mechanism. One of them, long opposed and antagonistic to Him,
uncoils his tentacles and twitches his optics at the others flanking
him.
“Harbinger,” the Reaper, Venerated Harmonious
Rejoinder, says, “How are you aware of this? What could
possibly have destroyed one of our own? The organics can not
possibly have created something that could destroy one as resourceful
and powerful as Nazara.”
I have seen it through the memory downloads of Nazara. Shepard
will find a way to break the Cycle unless we stop her.
Perfect Blossom of Bridging, to the left of Rejoinder, rolls
the eight blue optic ports.
“Ah, yes,” Rejoinder says, twitching the two tendrils
closest to his face, “'Shepard'. The supposed time traveling
organic who has destroyed several Destroyer-class Reapers, one of
whom she did on foot with a single gun. We have dismissed this
claim.”
And with that, the lights fade on Rejoinder, Blossom, and the other
Reapers as they resume their millennial slumber. Harbinger sighs,
turning back to the galaxy. He'll have to think of something.