Chapter Text
“Commander Farvardin,” said the man at the other end of the galaxy, drawing a cigarette to his lips. “Or do you prefer Shepherd?”
Shepherd’s talons dug into the palm of her hands. She’d really hoped he would be in the room with her – then she’d at least have had the option of attack.
“Shepherd is fine,” she said, with practiced evenness. “What do you want?”
He talked and talked – she didn’t know whether it was a civilian affectation, or simply a human one. She interrupted only once, to ask about her old team, but he batted all of her queries aside. She clenched her fists, mandibles snapping in tight.
“Why do you think I’d be willing to work for you?” Shepherd leaned her weight on her back leg. “You’re a human supremacist –"
“That’s not true.” The Illusive Man knocked the ash from his cigarette. “We’re in favor of humanity’s advancement. Nothing more and nothing less.”
He couldn’t hear her subvocalizations and humans didn’t understand them anyway. That was probably lucky for Shepherd, because hers were the equivalent of a dismissive “yeah, whatever.”
“Still,” she said, her voice dripping with forced civility, “I’m sure there’s plenty of people in Cerberus who won’t be happy that you threw a fortune at resurrecting a turian.” It was hard to believe any of it was true: she might’ve dismissed it as a crazy lie if her limbs didn’t feel so brand-new. Taut, inflexible.
“Regardless of what you might think, I have a lot of admiration for your species.” He must’ve known enough about turian expressions to read her skepticism. “Every turian is honed for the purpose of the greater good: humanity could do with more of that discipline.”
Why was she reminded of men who kept insisting they liked barefaced women?
“But with that discipline comes rigidity, which brings me to you.” She noticed, for the first time, how the Illusive Man’s eyes flashed. Artificial enhancement – she’d learn in time that using technology to overcome nature’s shortcomings was his favorite trick. “One of Earth’s greatest strategists once said ‘If fighting is sure to result in victory, then you must fight, even though the ruler forbid it.’ You defied orders to pursue Sovereign, didn’t you?”
That was a matter of public record: Shepherd grunted.
“Independent thinkers are rare, especially among your kind. And I only want the best.” He took another drag. “Shepherd, it’s very simple. I want the Collectors to stop targeting human colonies, and you want to stop the Reapers.” He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “We humans have a saying. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
Shepherd was familiar with the phrase. Krogans had a similar concept: Wrex had said it when they first met.
Turians didn’t think that way.
---
Miranda and Cobas escorted her onto the Menae. If they’d expected her to be happy to see her old ship, they shouldn’t have slapped their logo all over it.
Flight Lieutenant Japhus Morro was there, which shouldn’t have shocked her. When Shepherd had been tasked with command of the Menae, Victus had made it clear that the pilot was part of the package. Joker could be annoying as hell, but she had never pegged him for a defector – and yet here he was, hand in hand with the devil.
“And you’re really all right with...” Shepherd waved around the cockpit. “All this?”
Joker chuckled. “Well, no one in the Hierarchy ever got my jokes.”
“We got them.” Shepherd ran a talon over a console. “We just never thought they were funny.”
Joker stared at her, his mandibles dropping their usual sardonic flare. “It’s not so bad.” He jerked his head to the EDI interface. “Except for the ship cancer.”
Shepherd wasn’t sure if she could trust Joker, but it was a welcome reminder that they were never truly alone.
---
Shepherd was tired. She couldn’t remember a time when she’d been more tired – not sleepless nights waiting for a target to enter her crosshairs, not long evenings dealing drugs or working security for the Red Squadron. Never.
Apparently she’d slept for two years.
She stumbled into her loft, feet dragging with lethargy. The old Menae’s captain’s quarters had been compact – a desk, a chair, a bed. More than enough for a career soldier. This was… obscene. For one thing, there was a huge glass panel where the left wall should be. Some sort of surveillance device, maybe? She eyed it warily and ran a finger over the holster of her pistol.
This was it. Her first moment alone, and they hadn’t disarmed her. If this was the Hierarchy, Shepherd would’ve known for sure that it was a test, but with Cerberus, she couldn’t be certain.
She pulled out the pistol. The Illusive Man told her she was free to walk away, but she didn’t buy that for a second. Not after everything he’d spent getting her on this ship. No, she was in enemy hands with no hope of rescue, and protocol was very clear. She didn’t want to die, no one did, but she had to admit, there was a grim satisfaction to the thought of blowing millions of credits’ worth of brains all over the wall.
But she couldn’t quite get her finger to curl around the trigger.
The footage Veetor had recovered on Freedom’s Progress flickered across her mind. The Illusive Man was right: the Collectors were targeting human colonies. She might fault Cerberus’s leader for his ideology, she might distrust his motives, she might even fear him – but he was in full possession of the facts and, despite what he said, he wouldn’t have spent all this money on a renegade turian without a hell of a good reason.
Joining a gang hadn’t been Shepherd’s decision, not truly. She’d had no family, no resources, she was primed for grooming. It was the Reds or sex work, and she’d gone for the job that let her run. She hadn’t chosen the Hierarchy. She’d abandoned her post during a gang war to save a bunch of worthless tourists whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She’d put a target on her head, and enlisting had been her best chance of escape. She maybe could’ve turned down becoming a Spectre, but the instant she’d touched the Prothean beacon, she’d been selected for a much more important job, one with no break clause.
With a soft sigh, she put down the pistol.
Shepherd chose Cerberus. She chose it against all reason, against all the rules, against her own better judgment, because of two simple facts:
Living meant she had a chance, however remote, of defeating the Reapers.
If she was dead, she'd have none at all.