Bianso

It should have been a disaster. Admiral Hackett was quite informed about the history of his own species, and based on everything he'd read, things didn't work like this after war. He had heard the turians call it the spirit of Normandy, and he had no reason to disagree. Almost everyone seemed to have found their slot. Those who considered themselves best equipped to tend the wounded, did so, while others rebuilt, gathered and distributed resources, or focused on preparing and refitting the fleets for long-distance travel. The long-scorned quarians had instantly become distinguished, respected experts. Everyone was still edgy around the rachn

We were supposed to go together. We were supposed to meet at the bar. Are you there now? Are you really looking down, as you promised? You left me here alone, and now I'm supposed to do the only thing I could never do. I'm supposed to become you to these people. But there is no Vakarian without Shepard. We need you. I need you. I love you. We should have gone together. There were four graves next to the crash site. Simple stones bore the names of EDI, Bethany Westmoreland, Jonathan Stranger and Martin West. Joker and James stood side by side, staring at the overturned soil. "We were thinking we could move the memorial wall here," James sug

Admiral Shala'Raan vas Rannoch was sitting at the end of a table in a large hall inside an ancient human structure. Looking out of the window, she could see a flag flying over the ramparts. A white flag with a blood-red cross on it. How very fitting. She glanced around in the room. Right now, the people gathered around the table looked like they should have been in an infirmary ward instead of a political meeting. Next to Shala'Raan was sitting Primarch Victus, uncomfortably in a wheelchair designed for humans. It was said that the turian had taken a brute head-on, killed it with an omni-blade, and broken both of his legs in the process. N

"Joker! Joker! Can you open the door?" The turian banged the steel door with both fists. What on Palaven had posessed the Alliance to put a door between the CIC and the cockpit? SR-1 had never had one. Finally the mechanism made a weird fizzing sound, the green light of the lock flickered, and the doors slid aside. He stepped carefully inside, dreading what he would find. "Garrus. You alright?" The pilot's voice was flat. He was kneeling on the floor, next to EDI's lifeless body. "Joker. Is she..." The turian ran out of words. Damaged? Offline? Injured? Dead? "She's gone," he replied softly, folding the AI's synthetic arms on her chest.

At first everything was fuzzy. And very, very painful. "Shepard. Shepard!" They're calling my name. Something is still wrong. Must do something. Must get up. Must help. "No, no, lay still. Don't move. Shepard! Don't move!" Arms grasped her, held her down. "Shepard! Look at me!" It was Karin Chakwas. Grasping her shoulders, staring into her eyes, looking concerned. "Shepard. I need you to lay still. You're going to hurt yourself." There was a third hand on her arm. A hand with tree fingers. And a voice with the familiar flanging. "It's okay, Shepard. Everything is fine. It's over." It took a lot of effort to turn her head. "Garrus."

I must have had the worst hangover in the history of the Fifth Fleet that morning. I can't remember why the night before had been so special, it must have been someone's birthday. Lt. Thrace didn't even make it to the breakfast. I think there had been some kind of rank-based drinking game the night before, so he'd had the worst of it. I was the next in rank, and I got a round of applause when I made it downstairs. The chef of the hotel was a champion when it came to hangover breakfasts. I have no clue of what we ate, but it had just enough salt and grease to get us to our feet for long enough to crawl to the beach. I think I fell asleep pre

From Dr. Miso's initial report on Mindoir survivors, after the 2170 batarian raid Survivor number 17 is miss Shepard, age sixteen. Found hiding near her family's burned farmstead, treated for second degree burns, dislocated knee and some moderate cuts and bruises. Mentally she appears to be in a relatively good state. The rescuing lieutenant reports that she met the soldiers with a heavy stick in her hand, ready to fight for her life. Will be assigned to an appropriate counseling group and closely observed for latent PTSD symptoms. From Dr. Corday's final psychological assessment on Joan Shepard During our final discussion with Joan, we sp