Chapter Text
Elysium was the kind of place that made you forget the galaxy could be dangerous.
The colony was beautiful, almost too pristine—all white-and-blue Alliance architecture, vast open courtyards with manicured greenery, and sleek, high-rise structures that caught the sunlight just right. It had that ‘model human colony’ look like it had been pulled straight from a recruitment poster.
The main thoroughfares were bustling with activity. Civilians moved in easy-going waves, their voices blending into a chorus of casual conversation, the occasional laughter echoing between the buildings. Market stalls along the promenade sold everything from imported alien cuisine to high-end tech mods, while local shopkeepers peddled fresh fruit grown in the colony’s fertile outskirts.
Above all, Alliance patrol shuttles skimmed low over the city, their sleek hulls reflecting the golden afternoon sun. The recruits—fresh-faced, some excited, some already jaded—moved through the colony in navy blue fatigues, occasionally stopping to chat with locals or grab a quick meal before their next rotation.
It was a peaceful day.
It wouldn’t last.
-͟͟͞ ☆
The Asari presence on Elysium wasn’t unusual, but this visit had drawn attention. Not just any asari had come—this was a high-profile delegation, and people were talking.
Benezia, towering and dignified, moved through the colony gracefully, making people pause. Even humans, who weren’t always impressed by Asari's mystique, could recognise her as important. It wasn’t just the way she carried herself—it was the way others reacted. Even the local Alliance brass straightened their backs when she passed.
At her side, Matriarch Aethyta was the complete opposite. Where Benezia walked with an air of regal patience, Aethyta stalked beside her with the kind of loose-limbed swagger that belonged more in a mercenary camp than a diplomatic meeting. She had the posture of someone used to standing in a firefight, arms crossed, eyes constantly scanning the crowd as if waiting for trouble. If Benezia were here to talk, Aethyta would make sure nobody got any dumb ideas.
Between them, Liara looked every bit the young scholar. She wasn’t paying attention to the military presence or the political tension—she was absorbed in her omni-tool, likely going over notes from some Prothean text she’d been studying.
The human civilians whispered as they passed.
"That’s Matriarch Benezia, right? The politician?"
"And the one next to her—that’s her bondmate, Aethyta, a commando."
"Huh. Thought she was a merc or something."
Alliance recruits barely paid them any mind. They had their own business to worry about—some were gearing up for training exercises, others just loitering with their squads.
- ͟͟͞ ☆
For Recruit Shepard, it was just another day of patrol duty.
She was posted near one of the main plazas, her rifle slung over her back, watching as civilians milled about. The rest of her squad wasn’t taking it too seriously. It wasn’t an actual assignment—just basic presence patrol.
A group of recruits stood nearby, their conversation half-bored, half-mocking.
"Man, I hate these patrols. Nothing ever happens on Elysium."
"I dunno, I like it here. Feels like a vacation compared to Arcturus training."
“You just like the bars, O'Connell."
Shepard listened with half an ear, still scanning the plaza.
That’s when she saw the Asari delegation passing through. She recognised Benezia from the newsfeeds. She didn’t expect to see her in person. But what caught her attention was the contrast between the two matriarchs.
Benezia walked like a queen. Aethyta moved like a soldier. Shepard knew enough about battlefield presence to recognise a warrior when she saw one.
One of her squad mates, Corporal Diaz, nudged her with an elbow.
"That’s Benezia, right?"
"Yeah."
"Who's the pissed-off one with her?"
"Her bondmate."
"No way. Can you imagine being married to her?"
Shepard didn’t respond. She kept watching. Something about Aethyta’s posture set her on edge. The Asari wasn’t just walking—she was watching the crowd, reading the atmosphere, like she expected something to go wrong.
Like she could sense trouble coming.
Shepard shook the thought off. There was no trouble on Elysium. Nothing ever happened here.
She turned her attention back to her squad.
It wouldn’t be long before the first explosions tore through the colony.
It wouldn’t be long before the peaceful streets became a warzone.
And when it happened, Shepard would be standing in the middle of it.
- ͟͟͞ ☆
Liara sat beside her mother in the sleek, glass-walled conference room overlooking Elysium’s central district. The view was breathtaking—from this high up, the city stretched toward the horizon, the golden glow of afternoon light reflecting off the clean, white-stone architecture. In the distance, shuttles weaved through the sky in a neat formation, ferrying people between corporate towers and military outposts.
But she wasn’t paying much attention to the view.
She was bored.
Across the long polished table, human politicians and Alliance officials discussed the finer details of a new trade agreement between Elysium and the Asari Economic Council.
It was supposed to be a historic partnership, a symbol of humanity’s growing place on the galactic stage—or so the humans kept saying. The details, however, were far less inspiring.
The human officials—primarily men in crisp suits, though a few wore military uniforms—spoke in a measured, rehearsed manner. They smiled, nodded, gestured toward datapads filled with proposals, and insisted on the mutual benefits of further trade between Elysium and Thessia.
Her mother, Matriarch Benezia, sat composed and regal, her expression unreadable. She listened intently, occasionally offering smooth, precise responses that steered the conversation exactly where she wanted it to go.
Liara had seen this performance before.
Benezia wasn't just discussing trade policies—she was manoeuvring. Every carefully chosen word, every pause before she responded, was a calculated move. The humans might have believed they were in control of the discussion. Still, Liara could already see that by the end of the meeting, Benezia would have subtly reshaped the entire agreement in favour of the Asari.
It was fascinating, in a way. But also exhausting.
She shifted in her seat, glancing down at her omni-tool. She had been quietly reviewing Prothean research notes while the meeting dragged on, but her mother had already cast her one of those looks that warned against further distraction.
With a sigh, she sat up straighter, trying to look engaged.
Her father, Matriarch Aethyta, was taking a very different approach to the meeting. She wasn’t even pretending to care.
She slouched slightly in her chair, arms crossed over her chest; she looked like she wanted to be anywhere else. She let out a deep, impatient sigh every so often, earning her a subtle glance from Benezia.
When one of the human politicians began a long speech about human-asari cultural exchange, Aethyta rolled her eyes. Liara resisted the urge to smile.
The younger Alliance officer sitting across from them—a stiff-backed commander who looked uncomfortable in his formal uniform—cleared his throat.
“Matriarch Aethyta,” he addressed her politely, “do you have any input regarding the security measures of the trade routes?”
Aethyta scoffed. "Yeah. Don't let 'em get raided, genius." Liara nearly choked.
Benezia didn’t react outwardly, but Liara could tell she resisted the urge to sigh.
The human commander looked flustered but quickly regained his composure. “I meant—”
"I know what you meant," Aethyta interrupted, leaning forward with a more serious expression. "Look, these routes are gonna be passing damn close to the Terminus Systems. That’s pirate territory. You wanna keep ‘em safe; you need real security. Not just your Alliance boys playing soldier—you need serious firepower, gunships running escort."
One of the politicians—a middle-aged human with greying hair and an overconfident smirk—laughed.
"With all due respect, Matriarch, humanity is more than capable of handling a few scattered pirates."
Aethyta raised an eyebrow. "You sure about that, pal?"
Liara knew that tone. It meant Aethyta was about to embarrass someone.
Benezia must have known it, too, because she spoke before Aethyta could continue.
"My bondmate makes an important point," she interjected smoothly, her voice silencing the room. "The Asari Republics will support any necessary measures to ensure the safety of these routes. But underestimating the dangers of the Terminus Systems would be… unwise."
Aethyta huffed. "That's a fancy way of saying, ‘You’re gonna get your ass kicked if you don’t take this seriously.’"
Benezia closed her eyes briefly as if summoning patience. The humans shifted uncomfortably. Liara knew she should have been embarrassed, but… Honestly, she found it fascinating.
Her parents were so different—one the picture of careful diplomacy, the other brutally direct. And yet, somehow, they made it work.
She had seen them disagree a thousand times but never truly clashed. Even now, despite Aethyta’s casual disrespect and Benezia’s unshakable patience, Liara could see the mutual understanding beneath it all.
Benezia didn’t try to silence Aethyta outright. She never did. And Aethyta, despite her grumbling, always deferred to Benezia’s final decisions. Liara wondered if this was what a true bond was meant to look like.
She filed that thought away for later study.
Aethyta stopped fidgeting. She had been leaning back in her chair, half-listening to yet another human politician drone on about economic benefits and interstellar cooperation, but now, her posture shifted.
Tensed.
Her arms, once loosely crossed, tightened. Her jaw set.
Something was wrong.
Benezia noticed immediately. “Something wrong?” she murmured, barely tilting her head toward her bondmate.
Aethyta didn’t answer right away. Instead, she looked up. Liara followed her gaze.
The sky.
It had been blue only moments ago. It was a perfect, cloudless afternoon over Elysium’s capital district, the golden glow of the descending sun reflecting against sleek, white buildings.
But now… it was changing. The blue was shifting, and there were oranges, reds, and sudden bursts of white.
For a heartbeat, Liara thought it was just a trick of the atmosphere, a sunset coming in faster than expected.
Then she saw the shapes—tiny at first—moving, falling, falling like debris, like wreckage.
Her breath caught.
Aethyta swore. A deep, guttural asari curse that made every human at the table snap their attention to her.
“That ain’t the sunset,” she growled. “That’s the fleet.” The words dropped like a stone. A hush fell over the room.
Liara’s stomach twisted. The fleet. The Alliance fleet? No, that didn’t—
Then, like clockwork, the officers’ omni-tools exploded to life.
A chorus of urgent, clipped voices burst from their Comms, overlapping, frantic:
“—Fleet is compromised—”
“—Multiple hostiles, we are under attack—”
“—Direct hit, taking fire, we—”
“—They’re already on the ground—”
The human officers shot to their feet. A split second later—
The world erupted as a barrage struck the building.
The impact was immediate, violent, and deafening. A roaring boom shook the entire structure; windows shattered outward, and furniture and bodies flung like weightless objects.
The room was collapsing. Liara felt herself lifted and flung backwards. A sudden rush of air, glass, and fire cut across her vision.
A figure—Aethyta—grabbed her and yanked her sideways just before the ceiling collapsed where she had been. The sound was unbearable—screams, explosions, and metal groaning under pressure.
They hit the floor hard. Liara landed against something unyielding, pain flashing up her arm.
Dust. Smoke. Heat.
She gasped, blinking against the debris clouding the air. Everything was spinning—the meeting table was gone, the walls were caved in, and the sky was visible through a gaping hole where the windows had been.
The meeting room—the entire floor—was wrecked. Benezia’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and controlled.
"Aethyta! Liara!"
Liara coughed, struggling to push herself up. Aethyta shifted beside her, a strong hand gripping her shoulder, grounding her.
"I got her!" Aethyta snapped back. "We need to move!"
Benezia emerged through the settling dust, her robes dusty, her biotics humming at her fingertips.
Aethyta turned, eyes blazing. “We’re under full assault.” She wasn’t asking. She already knew.
Benezia nodded once, and that was all the confirmation Aethyta needed.
The sky had turned red. The colony was burning.
- ͟͟͞ ☆
The first barrage hit the city like thunder.
Shepard barely had time to react before the shockwave sent her squad sprawling. She landed hard against the pavement, the heat of the explosion searing against her skin. The sound—a deafening mix of metal shattering, alarms wailing, and buildings collapsing—made her ears ring.
She pushed up on one elbow, coughing through the dust cloud settling over the streets. Her vision swam—smoke, fire, moving shapes.
Another explosion. The ground trembled under her as more artillery pounded the colony. Her squad was scattered, groaning, dazed but alive.
“Report!” Sergeant Vasquez’s voice snapped through the ringing in Shepard’s head.
“O’Connell’s down!” someone shouted. “He’s breathing, but he’s not moving!”
Shepard shook off the haze, forcing herself onto her knees. She still had her rifle—her Mantis, standard-issue, held tight even after the blast knocked her flat.
She looked up. And there—past the skyline, past the flaming wreckage of what used to be Elysium’s commercial district—she saw the sky.
It was red. Orange. Black. Falling debris streaked across it like meteor showers.
Ships. Alliance ships. Burning. Exploding.
The fleet was being torn apart.
Her breath caught in her throat. Her squad had barely gotten their bearings before the dropships started descending. Dark silhouettes broke through the smoke-filled sky, their engines roaring as they closed in on the colony. The enemy was landing.
Sergeant Vasquez cursed, shoving off the ground. “They’re coming in hot! Get to cover!”
Shepard didn’t hesitate. She dropped behind the nearest piece of rubble—what used to be a transport shuttle—heart hammering.
Boots hit the pavement across the street, dark-armoured figures moved through the dust, weapons raised. The enemy was here.
Vasquez turned to Shepard. "Rookie! We need overwatch! Find high ground—now!"
Shepard gritted her teeth, pushing off the rubble. "On it!" she ran—low and fast, moving through the chaos, weaving past wreckage and bodies, ducking under broken scaffolding.
Find high ground. Find high ground.
The city was collapsing around her. Civilians screaming. Alarms blaring. Alliance forces scrambling to organise. She barely felt the heat of the fires licking at the streets as she sprinted toward the nearest tower still standing.
She could hear the gunfire now. Elysium wasn’t just under attack. Elysium was falling.
Shepard ran.
Smoke choked the streets as fires raged unchecked, their orange glow casting long shadows against the ruined skyline. The acrid scent of burning fuel and scorched metal filled her lungs, but she pushed forward, sprinting through the wreckage. Gunfire echoed from every direction.
Her boots pounded against the broken pavement as she closed in on her target—a towering skyscraper's sleek glass exterior now cracked and blackened from the first barrage. Flames licked at the lower floors, but the upper levels were intact. It was still standing. That was enough.
She didn’t slow down.
"Shepard, you copy?" Vasquez’s voice crackled through her earpiece, distorted but steady.
She clicked her comm. "Still moving. I’ve got a high-rise ahead. I can get a vantage."
"Then get your ass up there. We need eyes." She didn’t waste breath on a response.
The building’s front entrance was blown open, twisted metal and shattered glass scattered across the floor. A security mech sparked and twitched near the doorway, half-buried under collapsed ceiling tiles.
Shepard vaulted over debris, darting inside. The elevators were dead. No surprise there. Shepard turned for the stairwell, already knowing what would come next. She took the stairs two at a time, her breathing sharp and focused.
Five floors. Eight. Eleven. She didn’t stop.
Each landing she passed showed more damage—walls cracked from the impact tremors, overhead lights flickering, emergency sirens screaming. Somewhere below, she could hear distant voices—civilians still trapped, calling for help.
She gritted her teeth. Suppressed tears. No time. Seventeen floors.
Her legs burned, her lungs ached, but she pushed harder. Twenty.
She reached the top floor just as another explosion rocked the city, shaking the building beneath her. She staggered but didn’t fall.
She burst onto the rooftop, the night air slamming against her like a wall of heat and smoke.
And there it was.
The entire city stretched out below her, a battlefield of fire and chaos. Dropships littered the skyline, landing in waves. Smoke billowed from shattered districts, a thousand different fires merging into an inferno.
And in the distance—Alliance forces struggling to hold the line.
She hit her comm. "Vasquez, I’m in position."
"Good." Her voice was tense, barely audible over the gunfire. "Marking targets for you now."
Her visor flashed, updating her HUD. Red markers appeared in the smoke-filled streets below—enemy sniper nests, incoming dropships, and advancing infantry.
She dropped to one knee behind the wall at the roof's edge, shouldering her rifle.
Deep breath.
The chaos of the battlefield faded away, reduced to nothing but angles, distances, and wind speeds. She settled her crosshairs over the first target. Exhaled. And pulled the trigger.
Through the scope, she saw everything.
Alliance soldiers pinned behind wreckage, exchanging desperate fire with mercenary squads.
A gunship strafing a defensive position, cutting through marines before someone hit it with a rocket.
Civilians were trapped in a collapsed plaza, screaming for help while enemy units moved in.
And beyond that, a distant tower—shattered, smoke pouring from its broken windows. She hesitated. That was the conference hall where the Asari delegation had been. Her gut clenched.
Her comm crackled. "Shepard, focus." She swallowed hard and adjusted her aim.
Another shot. Another enemy down. She didn’t have time to think about anything else. Not about the burning city. Not about the people still trapped below. And sure as hell not about the fact that, for the first time, she was really, truly afraid.
She just had to keep shooting. Because if she stopped, even for a second—they were all dead.
"Shepard, focus! We need fire support, now!" Vasquez’s voice was tight, strained—battlefield exhaustion creeping in—but still controlled. Still holding the line.
Shepard didn’t respond. She just adjusted her scope and fired. Another shot. Another kill. Her hands were steady. Her breathing wasn’t. The streets below were a storm of fire and bullets, bodies crumpling in the wreckage of what had once been a city plaza. She could barely tell Alliance from the enemy now.
Her comm crackled—another voice, Corporal Diaz. "Vasquez! They’re flanking left—shit, they’re everywhere! We need—" The line cut out. Shepard’s stomach lurched.
Her hands stayed firm, almost mechanically, as she adjusted her aim. Diaz was gone. She tried to swallow down the shaking feeling creeping up her spine. Don’t think. Don’t stop. She fired again.
One enemy down. Then another. Then another.
"Shepard, we’re falling back— dammit, they’re hitting us from all sides!" Lance Corporal O’Connell’s voice crackled in her ear. He sounded breathless, but still moving. Still alive.
"Hold the line—get to cover!" Vasquez barked over the comms. "O’Connell, get—" A loud explosion cut through the channel. Shepard flinched.
The feed went silent. Her mouth felt dry. She adjusted the scope, swinging toward where her squad had been. There was nothing but smoke, firelight flickering against shattered concrete.
O’Connell was gone.
She could hear her own breathing now—too fast—another voice, barely audible through the static. Private Jenkins. He was just a kid—barely older than her.
"Sergeant—Vasquez, I—" Another gunshot. The channel cut out. Shepard’s hands started shaking. They were dying.
Her squad—the people she trained with, the ones she laughed with, the ones who had ribbed her about being the rookie—they were all dying.
Because of her? Because she wasn’t fast enough? She couldn't—couldn’t breathe. Shepard dropped her rifle for a second, pressing her forehead to the scorched rooftop. They were gone.
She had killed people—real people. Not target dummies. Not simulations. And now—her squad, her team—she was alone. She didn’t want to be alone. Her breath hitched, sharp, ragged.
Her comm crackled. "Shepard." She didn’t respond. "Shepard! Rookie, breathe. Focus." Sergeant Vasquez’s voice was still there.
Shepard forced herself to respond, but her voice came out wrong. Too tight. Too small.
"I—I can't, Vasquez, I—"
"Yes, you can." Her CO’s voice was firm, unwavering.
"You are not panicking right now. You are listening to me. You are still in this fight." Shepard couldn’t see Vasquez but clung to her voice like a lifeline.
"They’re gone," Shepard whispered.
A pause. Then, Vasquez, quiet but certain: "Yeah. They are." Shepard clenched her teeth. "You don’t have time to fall apart, kid. You hear me?"
Shepard nodded, even though Vasquez couldn’t see her. Her hands were still shaking. But she reached for her rifle anyway.
"We’re still here," Vasquez said, her voice steady, unshaken. "You and me."
Shepard swallowed hard. "What do I do?"
A pause. Then, calmly: "You keep shooting."
Shepard exhaled. Her hands still shook. But her grip tightened. She lifted the rifle back into position. And she kept shooting.
Shepard kept shooting.
The city below was still a maelstrom of fire and chaos. The enemy wasn’t slowing down. Dropships kept landing, spilling out wave after wave of mercenaries, pirates—whoever these bastards were. She didn’t know how many she had killed. Didn’t count. She couldn’t count. But she knew it wasn’t enough.
Her crosshairs locked onto another enemy sniper perched on a collapsed building. She fired—a headshot. The figure crumpled. She swung left—and picked off another. Then another. She could barely hear herself think over the gunfire, the explosions, the screams. But Vasquez’s voice still cut through.
"Shepard, report!"
She pressed her comm. "Still here! Still taking them down!" she wiped tears from her eyes and fired again.
Vasquez grunted over the line, followed by more gunfire. "Good. Keep going. You need to push them back however you can." Shepard exhaled, lined up another shot, and fired.
Vasquez kept talking, her words sharp, clipped. But underneath it, Shepard could hear it—strain. Pain. Something was wrong. The next thing Shepard heard was a sharp intake of breath.
Then—a low curse. Shepard froze. "Sarge?" A second of silence.
Then—Vasquez’s voice, tight, controlled. "Took a hit. Doesn’t matter. Keep fighting."
Shepard’s chest seized. "Where? Where are you? I can cover you—"
"Negative, Shepard. I said keep fighting." Her breathing hitched. She could hear it now—the weakness in Vasquez’s voice. She was hurt. Badly. Shepard wanted to run to her, break cover, sprint through the hellscape of Elysium, find her CO and drag her out. But Vasquez wasn’t done giving orders.
"Listen. Elysium doesn’t fall today. You understand me?"
Shepard’s hands tightened around her rifle. Her chest burned. "Copy," she whispered.
"You’re falling back." Vasquez’s breath hitched slightly. "Alliance brass are in the conference building. That’s where you make your last stand. That’s where the civvies are headed."
Shepard barely processed it. Her mind was stuck on the words ‘falling back.’ They weren’t winning. They were retreating. Vasquez knew it. Had known it.
Shepard felt her stomach twist. She wanted to say something—wanted to argue and tell her they could still win if they just—Another gunshot over the comms.
Vasquez grunted. Shepard’s heart stopped. "Sarge—"
"You’re done here, rookie."
Shepard gritted her teeth. "No. No, I can still—"
"That’s an order, Shepard." Her breath hitched. "Fall back. Get to the conference building. Protect the civilians. That’s where the fight is now."
Shepard’s throat tightened. Vasquez wasn’t coming. She knew it. And now, so did Shepard.
"You make it there, you hear me?" Vasquez’s voice was fading now, strained but firm. "You make it there, and you hold the line."
Shepard blinked rapidly, her vision swimming. Her hands were shaking. She tightened them into fists. "Copy," she whispered.
"Good girl," Vasquez muttered. Then—one last breath. "Now run." The line cut out.
Shepard stayed frozen for half a second. Half a second where, she considered ignoring the order. Staying. Fighting. Going down with her squad. She had already lost them. Every single one of them. And now Vasquez—the last voice, the last anchor keeping her from unravelling—was gone.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Her rifle felt so heavy. For a second, she couldn’t breathe. Then—the next barrage hit.
The shockwave tore through the city, fire and metal bursting into the sky. Shepard stumbled back as the skyscraper trembled beneath her. She couldn’t stay here. She had to move. She had to survive.
She had to make it to the conference building. With one last shuddering breath, Shepard slung her rifle across her back. She turned—and ran for the stairs.
- ͟͟͞ ☆
The streets were war zones now.
Smoke curled through the shattered buildings, the sky above a swirling storm of fire, ash, and debris. The scent of scorched metal and burning fuel filled the air, mixing with the acrid bite of ozone left behind by biotic discharges.
And in the middle of it—Aethyta took control. Liara had never seen her father like this before.
She’d seen Aethyta grumble about politics, joke about mercenary life, and drink through long diplomatic meetings. She’d seen her throw punches in friendly brawls, teach Liara how to shoot a pistol, and roll her eyes when Benezia reminded her to behave in front of important guests.
But this was different. Yes, her father was a Matriarch, but right now, she was something else—a warrior.
The conference hall’s lower levels had turned into a makeshift command post.
The Alliance officers—the ones who weren’t dead or dying—were barely keeping things together. The highest-ranking ones were injured, bloodied, and barely standing. Aethyta didn’t wait for orders. She started giving them.
"You—get that barricade reinforced before they break through the south side!"
"Marines, form a defensive perimeter— I don’t want any of these bastards slipping through while we evac the civvies!"
"Snipers—rooftop, now! I want eyes on every goddamn street!"
She grabbed a fallen soldier’s rifle, slinging it over her shoulder like it belonged there.
And it did.
No hesitation. No uncertainty.
She was calling shots like she’d been leading these people for years. And they listened.
Liara stood near Benezia, her mind still reeling. She wasn’t ready for this. She had spent her life in libraries, in research labs, and peaceful Asari colonies. She knew how to translate Prothean glyphs and theorise about galactic civilisation's evolution.
But this? This was war. And it was happening around her, all at once, too fast to process.
Alliance medics scrambling to stabilise the wounded. Civilians screaming, crying, clinging to their loved ones. And then—the gunfire.
The mercenaries were closing in.
She flinched as the first rounds slammed into the barricades. Aethyta didn’t flinch at all. She stepped forward, raising the stolen rifle quickly, and let off three controlled bursts.
Three enemies went down.
A soldier beside her—a human lieutenant—looked at her in stunned disbelief.
"Matriarch, I—"
"No time for gawking, kid!" Aethyta barked, already shifting position. "You wanna live? Then keep shooting!"
Benezia, for her part, was calm. Liara had expected her to panic or—at the very least—to start giving orders the way she always did. But Benezia wasn’t leading this battle. She was observing. Calculating. And then—when the time was right—she acted.
As an enemy vaulted over the barricade, charging straight toward them, Benezia barely even moved.
Her hand flicked up—A surge of blue biotic energy crackled through the air—And the attacker was hurled backwards, slamming into a collapsed transport shuttle with bone-shattering force.
Benezia exhaled, smoothing her robes like she had handled a minor inconvenience.
"Barbarians," she muttered. Liara stared at her mother, then at her father. This was the moment she realised—she had never truly known them.
Aethyta reloaded her rifle, casting a glance at Benezia. "So, uh, you gonna keep throwing people into walls, or you wanna tell me what the hell we do next?"
Benezia gave her an unreadable look. Then, softly: "We wait."
Aethyta frowned. "For what?"
Benezia tilted her head toward the skyline. Liara followed her gaze.
A lone figure ran toward them through the smoke and the crumbling ruins of Elysium’s capital district. Moving fast. Dodging gunfire, leaping over the wreckage, sprinting as if her life depended on it.
A human. Young. Carrying a sniper rifle slung across her back.
Aethyta’s eyes narrowed. "Looks like we got a runner," she muttered; Benezia nodded. "Let’s see if she makes it."
The gunfire outside was getting louder. Liara could hear the screams of dying soldiers, the crackling of fire consuming what remained of the city, and the brutal percussion of explosions as the enemy pushed closer.
The barricades wouldn’t hold forever.
She glanced at her father—Aethyta was still barking orders, firing in controlled bursts, still holding the line like she’d been born for it. On the other side, her mother stood perfectly still, a picture of biotic precision and power, waiting.
Then—a shadow darted through the smoke. Fast. Unnaturally fast. A blur weaving through the carnage—dodging gunfire, sliding across broken pavement, moving like she’d done this a thousand times before.
But Liara saw the hesitation in her steps—the exhaustion in her body. She was running on nothing but adrenaline. Liara’s heart lurched as the mercs behind her raised their weapons, shouting.
The girl didn’t stop running.
She just yanked something from her belt, pressed the button, and hurled it behind her—a grenade. Liara barely had time to react before it detonated mid-air, engulfing the pursuing mercs in a concussive blast of fire and shrapnel.
The force of it sent the girl flying forward, hitting the ground hard. Liara gasped. The figure skidded across the ruined floor, landing hard on her knees.
And for the first time, Liara saw her. Too young for war. Her long, golden hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail that had come loose from the chaos of battle. Strands of it clung to her sweat-dampened forehead. Her skin was pale and dusted with freckles, the kind Liara had only seen on human faces in passing.
And her eyes—Liara had studied the colour blue in every form imaginable. She had read about the shades of alien oceans; she knew the richness of Thessia’s skies and how ancient Prothean murals had once been painted with lapis-lazuli dyes.
But she had never seen blue like this. Sharp. Electric. Burning with something she couldn’t quite name. This human girl was covered in grime, dust, and blood—not all of it hers. Her fatigues were scorched, her hands shook, and her lips parted in breathless exhaustion.
And she was crying. She wasn’t sobbing. She wasn’t breaking down. But silent tears cut clean streaks through the filth on her face, carving their way down her dust-streaked cheeks.
Her shoulders trembled, barely holding herself together. Liara wanted to say something—to reach out, steady her, and offer reassurance.
But before she could move, the girl gasped for breath and turned toward Aethyta as she barked an order to a marine. "Where’s the admiral?" Her voice was hoarse, wrecked from smoke and exhaustion.
Aethyta turned back and stared at her. She looked this human girl up and down—took in her expression, the bloodstains, bruises, and raw desperation. And then—her face softened. Just slightly. "What’s your name, kid?"
The girl blinked rapidly, trying to force the tears back. She swallowed, squared her shoulders, and then, breathless—"Shepard."
Liara felt her stomach tighten. She had never heard that name before, but somehow—in that moment, looking into those burning blue eyes—she knew she would never forget it.
Aethyta kept staring at the girl. Something was unreadable in her gaze—not scepticism or disbelief—something more profound, a quiet assessment. Shepard was still kneeling, still shaking, her hands curled into trembling fists against the scorched ground.
She looked so small.
Not in size—Liara knew most humans were physically shorter than Asari, but this girl looked like she had just barely stopped growing. She still had the sharpness of youth in her face, hidden beneath the blood, sweat, and grime.
Aethyta stepped forward, slung the rifle over her back, and crouched before her. Close enough to look her in the eye. "What’s your name, kid?"
Shepard swallowed hard, eyes darting up, barely holding focus. Her breathing was still too fast, her hands still unsteady, like her body hadn’t realised she was safe yet. She hesitated. Then—softer, broken: "Zoey."
Aethyta nodded once. She didn’t push. Didn’t question it. Didn’t even comment on the hesitation. But then—"How old are you, Zoey?"
Liara felt herself tense. She hadn’t considered it, hadn’t thought to wonder. Shepard—Zoey— was a soldier. She had fought across a burning city and made it farther than most trained marines outside these walls. And yet—the way she was trembling, her voice kept cracking, her face was caught somewhere between shock and desperation.
She didn’t look like a soldier. She looked like a kid. Shepard blinked rapidly as if struggling to remember. Then, voice still hoarse—"Sixteen."
The number hit Liara like a punch to the stomach. She was just a child. Aethyta exhaled sharply. Liara wasn’t sure if it was entirely frustration, anger, or something else. The older Asari reached out, gripping Shepard’s shoulder, grounding her.
"Where’s the admiral?" Shepard rasped again, her voice cracking completely.
Aethyta didn’t answer immediately. She didn’t need to. Shepard saw the truth in her expression before she even said it. "He’s dead, kid."
Shepard’s breath hitched. Her eyes flickered—somewhere between disbelief and something breaking. She wasn’t surprised. Not really. Liara could see that.
But knowing it—hearing it aloud—was different. Shepard closed her eyes. And for the first time, she looked utterly lost.
Shepard didn’t speak. She slowly pushed herself to her feet, swaying slightly, her movements stiff with exhaustion and injury. Liara almost reached out to steady her.
But Shepard wasn’t paying attention to anyone. She was moving, driven by something unseen, something she refused to let go of. Aethyta watched her guardedly, but she didn’t stop her. Instead, she sighed and muttered, “Damn, kid’s got more fight in her than sense.”
Shepard limped toward the makeshift command post. The Alliance comms equipment was barely operational. It had taken a hit during the barrages, and wires were exposed. Sparks occasionally flickered from one of the transmitters.
A dead soldier was slumped nearby, his hand still resting against the broken console. Shepard didn’t hesitate. She shoved his body aside and dropped to her knees in front of the console. Liara flinched at its casual brutality—but there was no hesitation, no second thought.
Shepard wasn’t thinking about the dead. She was thinking about the living.
Shepard’s fingers moved quickly, adjusting dials, flipping frequency channels, and inputting emergency codes. Her hands were still shaking. Her breaths were ragged, sharp, just barely holding it together. But she kept going.
The first channel—nothing but static.
She tried another. More static.
Another.
Another. Still nothing.
Her jaw clenched. She hit the console with her fist.
"Come on," she muttered, voice cracking. She tried again.
Liara stepped forward hesitantly. "Shepard—" The console flickered. Then—a voice.
A male voice, deep, steady, controlled. "This is Captain Anderson aboard the Normandy. Identify yourself."
Shepard’s breath hitched. For a moment, she didn’t move. She just stared at the console, her hands frozen over the controls as if she couldn’t quite believe she’d finally gotten through.
Then, in a broken, desperate voice— "This is Recruit Zoey Shepard, Alliance Marines, Elysium Defence Force." She swallowed hard. Her throat burned. And then, voice cracking completely—"We need help."
The comm crackled. Then—Anderson’s voice, steady, controlled. “Shepard. You’re coming in broken. Say again.”
Shepard clutched the edge of the console, her fingers white-knuckled, trying to get her breathing under control. She was shaking. Her throat was tight, her lungs felt like they were on fire, and her hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
But she forced herself to speak. “This is… This is Recruit Zoey Shepard—Alliance Marines—Elysium Defence Force.” She swallowed, voice wrecked and hoarse. “We’re trapped.”
A pause. Then—Anderson, sharper now, more urgent. “Where?”
Shepard squeezed her eyes shut. “Conference building—last known location of Admiral Grayson—” she coughed, her ribs protesting. “The others… they—” Her voice broke.
She tried to say it, to force the words out, but her breath hitched. She pressed her forehead against the console, gripping the edges so tightly that her nails scraped the metal.
“They sealed the doors,” she whispered. “They—” She clenched her teeth, trying to hold it in, but the first sob cracked through anyway. Her whole body seized, a choked noise escaping her throat. “They’re gone.”
Anderson was quiet for half a second. Then—his voice softened, but only slightly. “You’re the last ones?”
Shepard nodded, even though he couldn’t see her. Her throat was too tight to answer. Anderson exhaled, and then his voice hardened. “Alright, Shepard. Listen to me. You are not alone. We’re en route.”
Shepard shook her head violently, gasping. “No, no, no, we don’t have time—” Her voice was spiralling. She could hear it, feel it. The panic clawing up her ribs, the breakdown threatening to take over. “They’re coming. They’re gonna get in. We can’t—”
“Shepard.” Anderson’s voice cut through her panic like steel. Sharp. Grounding. “Breathe.” She did. Shaky. Unstable. But she did. Anderson didn’t stop talking. “We are thirty minutes out. I need you and whoever's left in that building to hold that line.”
Shepard pressed her hand against her chest, trying to force herself to focus. “I don’t—” she gasped. “I don’t think I can—”
“Yes, you can.”
Shepard bit her lip, squeezing her eyes shut. She wanted to argue and tell him she wasn’t ready and was just a kid. Just a recruit. But she wasn’t. Not anymore.
Anderson took a breath, then said, quieter this time— “Elysium doesn’t fall today, Shepard.”
Her chest lurched. That was the same thing Vasquez had said. Her fingers curled into fists, she forced herself to breathe. She opened her eyes. Then, hoarse, quiet, still shaking—but more assertive this time: “Copy that, sir.”
Anderson’s voice was firm. Unshakable. “Good girl. Now get to work.” The line cut out.
Shepard exhaled sharply. Then—she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, sniffed once, squared her shoulders, and turned back toward the barricades.
Toward the fight that hadn’t ended yet. Shepard felt raw. Her body was aching, her ribs protesting every breath, her fingers still trembling from the adrenaline crash. But she kept moving.
She forced herself to focus, eyes scanning the room for a weapon she could use in close combat. Her sniper rifle wasn’t going to cut it now, so she dropped it; her gaze landed on a fallen soldier’s assault rifle—an Alliance-issued M7.
Still loaded. Still warm from the last hands that held it, she swallowed down the guilt, bent down, and picked it up. The weight was different than her Mantis. Heavier. More immediate.
She took a deep breath, gripped it tighter, and turned toward the barricades, and then—someone stepped up beside her. “Well, damn, kid.” Shepard jerked her head up.
Aethyta was standing next to her, arms crossed, one brow raised in something that looked like amusement, and looked her up and down, taking in the dirt, the blood, the raw, exhausted look in Shepard’s eyes.
And then, with a smirk: “Didn’t think I’d be fighting beside a teenager today, but here we are.”
Shepard huffed out something between a laugh and a breathless exhale. "I didn’t think I’d live this long, so we’re both surprised."
Aethyta let out a sharp chuckle, then nodded at the rifle in Shepard’s hands. "You know how to use that thing?"
Shepard rolled her shoulders, testing the grip. "Point and shoot, right?"
Aethyta grinned. "Now you’re getting it."
Shepard adjusted her stance, settling the rifle against her shoulder. But before she could take another step, Aethyta’s voice dropped slightly and became quieter. “You know you’re not fighting alone, right?”
Shepard stood still. She turned to look at her—look at her. Aethyta was still grinning, still had that lazy, battle-worn confidence in her stance—but there was something else in her eyes.
Something solid. Something steady.
Shepard exhaled slowly. Then, after a moment—she nodded.
Aethyta gripped her shoulder once—brief, firm, grounding. Then she turned toward the barricades, a shotgun swinging up into position. “All right, kid. Let’s go remind these bastards whose planet they’re invading.”
Shepard took a breath. Her hands were still shaking. But she wasn't alone for the first time since she had lost her squad since she had thought she was the last one left standing.
And that was enough. She squared her shoulders, lifted her rifle—and followed Aethyta into the fight.
-͟͟͞☆
The air inside the conference building was thick with the scent of blood, smoke, and sweat.
Shepard’s breath came in ragged gasps, her muscles aching from hours of running, fighting, and surviving. Outside the shattered windows, she could hear the distant echoes of gunfire, the heavy percussion of explosions shaking the foundations beneath her boots.
But she wasn’t dead. Not yet.
She adjusted her grip on the M7, flexing her fingers around the trigger. It was still foreign in her hands—heavier than her sniper, more immediate, more violent. She didn’t have the luxury of distance anymore.
This fight was up close. This fight was personal.
She stood in what had once been the grand lobby of the conference building, now converted into a makeshift stronghold. Shattered glass crunched beneath her boots as she moved between what little cover they had left: overturned tables, makeshift barricades of broken furniture, and abandoned military gear.
She could feel the weight of the civilians pressed behind them—hundreds of people crammed into the upper levels, waiting for salvation that wasn’t coming fast enough.
Around her, a few Alliance soldiers huddled against what cover remained, loading weapons and exchanging sharp glances. Some were young like her—barely older than recruits—while others were seasoned veterans, their faces set with grim determination.
They all knew what was coming. The enemy was closing in—footsteps—heavy, confident, unshaken.
Shepard turned as Aethyta strode beside her, shotgun slung lazily over one shoulder. The Matriarch’s eyes flicked to her rifle, then back to her face, and she nodded.
She glanced around—at the soldiers and officers giving last-minute orders, Benezia standing near the command station, her hands clasped in an eerie calm, and Liara, wide-eyed and silent, watching everything unfold.
The conference building felt like a tomb. It hadn’t always been. Hours ago, it had been a place of politics, negotiations, and carefully measured words exchanged over datapads and handshakes. Now, it was a barricaded fortress, its marble floors slick with blood, its once-pristine glass windows shattered into jagged edges that let in the cold, smoke-choked air.
Liara had never felt so small. She stood near the back of the room, just outside the command station where the last Alliance officers tried to organise defences.
And beside her, like an unmoving pillar of certainty, stood her mother. Benezia was as composed as ever. While the humans around them shifted nervously, gripping their weapons tighter and adjusting their stances as if they were already preparing to die, Benezia stood with her hands folded in front of her, watching.
Waiting.
Liara gritted her teeth. "How can you be so calm?"
Benezia didn’t look at her. "Panic serves no purpose," she answered.
Liara’s fingers curled into fists. "We could die, Mother." Her voice was quieter than she intended, but there was a rawness to it that she couldn’t mask.
Finally, Benezia turned. Her gaze was as unreadable as ever, but there was something behind it that flickered like a candle’s flame, something Liara couldn’t quite place. "Yes," she said. "We could."
Liara felt her stomach twist. She had expected some form of reassurance, some kind of reminder that the Alliance was strong, that Normandy was coming, and that this battle would not end in their deaths.
But Benezia didn’t lie. She never did.
Liara looked away, arms crossed over her chest. She hated this—the helplessness, the waiting, the knowledge that soon, the enemy would be inside these walls, and there would be nothing left to do but fight or die.
She wasn’t a fighter. She had never been one. She was a scholar and a researcher. The most dangerous place she had ever faced was a lecture hall full of sceptical peers questioning her Prothean theories.
But now—now there was blood drying on the floors and gunfire rattling the city outside. Terrified civilians pressed together in the upper levels, praying for an evacuation that might never come.
She wasn’t ready for this. She wasn’t like her mother. "I don't want to die," she whispered.
For a moment, Benezia said nothing. Then—a hand, gentle, steady, rested against Liara’s shoulder. She looked up. Benezia was watching her now—not as a Matriarch, a leader of the Republics, but as her mother. And then, softly: "Then we will not."
Liara blinked. There was no arrogance in the words—no empty bravado—only certainty.
And for the first time since the battle had begun—Liara let herself believe it.
And then the world shook. The building trembled violently, dust shaking loose from the rafters, debris rattling as another explosion rocked the city. Across the room, Alliance soldiers tensed, weapons rising.
Liara’s breath hitched. This was it—the final stand.
She turned, instinctively reaching for Benezia’s hand—but her mother was already moving, stepping forward with calm precision, her biotics humming faintly in the air around her.
And Liara realised something. Her mother wasn’t afraid. Not because she thought they would win but because Benezia had already accepted it, no matter the outcome. Liara swallowed hard. She straightened. And, for the first time, she forced herself to do the same.
The building trembled again, another impact roaring through the walls like a distant earthquake.
Liara’s heart pounded in her chest. She stepped back as debris fell from the ceiling, landing in scattered dust and broken stone piles. The murmur of soldiers checking weapons and shifting their positions filled the air like the low hum of thunder before a storm.
And then—the barricades shattered.
The doors at the far end of the hall burst open with a concussive blast, the force sending shards of metal and splinters of wood across the marble floor. The smoke from the explosion clouded everything momentarily, filling the air with dust and fire.
And from the haze—the first mercenary charged in.
He was fast.
Too fast.
He slipped through the chaos, darting past the line of fire, weaving between broken tables and makeshift barricades. He held a knife and a pistol in one hand and was heading straight for her and Benezia.
Liara’s breath caught. She tried to move, tried to do something, anything—but she wasn’t fast enough.
The mercenary lunged—and then he stopped.
Midair.
Suspended.
His entire body was locked in place, frozen as if time itself had betrayed him.
Liara felt the air shift. Benezia had not moved from her place and had not flinched; a hand was still clasped behind her back, regal and composed—except for her other hand, which was lifted slightly, her fingers curled in an effortless grasp.
Biotics. Pure, controlled force.
The mercenary twitched, struggling against the invisible hold. His feet dangled inches above the ground, his pistol slipping from his fingers. Benezia turned slightly, examining him as if inspecting a broken object. And then—without a word—she flicked her wrist.
The mercenary was hurled backwards violently, like a ragdoll caught in a hurricane.
He crashed through the air, tearing through the remains of the barricades with a sickening crunch, his body smashing straight past the first line of defence and into the hall beyond.
Liara barely had time to process what she had just seen. And then—the shouts from outside.
The battle had begun.
Shepard had just reached the barricades when the first body flew past her. It hit the broken stone wall with enough force to leave a dent before crumpling lifelessly to the ground.
There was a brief pause. Aethyta blinked, then looked at Shepard. “…Well, shit.”
A moment later, another explosion rocked the front entrance. The smoke and fire parted just enough to reveal the first wave of enemy mercenaries charging forward.
Aethyta cocked her shotgun.
Shepard gritted her teeth, raising her rifle.
There was no more waiting. No more running. This was it. Shepard exhaled sharply, steadied her hands, and whispered to herself loud enough for no one to hear—"Hold the line."
Then—the enemy was on them, swarmed through the breach. Shepard didn’t hesitate. She raised her rifle, lined up her first shot, and fired.
The first merc went down, his body jerking as rounds tore through his chest armour. Another rushed past the smoke, shotgun raised—Shepard shifted and fired again, a burst to the head. He crumpled.
Then, the real fighting began. They poured in, wave after wave, mercenaries and pirates with no fear, no hesitation. Bullets shredded what little cover remained—tables splintered, barricades collapsed, and walls cracked under the impact of explosives.
Shepard ducked and rolled into a better firing position, her pulse hammering against her ribs.
Aethyta was a force of nature beside her. She moved with brutal precision—one moment unloading her shotgun, the next hurling a merc clean across the room with a biotic throw. One enemy got too close—Aethyta caught him by the throat, slammed him into the wall, and snapped his neck like a twig.
Shepard didn’t stop moving. She couldn’t. She vaulted over debris, repositioning as fast as possible, her finger never leaving the trigger. The world was nothing but muzzle flashes and screams.
The air was thick with smoke and the smell of gunpowder and blood. Alliance soldiers fell one by one; Shepard heard their screams, their last gasps, their weapons firing until they clicked empty. She heard them fighting, dying. And then—one by one—she listened to their voices disappear:
"I’m hit—! I can’t—"
"They’re pushing through, we need— ARGHH!"
"Lieutenant down— I repeat, Lieutenant—"**
"FALL BACK! FALL BA—"
Silence.
Shepard gritted her teeth, ignoring the burn in her muscles and the raw ache of exhaustion dragging at her bones. She kept firing. Her hands were slick with sweat and blood. She barely felt the rifle's kick anymore—it was instinct, movement, survival.
She didn’t know how many she had killed. She stopped counting. The pile of bodies around her was proof enough, and then—it was just her.
Shepard exhaled sharply, the sound almost lost beneath the chaos. She risked a glance around the battlefield. There were no more friendly uniforms—only her.
She was the last one.
The last Alliance soldier in the fight.
A mercenary broke through the smoke, rifle raised—Shepard shot him before he could pull the trigger, and another charged at her, swinging a combat blade—she ducked, grabbed his arm, twisted, and drove her knife into his ribs.
She wasn’t fighting for orders anymore. She wasn’t fighting for command, survival, or even the mission. She was fighting because she refused to fall.
Not here. Not today. Elysium didn’t fall today.
Shepard heard Aethyta grunt and felt the energy shift beside her. The Matriarch was still fighting, but she was slowing. Shepard glanced over—and saw blood soaking through Aethyta’s side, her biotics flickering, her shotgun slipping in her grip.
Another merc charged toward Aethyta’s blind spot. Shepard didn’t think; she pivoted, raised her rifle, and emptied half a clip into the bastard before he could reach her. Aethyta grinned, teeth stained red. "Not bad, kid."
Shepard didn’t answer; she kept fighting until her rifle clicked empty.
Shepard cursed, reaching for another thermal clip—but she was too slow. A merc rushed her before she could reload; Shepard barely saw the rifle stock before it cracked against her jaw.
Pain. Sharp, blinding. She staggered, head snapping back, the world tilting dangerously.
The merc grabbed her by the collar and slammed her into the ground, boot pressing against her chest.
Shepard gasped, struggling—her fingers scrambled for her pistol, but she couldn’t reach—the merc grinned down at her, raising his weapon.
"Should’ve stayed down, kid."
And then—a blue biotic glow erupted behind him.
The merc’s body was lifted, frozen in the air, and then, with a flick of invisible force—he was hurled across the room, slamming into the wall.
Shepard coughed, gasping for air. A firm hand grabbed her arm, yanking her back to her feet.
Benezia. Her motherfucking saviour.
The Matriarch stood tall beside her, biotic energy humming around her hands, her expression unreadable. Shepard, dazed, barely managed a shaky breath. Benezia tilted her head. "On your feet, Miss Shepard."
Shepard exhaled, spit blood onto the ground, and picked up a rifle. "Already there." The enemy was still coming. But Shepard was still standing—the last Alliance soldier, and as long as she could still hold a gun and stand—she would not let them take Elysium.
She squared her shoulders. Aethyta moved beside her, shotgun reloaded. Benezia stepped forward, lifting a hand as raw biotic power cracked through the air. Behind them, Liara watched, eyes wide. She would remember this moment forever.
- ͟͟͞ ☆
The world was fire and gunfire. Shepard’s rifle was nearly empty, her arms ached, and her legs felt like they’d give out at any second. She had lost count of how many mercenaries had stormed the conference building.
But they were still coming. No matter how many they cut down, there were more. Shepard barely noticed the deep roar of engines at first. Not until the sky above them darkened.
Then—a thunderous explosion tore through the street outside.
The air vibrated with a deep, mechanical howl—The Normandy had arrived. Blue streaks of Alliance mass accelerator rounds cut through the night, tearing through enemy formations.
The mercs outside had no chance to react—suddenly, the sky was filled with fire, their squads torn apart as the Normandy’s guns lit them up.
Dropships tried to scatter and retreat—but were too slow. One exploded mid-air, metal shrapnel raining down in a molten shower. The Normandy’s hull gleamed as it swept low, hovering just above the battlefield.
Then, with a loud, metallic clang—The cargo bay dropped open.
And the Mako fell from the sky.
The heavily armoured vehicle landed with a thundering crash, crushing debris beneath its massive wheels. The turret whirled immediately, locking onto the largest group of mercenaries outside the building.
A deep BOOM echoed as the first cannon shot was fired. The explosion ripped through the street, bodies flying in all directions, dust and fire consuming what was left.
The mercenaries stumbled, some turning toward the new threat—some running.
It didn’t matter. The Mako kept firing as the Normandy flew low to land in the new clearing.
With each shot, more enemy ships and ground troops were torn apart, the balance shifting.
Then, the cargo bay ramp extended fully. A squad of Alliance Marines stormed out, rifles raised.
And at the front—Captain Anderson.
“Marines! Take the line!” Anderson’s commanding, unwavering voice boomed across the battlefield. The soldiers spread out immediately, laying down, covering fire, and pushing the enemy back.
The mercenaries who had been slaughtering Alliance forces minutes earlier were now scrambling for cover, completely off guard.
Shepard watched it all, watching as more Alliance shuttles descended from the sky and more reinforcements touched down, battle-ready. Watching as the mercenaries, who had been so sure of their victory, now found themselves cornered, outgunned, and desperate.
The tide had turned. And the battle for Elysium was over.
Shepard felt her knees buckle. Her rifle slipped from her hands, clattering onto the blood-streaked floor. The exhaustion hit all at once as if her body had been waiting for permission to collapse.
Her lungs burned, her limbs ached, and her mind spun.
She had fought for so long.
Had killed so many.
Had lost everything.
And now—now, she didn’t have to fight anymore.
She sank to her knees, watching, breathless, shaking.
Above her, the Alliance fleet was arriving. One after another, the sky filled with ships. More and more, until Elysium’s darkened skyline was alight with the glow of engines and mass effect fields.
Shepard exhaled, her vision blurring.
The cavalry had arrived.
And for the first time in hours, she let herself believe it was over.