Inspired by the Mass Effect universe created by BioWare
This is a fan-made, non-commercial work intended as a tribute
Prologue
By the mid-22nd century, humanity had reached the stars. The discovery of Prothean ruins on Mars in 2148 unlocked technologies that changed everything faster-than-light travel, mass relays, element zero
Within a decade, Earth had joined a greater galactic community a tapestry of ancient civilizations, new alliances, and fragile peace
The Systems Alliance became humanity's official representative among the stars, holding a seat at the Citadel Council and holding its breath. To the galaxy, humanity was still young. Still reckless Still unproven
But while ambassadors shook hands in orbit, things on Earth looked very different
The wealth of new technology didn't reach everyone Old cities crumbled beneath the glow of new skylines Poverty remained just surrounded by better weapons Gangs thrived where order collapsed, and old turf wars gained new tools.
In the slums of Vancouver's Lower East, two names carved their way into the streets:
The 10th Street Reds a ruthless syndicate with deep black market ties, known for slave trades and off-world smuggling
And the Scarlets a smaller, desperate gang surviving through stolen tech, patched-up biotics, and backroom deals. The Scarlets weren’t trying to rule. They were just trying to eat. To survive To scrape by in a city that had already forgotten them
This is where Jane Shepard’s story begins.
In a city and a galaxy that had already given up on her before she even knew who she was
But sometimes, the ones the galaxy forgets… are the ones who end up saving it.
She was born without ceremony No cries of joy No warm arms waiting Just a cold room in a clinic near Vancouver’s Lower East Edge and a mother too strung out on red sand to remember giving birth.
Her name, Jane, was given by a nurse Her surname, Shepard, was scribbled on a worn datapad for the system to sort later.
That was the start A name No parents No home No promises Just a ticket punched for St Anthony’s Orphanage a structure that hadn’t seen a maintenance drone in a decade Cracked plasti-steel floors. Walls with holo-projectors stuck on the same outdated Alliance anthem or children’s program from decades ago
The place reeked of disinfectant, burned-out capacitors, and the faint ozone smell of dying circuitry.
A holo ad flickered: Alliance: your future, our fight. Glitch Glitch Silence
She learned quickly The galaxy didn’t care if you were cold It didn’t hear if you cried So she stopped crying. Stopped asking. Stopped waiting.
Children’s voices echoed in the distance A broken food dispenser beeped uselessly
She was six when she met Mark. He was twelve maybe older. Short for his age, buzz cut, with tired eyes and a sickly cough that never quite went away
Mark wasn’t a biotic. He was a survivor of exposure.
When he was barely eight months old, an Element Zero mining freighter went critical in orbit over Nanaimo, just across the channel from Vancouver The containment systems failed A shockwave of dark dust rained over the region. Hundreds of children were exposed to Element Zero fallout
Some manifested biotic abilities Most didn’t
Mark didn’t get powers He got sick a slow, steady illness that would never really leave him It took his parents in days and left him in the care of state shelters Too fragile for adoption Too strong to die outright
He wore patched clothes and moved like someone who didn’t want to be seen He also smiled like someone who didn’t care if you saw him anyway
“You’ve got that look, kid,” he said once, grinning. “Like you’re always looking for trouble.”
“Maybe I am,” she replied
“Good You’ll need that This place chews up the ones who don’t keep their eyes and ears open ”
Mark didn’t talk much But when he did, he spoke in truths unpolished, raw, unafraid
He never told her what his illness felt like. She never asked.
He slipped extra rations under her bunk when he could Let her sit beside him in silence without needing to fill it. He didn’t try to fix her.
That made her cautious because it made her care
One night, curiosity not fear brought her toward the staff wing She crept past flickering lights and the low, mechanical hum of broken climate controls
Down a hallway lined with cracked panels and smeared signs, she heard voices low, sharp, urgent Caretakers Two of them They stood near a rusted storage door, half-obscured by shadows and a flickering overhead lamp.
She ducked behind a defunct sanitation droid its frame collapsed and wires poking out like ribs and listened
The first caretaker, a thin man with nervous eyes and a wrinkled lab coat two sizes too big, kept glancing over his shoulder as he spoke His voice was an anxious whisper the kind of tone people used when they feared the walls were listening
“The Scarlets are asking for another drop Tonight If we don’t clear the north wing again, they’ll take the deal somewhere else And there goes our stims Our water filters ”
The second caretaker older, broader, with a buzzcut and burn marks on his sleeves from an old med bay fire crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, jaw tight with frustration His voice was low and bitter, like someone who’d long since run out of idealism
“Let them What choice do we have? They stash gear, we keep the lights on Half these kids haven’t had clean protein in weeks ”
The nervous one shifted, pacing. His boots squeaked on the floor.
“If the Reds catch wind of this ”
“If the Reds catch wind,” the older one snapped, “we’re corpses. But if we cut the Scarlets off now, we’re already dead You wanna tell the kids there’s no meds next cycle? No filters? No heat?”
His voice dropped lower. It trembled not with fear, but with something colder: weariness. Fury without fire
“If we don’t play nice, they’ll vanish. And we’ll be scraping frost off the bedsheets again. Half these kids won’t last a week without antibiotics ”
The younger one ran a hand through his thinning hair and let out a breath
“This place was supposed to be protected It was funded We had status ”
The name that followed came with a sneer, spat like poison.
“Victor Manswell ”
The older man shook his head
“Put up his big donation plaque ten years ago, then pulled funding when he got stars in his eyes. His mission to Alpha Centauri. Left us twisting in the wind.”
They both fell quiet Only the buzz of a faulty light and the quiet rasp of a fan filled the gap
“We’re not even on the Alliance’s books anymore,” the younger one finally said. “No status. No oversight Just a broken husk of a shelter sitting between gang lines ”
“The Alliance doesn’t fund private orphanages,” the older man muttered. “We’re not profitable enough to buy out. Not political enough to be a headline.”
His voice softened Just a little
“If we lose this place where do the kids go?”
The younger one didn’t answer Didn’t have to
“They don’t go anywhere,” the older man finished “They disappear”
Later that night, Mark caught her watching the basement door
“Don’t bother trying to play hero,” he said quietly “They’ve been running stuff through the sublevels for months. And no one stops them. They give us blankets, protein paste. Even fixed the med bay last winter It’s not safety It’s math ”
It wasn’t shelter. It was a deal. And deals came with costs
One night later Wind outside
A sudden, sharp thunk of glass Then a deep, echoing boom She remembered the first explosion The windows blew inward The lights flickered once Then screams
The 10th Street Reds had come Not to negotiate To burn
“Jane, move!” Mark shouted
She ran, through smoke and fire Mark held her hand tight, his skin burning hot from proximity They passed a holoprojector, looping a corrupted lullaby
The hallway was chaos
“Almost there,” he said, straining. “Almost ”
A Molotov shattered A whoosh of flame. A wall of fire.
She turned He was standing in it And for a second just one he wasn’t screaming He just looked at her Eyes wide Not afraid Just confused “Run,” he whispered
She did She didn’t look back Not then Not for a long time
Fire. Sirens. Hushed Alliance responders. One kid survived.
Jane
She didn’t speak to the medics. Didn’t answer when the officers asked questions. She just stared at the cracked ceiling of the temporary shelter while a med-drone buzzed overhead, struggling to restart a cortisol scan
She whispered to no one:
“Did no one else make it? Why do I get to survive? Why?”
It would not be the last time she asked that question
Chapter Two: The Blood on Hastings Street
By ten, Jane Shepard had learned how to vanish Not disappear just become unremarkable She moved through the streets of Vancouver like smoke Not homeless Not adopted. Just drifting.
Some nights she slept in the shelter annex near Old Harbor Docks a rusted gravloader bay repurposed by volunteers. Most nights, she didn’t sleep at all. She learned which surveillance cams were still active, which gang tags meant danger, which neighborhoods still traded food for silence
She was already fluent in survival. What she wasn’t prepared for… was stillness.
The kind that came just before the massacre
A quiet city hum.
Air cars overhead
Crackling neon signs Rain softly beginning.
She was sitting outside a corner shop on Hastings Street, eating from a heat-sealed nutrient pack she’d warmed with a cracked omni-tool The storefront was dark, closed early after a power failure. The street around her buzzed with stray neon. Two tourists argued nearby about missing luggage A street preacher shouted something about false peace
And then Everything went quiet
A skidding van Doors slamming Silence.
Then Gunfire. Bursts. Screams.
The 10th Street Reds didn’t speak when they hit They didn’t issue threats Didn’t demand anything They just opened fire The first victim was a human man, shot twice through the back as he ran toward cover. The second was a woman shielding her son. By the time Jane registered the third, she was already soaked in someone else’s blood
She didn’t scream
She didn’t run.
She didn’t move
One of the Reds walked right past her, boots splashing in a growing pool of blood. He glanced down. Their eyes met for just a second.
Then he kept walking
Sirens far away Rain hitting metal. Distant cries.
When the gunfire stopped, eighteen people were dead A half dozen more were bleeding out. And Jane still sitting there, covered in red and gray matter. The nutrient pack still in her lap Untouched Like it had never started
The Alliance police arrived late Too late
They found her exactly where the shooter left her An officer, unsettled, crouched down
“Ma’am Kid Hey are you hurt?”
Jane’s voice was flat. “No.”
“You’re you’re covered in blood Are you do you know what happened?”
She didn’t answer. Not because she couldn’t. But because she didn’t need to. They already knew She was the only child sitting among corpses, and yet Not a scratch on her
They brought her to a med station for evaluation The scans showed no injuries The psych profile pinged trauma markers off the charts She didn’t speak for three days When she did, it was to a night shift nurse Alone with the nurse in a sterile room, lit only by a pulsing blue interface.
“Why do I always live?” she asked quietly, almost curious
The nurse said nothing. What could she say?
The question wasn’t rhetorical It wasn’t spiritual
It was just a girl trying to find the pattern in a galaxy that kept burning everything around her
But not her.
Some nights, Jane would lie on her cot and press a pillow to her face. Not to smother herself Just to remember what pressure felt like What anything felt like Because after Hastings, she didn’t feel much of anything That night did something to her Not like the fire Not like the hunger. It changed the shape of her silence. She stopped trying to understand the galaxy She just started counting the days she kept waking up She didn’t know it then But the next time someone died near her
She’d be holding the weapon.
Chapter
Three - A soldier with nothing to lose A galaxy that never gave her anything And the man who finally does
By seventeen, Jane Shepard had stopped asking why she survived She just accepted it The answer never came She stopped praying Stopped crying She became a part of the city's background noise a ghost walking through the shadows of Vancouver’s Lower East.
Not feared Not known Just endured
She ran solo courier jobs for low-tier gangs. Nothing too loud. Nothing with a name. She never stayed anywhere longer than a few days Wore a recycled omni-jacket with an expired thermal seal Her hair was cropped short by then Her knuckles scarred She spoke only when necessary Smiled even less She still dreamed of Mark Of the others The fire The blood on Hastings. But by now, the dreams weren’t screams.
Just silence
It was a night like that Rain against a corrugated roof A distant burst of thunder Lying in an abandoned storefront when Jane bled again. A job had gone sideways. She’d stepped in to stop a girl from being dragged into an alley The man pulled a knife She caught it in the side
She staggered through three blocks before collapsing behind a trash compactor, her hand pressed to the wound.
Blood ran through her fingers warm, fast and she thought:
Maybe this is it.
But fate as always said no
Not today.
Just as Jane was about to give in to the fatigue and close her eyes Boots Splashing in water Slow Deliberate Someone crouched beside her
Not a cop. Not a ganger. Not a medic.
A man in an Alliance uniform Older Black Eyes sharp Jaw set like someone who’d seen enough to stop bluffing
David Anderson
He didn’t flinch Didn’t hesitate
“You always lie in the rain,” he asked calmly, checking her vitals, “or is this just a special occasion?”
Jane didn’t miss a beat. “You Alliance types always sneak up on dying girls?”
He smirked “Only the interesting ones ”
He pulled out a sealed medigel injector and pressed it to her wound.
She flinched, but didn’t cry out
“That’s a deep cut. Another inch, you’d have nicked the kidney.”
She shrugged “Maybe that would’ve fixed it ”
The rain softened. Medigel fizzed
She didn’t ask who he was. Didn’t care.
But something in the way he looked at her not like trash, not like a charity case made her pause
Anderson’s voice lowered
“You’ve been bleeding your whole life, haven’t you?”
Jane’s answer was quiet Simple “Still not dead ”
“No,” he said “But not really living either”
He pulled a small holo-chip from his jacket and pressed it into her hand
“Recruitment Center. Arcturus Branch. This file gets you past the line.”
“I’m not Alliance material,” she said flatly
“You’re not anyone’s material,” Anderson replied. “That’s why you’ll survive it.”
She looked at the chip, then at him
“I don’t take orders.”
He smiled faintly “Good The best soldiers don’t at first ”
He stood. Didn’t say goodbye. Just turned and disappeared into the shadows.
Like he’d been sent by the part of the galaxy that hadn’t given up on her yet
Two days later The quiet buzz of a med station Shepard’s breath steady now She walked into an enlistment office wearing a patched coat. No possessions. No history that mattered.
The recruiter raised an eyebrow “You sure about this, miss?”
“Do I look unsure?”
She didn’t join the military to be a hero Or for honor Or redemption
She did it for one reason To see if this time
The fire would finally take her
Chapter Four: The Fire in Her Wake
Basic training didn’t faze Jane Shepard She didn’t scream during conditioning Didn’t flinch during combat drills Didn’t fall behind She kept her mouth shut Eyes forward Always first up, last down. Instructors called her intense. Squadmates called her cold. One medic said she trained like someone who didn’t expect to come back
He wasn’t wrong. Pain was familiar to her. Structure too. The Alliance gave her something she’d never had before:
A bed
A weapon. A purpose
She never asked for more She never needed to The recruits around her tried to form bonds. Some sought comfort and friendship in shared struggle. Shepard kept her distance.
Because she knew how this worked people who got close didn’t last
She was deployed young, barely out of training Sent to backwater colonies, escort duty, outposts most officers forgot existed.
She didn’t complain She didn’t question orders She just got the job done.
And every time a mission went sideways every time bullets tore through the air or things started exploding Shepard stepped into the fire
Sometimes, it seemed like she was daring it to take her She would charge into situations that should’ve killed her, should’ve killed anyone and walk out bloodied, scorched, limping…
But alive
The medics started calling her unkillable
Some whispered it like a compliment. Others, like a warning.
She’d earned scars Deep ones
One just below her ribs Another across her shoulder A fractured femur that hadn’t healed quite right
Every injury left a mark
None of them slowed her down.
Then came the first real test.
A pirate stronghold on the fringe of Batarian space
She was supposed to provide recon support observe, report, exfiltrate.
But when her unit was pinned down, Shepard disobeyed protocol
She crossed two clicks of open terrain under sniper fire. Neutralized three hostiles with a sidearm and a blade Pulled the squad out
One wounded man slung over her shoulder.
No backup.
No extraction window
No hesitation
Just grit and blood and movement
That was the moment the Alliance stopped seeing Jane Shepard as a recruit And started seeing her as a weapon.
She was promoted, quietly. Shifted to advanced combat training. Sent to Arcturus. Then back out into the dark
Not many soldiers came out of those programs. Fewer still came out sane.
She did both
Her CO at the time wrote: “Shepard doesn’t panic Doesn’t falter She calculates risk like she’s gambling with someone else’s life but it’s always hers ”
They called it tactical brilliance She called it what she always did:
Moving forward.
Because stopping meant thinking And thinking meant remembering.
It was during these years her name began circulating through unofficial channels Whispered between ops teams. Quiet nods in dark outposts.
The kind of soldier you called when the odds were hopeless The kind who’d get it done no matter the cost.
And then came the storm A name she’d never forget A colony on the edge of nowhere.
A place called Elysium.
Chapter Five: The Blitz
They called it the Skillion Blitz a colonial slaughter wrapped in a press release
The human colony of Elysium, just a speck on the galactic map, was hit fast, hard, and without warning Thousands of Batarian-funded pirates, slavers, and mercs poured in from orbit
No declaration No demands Just blood
Jane Shepard was there on a routine rotation part of a ground-side security detail Two dozen Alliance troops Four thousand civilians When the first wave hit, half the unit was gone in the first twenty minutes
Alarms blared Gunfire cracked Screams echoed through the streets. Explosions tore through rooftops.
The chain of command fractured Officers were dead Squads scattered Civilians trapped And in the chaos, Shepard stepped forward
Not because she was ordered to But because no one else was left.
Her voice cut through the static over comms. Calm. Commanding.
“All surviving units, fall back to Sector Nine Stack debris at both ends We funnel them in make them bleed. Civilians take priority. Move fast. If they slow you down carry them.”
She wasn’t a commander Wasn’t even the ranking soldier But they followed her anyway. Because when everything was burning, Jane Shepard was still thinking. Still fighting And not just for herself
Over the next nine hours, she led a mobile defense through alleyways and shattered rooftops She rerouted an orbital comm relay with a scavenged tech pad Turned cargo haulers into barricades Turned fear into a weapon They started calling her The Ghost in Sector Nine. Because every time the enemy thought they’d cleared the resistance, Shepard hit them from the side When they pushed forward, she was already behind them When they flanked her, they found only corpses and trip mines
A low tremor rolled beneath the colony streets, the kind that no weather system could explain.Buildings shook. Civilians stumbled.Pirate shuttles still descended through the cloudline like claws. Pulsefire lit the streets in staccato flashes blue and red streaks that carved across windows and walls Screams tangled with the frantic blur of open comms Shouting. Explosions. Feedback. Then
“Command, this is Delta Team! We’re pinned down! I repeat pinned down! We need backup!”
The voice belonged to Corporal Janic Carlson a comms officer just out of training Steady hands, fast mouth The kind of soldier who knew the books better than the battlefield And now he was screaming into static.
Shepard’s voice came back Cold Focused
“I read you, Delta Team. That’s a negative. You are the backup. Hold your ground. I’m coming through the north alley in sixty seconds Buy me that time ”
With six bullets, One frag grenade, And a pipe she yanked from a dead generator she made it to them along with a small group of civilians. Her uniform was soaked in blood.
None of it hers
By the sixth hour, bodies littered the streets, civilians, pirates Elysium’s skies burned with orbital wreckage The pirates kept coming more confident, more brutal But every push they made cost them.
Every alley they took was mined Every rooftop had sniper fire Every fallback point was a trap.
Shepard was bleeding them dry Not with superior numbers she didn’t have them Not with better weapons most of hers were scavenged She beat them with calculation Timing.
Refusal
Then suddenly it stopped No grand surrender No final stand Just silence
The slavers dropped their bodies, their gear, and left. Not because they were beaten. But because they realized something:
Every step forward would cost more than they could afford. There was no victory left here. Only a red-haired soldier who refused to quit Who fought like she wanted to die But refused to fall
A comm intercept translated from the Batarian field commander:
“The humans… they’re not worth this. Pull back. This one this Shepard she’ll drag us into hell before we win ”
She didn’t chase them. Didn’t taunt. Didn’t move. Armor scorched. Hands shaking with adrenaline She stood on the rubble boots planted atop the broken remains of what had once been a security checkpoint Around her, the survivors slowly emerged from behind debris and shattered walls Twelve civilians in total: four construction workers coated in dust and blood, two med-techs with cracked visors, a retired Alliance mechanic dragging a busted omni-tool, three parents shielding wide-eyed children, and a young woman no older than Shepard had been the first time her world caught fire
They gathered below her in silence, too afraid to speak, too shocked to believe it was finally quiet They looked to each other, then up to her unsure, half-expecting the sky to split open again None of them asked the question They didn’t need to It was written on every face:
Is it over?
Beside her stood the only other uniform left: Corporal Janic Carlson Bleeding from a shoulder wound, helmet gone, armor scorched, he clutched his M8 rifle like a lifeline and glanced sideways at Shepard Even he didn’t say it And Shepard? She said nothing
She just stood there, green eyes fixed on the horizon still pulsing with the echoes of war relieved that the civilians had survived, that the slavers had been pushed back.
But under the relief, buried deep behind her calm expression, was something else
Not disappointment. Not sorrow. Just the quiet understanding that once again even in the face of overwhelming odds she had survived
She went into every fight to win. Because bullies didn’t deserve to stand. Because slavers didn’t deserve another breath And part of her had hoped just for a moment that this might be the one The battle so fierce, so final, that even her full strength wouldn’t be enough A warrior’s death But not today Today, she lived And so did many others
And as the smoke began to clear, she looked over the field and saw what remained Most of the slavers had been Batarian Four eyes Hardened armor Cruel efficiency
She had watched them fire into crowds of unarmed colonists. Watched them execute children Treat humans like livestock Property It did something to her She was smart enough to know better That not every Batarian was a murderer That no one should judge a species by the worst among them. But she had seen too many of them doing evil things. Too often Too gleefully And no matter how she tried to bury it, something had taken root during the Blitz It wasn’t tactical It wasn’t strategic It was personal She hated them
And the next time she crossed paths with one of them she wouldn’t hesitate, Not again. But not today, Today, she lived Not victorious Just alive
Chapter Six: The Butcher
The operation was codenamed Night Glass
It was supposed to be a clean op. Standard assault. One-week timetable. In and out.
Objective: Clear a fortified Batarian slaver base on the moon Torfan
Hostiles: Heavily armed.
Unknown biotic presence
Allied forces: three fireteams
Twenty-seven marines.
Commanding officer: Major Kyle Decorated Well-liked A career soldier with experience
Jane Shepard was inserted with her unit by drop shuttle to the lower trench line. The plan was simple: breach the eastern cliff axis, enter the lower compound, neutralize defenses, extract hostages On paper, it looked clean
It wasn’t.
Torfan wasn’t a moon. It was a maze a web of tunnels, bunkers, and fortified choke points carved by slave labor and desperation The Batarians had laid traps Rigged explosives
Strung human shields across entryways
They knew the Alliance would hesitate The tunnels were airless Jagged Black Every inch a kill zone The enemy knew they were coming
Every corridor was mined.
Every motion-triggered charge keyed to Alliance IFF tags Every turn of rock and steel was designed to break them
And it worked.
They advanced an inch at a time Bleeding for every meter Each step forward someone paid for it in full Among the squad, there was one soldier Jane Shepard almost would’ve called a friend Almost
Corporal Mark Valon A biotic Calm Methodical Not flashy Not loud Just reliable He reminded her of someone long gone Mark had been with her on recon runs, insertions, and exfil jobs He cracked jokes that weren’t funny Made the others laugh anyway Carried more weight than he ever let on.
“If this whole suicide tunnel-rat gig doesn’t pan out,” he said once with a crooked grin, “maybe you can teach zero-G yoga.”
Shepard smiled in her mask, “The odds of you seeing me in a leotard,” she said, without missing a beat, “are about the same as you getting more kills than me.”
“Hey,” he said, raising both eyebrows, “a man can dream ”
She wanted to believe he’d make it. He had before more than once. But this one felt different And she already knew it
The tunnels smelled like fear Not fresh fear old fear Musty air thick with mildew, sweat, and something sharper iron and rot that clung to the walls like smoke The kind of smell that didn’t just invade your nose it settled in your mouth, at the back of your throat, and refused to leave.
It reminded her of something Anderson had once described during a mission on Sidon, where he and his team barely escaped. He’d said the deeper you went, the more the air stopped feeling like oxygen and started tasting like blood She understood that now The ground was slick in places leaking coolant, dried fluids, patches of something dark that didn’t look like water Every corridor hummed with tension
Not a sound Just a pressure Like the tunnels themselves were waiting for something to happen
And then it did.
Six minutes later, everything went to hell A false wall collapsed It was a trap Six marines crushed. Then came the surge. Batarians erupted from vent shafts, flanking through kill zones with brutal coordination. They had angles. Lines of fire. Suppression fields.
Six more dead Two dismembered One burned alive
Major Kyle snapped
“Fall back! Echo Point no, wait Sector Three go!”
“Sir, we’re cut off! They’re ”
“We’re not ready! They didn’t say they’d be this organized! What do I ”
Shepard saw the tremble in his hands Saw the panic take root He was gone A liability
She opened comms Calm
“Major Kyle is out Command falls to me All squads push west No stops No debate ”
She didn’t look at Mark. She didn’t need to. She felt his loyalty like gravity.
And she hated it
They fought like wraiths through shafts that bled dust with every step She gave the orders They followed. Until they couldn’t.
“Shep!” Mark’s voice rang out Urgent
A Batarian lunged from the shadows. Too fast. Too close.
A shotgun barked point-blank into Mark’s chest His biotic field flickered Failed
Shepard turned just in time to see the Batarian raising the barrel again.
Too slow
She activated her omni-blade mid-turn and drove it through the alien’s skull. The slaver dropped like meat in armor She dropped beside Mark Tried everything Medigel Pressure Commands to stay awake
“It’s okay,” he whispered, barely breathing. “I’d still follow you ”
And then he was gone. She stared at him. Two seconds. Maybe three.
Then stood
Something broke This was the moment Shepard stopped being a soldier Stopped being a leader She became the weapon
Ruthless Unstoppable Unforgiving.
She didn’t cover her squad. She didn’t flank. She moved forward alone like a reaper in black and red The Batarians expected fear
She gave them rage She gave them hell
She didn’t call out Didn’t shout commands Didn’t wait She stopped giving orders Stopped thinking tactically She walked into the tunnels with a loaded rifle, two grenades, and blood in her mouth No hesitation No mercy
Just movement
She didn’t take cover Didn’t run And it broke them
The Batarians were trained for fear Not fury They expected tactics Not a storm with green eyes.
They opened fire She walked through it Her armor scorched Her skin bleeding beneath the plates Her eyes unblinking
She cleared a control room with a single grenade Slit the throat of the one who tried to crawl away. Kicked open doors. Dropped targets before they spoke. She killed fast. She killed quiet She killed like it was all she had left
Some Batarians dropped their weapons Dropped to their knees She didn’t blink
Two rounds Chest. Head. One begged. She didn’t stop walking. They said one slaver tried to barricade himself in a supply room. She tore the door open with a power wrench Burned him alive with a plasma coil
By the time she reached the final chamber, they didn’t even fight They ran Didn’t matter They didn’t get far
No one saw what happened in those tunnels Not really At some point, the two surviving Marines fell behind. Stopped following her.
Too afraid Too ashamed They waited The gunfire eventually stopped The screaming went quiet.
Then Boots on metal Slow Measured Steady She stepped out of the smoke
Blood-soaked. Eyes forward. Didn’t acknowledge them. Didn’t need to. She just kept walking
The two Marines looked at each other Then fell in behind her As they made their way out, one of them spotted Major Kyle Still trembling Mumbling nonsense Barely able to stand
No words. He just slung Kyle’s arm over his shoulder and carried him out.
They emerged into the thin, artificial twilight of the landing zone Helmet visors cracked Armor blackened. Four out of twenty-seven. Shepard activated her comm.
“Lieutenant Shepard Objective complete Site secured ”
Silence on the other end. Then static.
“Say again Who is this? Repeat your last ”
“Lieutenant Shepard. We’re done here.”
Another pause Then “Copy that, Lieutenant Shuttle inbound ETA four minutes ”
The drop shuttle arrived They climbed aboard No one spoke She sat in the rear Back straight. Expression blank. Looking ahead. Not back. Never back.
The shuttle touched down on the nearest medical frigate. No words. Just the weight of boots on steel
They brought her to a debriefing room Dimly lit Sterile Cold A single tactical map flickered in the background
Alliance personnel waited serious faces, datapads in hand. One stepped forward, his name already displayed on his chestplate: Commander Elijah Brenn
He had a face like someone who’d seen his share of ruined soldiers and learned not to flinch.
“Lieutenant,” he said “I’m Commander Brenn You probably don’t remember me we crossed paths on Arcturus Station. Back when you were still knocking the rust off in simulations ”
She said nothing
He led her to a sterile, windowless debriefing room Fluorescent lighting buzzed faintly overhead The air recycler gave off a faint whine A single table Two chairs
She sat. He did the same.
“Hell of a mission,” he said, flipping open his datapad “You want a drink? I think someone stashed a bottle of contraband whiskey behind med-bay storage. Strictly off the record.”
She didn’t acknowledge it Didn’t blink Just waited
The smile faded from his face He cleared his throat
“Lieutenant reports state three quarters of your unit: KIA. Major Kyle recovered alive. Your report doesn’t mention his status ”
Shepard measured her words.
“He was injured Shock Possibly trauma ”
“Injured how? Physically? Psychologically?”
“He froze Mid-operation Lost comms discipline Gave conflicting orders I made the call to assume command ”
“You’re saying the commanding officer panicked ”
Shepard didn’t flinch.
“I’m saying the situation required someone to act I did ”
“Did you consult anyone?”
“No time People were dying I made a battlefield decision ”
“Do you believe Major Kyle was unfit for leadership?”
“No I believe the mission broke him It could’ve broken anyone ”
The room went quiet
“You didn’t mention this in your initial statement ”
“Because I wasn’t interested in writing anyone’s obituary We completed the objective That’s what matters ”
“You think protecting his reputation serves the Alliance?”
Shepard’s voice turned cold
“I think Kyle earned his rank And I think he’s going to live with what happened on Torfan for the rest of his life That’s punishment enough ”
The debriefer leaned on his chair. Broke protocol, looked her in the eye and referred to her by name and not rank,
“Christ Shepard, you refused to accept surrender from Batarian forces Executed multiple enemy combatants. Refused extraction requests from other units in favor of continuing your assault ”
He paused.
“You didn’t take prisoners Why?”
She looked at him levelly. Her voice didn’t rise.
“Because we weren’t fighting soldiers We were dismantling a death camp The ones responsible for Elysium. The Batarians didn’t come to negotiate. They came to murder. We were dying by the minute Slowing down would have cost more lives So I didn’t slow down ”
The officer frowned, fingers still hovering over the datapad
“At what cost, Lieutenant?”
She answered without hesitation
“With respect the cost of victory The cost of war, sir”
A long pause.
The file closed
“Dismissed, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir”
The report reached Anderson’s desk hours later
He read every word. Then closed the datapad with quiet finality. He leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting to the skyline of Rio de Janeiro The Interplanetary Combatives Academy below New recruits running drills For a moment, he wondered if pulling her out of that alley all those years ago had been the right call. The next thought came faster.
Stronger, Clearer
Yes.
Chapter Seven: The Call
The weeks after Torfan passed in a haze Commendations were filed Transfers processed Medals offered Some accepted Others ignored Jane Shepard didn’t attend the ceremony She was offered a desk quiet reassignment. Something peaceful. Far from the front.
She declined
Instead, she went to a firing range, put 3,000 rounds through a beat-up assault rifle, and walked out without saying a word She told herself it was just another mission Another name on the list Another op where people died, and she didn’t But this one felt different
Some of them had followed her willingly And not all of them came back
She began running alone. No comms. No escort. Just her boots and the weight in her chest.
Every night, she checked her armor Still stained from Torfan She didn’t care Didn’t want it washed away. Then one morning, a message came through. No sender listed.
Just coordinates A time Two words: Meet alone
She boarded the shuttle without question Didn’t ask where Didn’t care The stars outside blurred like ghosts She sat still, watching the void like it might blink first The shuttle touched down at Arcturus Station, the heart of the Systems Alliance Navy where decisions weren’t made in war rooms, but behind closed doors by people who understood what the future really cost
The airlock hissed. She walked down the corridor. He was already waiting. Back turned. Hands clasped behind him Staring at a slowly rotating hologram
Captain David Anderson.
“Wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said without turning
“Honestly?” Shepard said. “I don’t think I ever left, Captain.”
Anderson smirked faintly
“They wanted to sideline you. Reassign you quietly. Somewhere your name wouldn’t make soldiers nervous ”
“Yeah, well They can get in line,” she replied “They scared of me?”
“No They’re scared of what they don’t understand ”
Finally, he turned to face her. Looked at what Torfan had carved from fire.
“But I think I understand ”
He stepped aside. And there it was.
Floating before her in holographic form: Sleek Sharp Silent
It didn’t look like an Alliance ship It looked like a warning
“She’s a prototype,” Anderson said “Stealth-class frigate Quietest in the fleet Fastest too ”
“You want me to babysit a ship?” Shepard asked.
“I want you to lead,” he said, serious “This isn’t just another ship It’s a new kind of war. And I need someone who’s already been through one.”
He paused
“When she’s on the ground you’re in charge. For now, she’s mine. But they’ll be watching Not me you ”
Shepard met his eyes Steady
“Let them ”
They walked together down a corridor toward the observation deck Toward the silhouette in dry dock Before it was the Normandy, it was just another classified vessel Experimental Black as vacuum. No registry. No name. Just a project number. Now it floated in dock. Sleek. Predatory. Silent. Two figures watched her from above: Anderson and Shepard. Shoulder to shoulder
“There she is,” Anderson said low. “The future.”
“Doesn’t look like much yet,” Shepard said
“She will,” he replied. “Just needs a name.”
She studied the ship
Long lines. Sharp silhouette. The feeling.
She let the words come soft Slow
“We’d better give her one then.”
They stood there for a long time
Then Shepard said it
“She’s the Normandy.”
Anderson glanced at her “Why Normandy?”
She answered quietly Thoughtfully
“Because it wasn’t just a landing It was a sacrifice Thousands going in, knowing they might not come back They weren’t there for glory They were there to break the line no matter the cost ”
She looked back at the ship
“This won’t be any different. If we’re lucky, we survive. If not… at least we go in knowing what we signed up for.”
Anderson nodded once
“Normandy it is ”
And with that, the name stuck
Not just to her hull But to history
Chapter Eight: Primed for Action
Before the drop to Eden Prime Before the mission began There was one final conversation Not recorded Not archived But it changed everything In a secure chamber aboard Arcturus Station, three men met in secret. No staff. No aides. Only clearance, silence, and tension. Ambassador Donald Udina stood stiff near the data display Admiral Stephen Hackett leaned against the wall, arms crossed Captain David Anderson stood dead center calm, but insistent.
Udina’s voice was tight
“Well, what about Shepard? She was born on Earth Raised in the streets of Vancouver No family No ties ”
Anderson was firm.
“She knows how hard life can get She fought through it No excuses No shortcuts ”
Hackett cut in.
“You’ve read the Torfan report She went in with twenty-seven Walked out with three Not because she gave up Because she finished the job.”
Udina’s eyes narrowed
“She’s reckless. She executes. She improvises. She leaves bodies and questions behind That’s not what a Spectre is ”
Anderson didn’t blink
“No That’s exactly what a Spectre needs to be ”
He stepped forward slightly.
“When things go sideways and no one else gets up Shepard does ”
Udina scoffed.
“Is that really the kind of person we want protecting the galaxy?”
Anderson answered.
“That’s the only kind of person who can ”
A long silence followed.
Then Udina straightened, jaw set
“I’ll make the call.”
Chapter Nine: The Quiet Before
It was always fire That’s how the dream started How it always started Smoke curling like fingers through the halls Screams bouncing off cracked stone The taste of ash in her mouth. She moved through it. Small. Helpless. Lungs burning. And then she saw him.
Mark Arms outstretched Eyes wide Flame swallowing him whole
Shepard woke up choking on air Sweat cold on her skin Sheets twisted around her legs
She sat upright on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor Hands clenched Breathing steadying Just a dream
Except it wasn’t. Not really.
Her cabin aboard the Normandy was small. Spartan. Just the way she liked it. A single photo frame lay facedown on the table She never picked it up She didn’t need to She remembered every face that was once in it
She pulled on her civvies Black tactical pants Fitted undershirt Then reached for her N7 hoodie Old. Frayed around the edges. Still smelled faintly of gun oil and bleach. She zipped it up Tight Close to the collar Then she walked to the mirror Green eyes Red hair
A scar over her left eye Another on her cheek One more across her lip faded but jagged
And beneath it all…the expression of someone waiting for fate to finish what it started.
She stared for a long moment Then whispered to herself
“Jane, the butcher…A butcher!. Ungrateful bastards!”
Then softly, to no one rubbing her scars on her face and lip in the mirror
“How many more will it take? How many more scars before I finally don’t get up again?”
She let the silence answer. It always did.
Somewhere above, the ship vibrated gently. The pulse of the mass relay ahead. The hum of readiness She knew what day it was The mission to Eden Prime was scheduled within hours Standard recon, it said Routine She never believed in routine
And then there was him Nihlus Kryik Turian Spectre Regal in posture Refined in movement. Every gesture a precise, disciplined choice. A walking symbol of everything the Council wanted humans to admire And never imitate. Shepard had watched him during the briefing The quiet judgment The unreadable eyes She didn’t trust him But she couldn’t stop thinking about him Not in admiration
In curiosity
What had he seen?
What had he survived?
Would he drag her into another war zone?
Would he offer her a chance to strike back at the Batarians again The ones she still saw in her dreams. The ones she never stopped hating?
Or maybe, just maybe
Would he be the one who gave her the death she was too proud to seek?
A warrior’s death
Clean. Clear
Earned
She didn’t say it aloud. Never would.
But in the quiet
Beneath the hum of the ship
And the weight of the past She hoped
She keyed the door The corridor opened cool brushed steel and red floor lighting guiding her forward. She passed Presley, who offered a stiff nod. She didn’t return it. She moved past the CIC, up the small incline to the bridge And there they were
Kaidan Alenko leaning over the ops console Sharp Reliable Still too clean
Joker turning in his seat, hands dancing over the controls like an extension of his mind
They looked up as she stepped beside them.
Said nothing Didn’t need to
In that moment, as the Normandy coasted toward Eden Prime, Commander Shepard stood Not as a survivor Not as a ghost Not as a weapon
She stood as something else
The beginning of a storm no one saw coming
And so it ends
The story of Jane Shepard before Eden Prime. Before Reapers, Councils, and choices that echoed through the stars
This is where my story ends and where her legend begins.
Author’s Note
Mass Effect: Defiance is the third and final fanfiction project by A. S. R. Hawas, following Project Ninmah and Soul of the Vanguard
This story is a tribute to the world BioWare built, to the characters that shaped us, and to the fans who still carry the torch of their legacy
There will be a limited number of printed copies, made solely as gifts for friends and fellow fans No profit No cost Just heart
Thank you for reading. Thank you for believing. Thank you for dreaming with me.
To the Dreamers
To the ones who write in the dark, Who scribble on scraps and dream past the margins To the ones who build galaxies While waiting for the kettle to boil
To fans, to nerds, To storytellers with hearts like stars Burning bright and quiet In corners of the internet and crowded cafés
Your voice matters Your stories count Keep building Keep believing Keep dreaming.
The worlds we love live on Because we carry them with us.
