Shepard
She opened her eyes, turning to look at the clock again. 0100. Barely ten minutes since the last time she checked. She stared at the ceiling, her thoughts spinning too fast to let her rest.
Something about this mission was off. She didn’t know what yet, but the crew felt it too—the tension, the secrecy. This was no shakedown run.
Sighing, Shepard sat up, the faint light from the corridor illuminating the room enough to grab her workout clothes. Black pants, a white tank top, and her N7 hoodie—simple, functional, familiar. If she couldn’t sleep, she could at least burn off some energy. She needed clarity, and the training area she’d set up in the cargo bay was as good a place as any to find it.
The elevator hummed softly as it descended, the slow, deliberate pace giving her time to stew. Anderson was hiding something. That much was clear. It gnawed at her—not knowing, being kept in the dark. If she was going to be effective as XO, she needed to know what was coming. Being blindsided wasn’t an option.
Beneath that frustration, though, was something more subtle. The Spectre. Nihlus. She’d met turians before, sparred with them—hell, she was raised by one. But a Spectre? That was something else entirely. He wasn’t just skilled; he was calculating, and that combination made her uneasy.
When the doors slid open, the dimly lit cargo bay greeted her with its usual stillness. The hum of the Normandy’s engines vibrated through the floor, a constant reminder of their journey through the void. The training area wasn’t much—a few mats, a couple of punching bags, and enough space to move. It was her idea, something she’d convinced Anderson to approve before launch. She’d framed it as crew morale, but really? It was for her.
She walked to the locker near the wall, pulled out bandages, and began wrapping her hands. The rhythmic motion steadied her thoughts. A sparring partner would have been ideal, but beating up her crew wasn’t exactly professional—at least not the human ones. The punching bag would have to do.
As she began her routine, the tension in her shoulders started to ease. Each punch landed with precision and force, a satisfying rhythm forming as she worked. But her mind kept drifting back to Nihlus. It wasn’t just his reputation—Spectres were legendary for a reason—but the way he watched everything. Patient. Precise. Like he was already three steps ahead. He probably knew more about her than she was comfortable with, but she wasn’t about to let him see that. Confidence was the best defense. If she seemed unshaken, maybe he’d underestimate her.
Joker
Joker sat in the pilot’s seat, running through the night-cycle diagnostics with the kind of attention that came from equal parts boredom and professional pride. The Normandy hummed around him—quiet, steady, most of the crew already asleep. He liked it this way. Just him, his baby, and the void. No one asking questions. No one hovering.
Footsteps echoed from the corridor behind him.
Commander Shepard appeared, dropping into the co-pilot’s seat without a word. Joker’s brain momentarily short-circuited.
He’d seen her plenty since they left dock—always in uniform, always buttoned-up and professional. But this? Tank top, workout pants, the hood of her N7 sweatshirt hanging loose around her neck, and her hair—actually down—falling in soft waves past her shoulders instead of pulled back into her usual bun.
Oh.
She looked… different. Less Commander, more person. No—more like an Alliance recruitment poster. She’d always been attractive, sure, but like this? Striking. Athletic. That auburn hair caught the low cockpit light just enough to make it unfair.
And then she turned to look at him.
Those eyes—vivid green, sharp enough to cut through bulkheads, but still warm. Curious. The kind of eyes that saw you.
Joker forgot how to words.
“Evening, Joker,” she said, amusement threading through her voice.
“I—uh—” He cleared his throat. Get it together, Moreau. “Evening, Commander. Or… morning, technically. You know it’s oh-dark-hundred, right?”
She smirked. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d check in. How’s she handling?”
Right. The ship. His ship. The thing he was supposed to be thinking about.
“Like a dream,” he said, gesturing at the console—maybe a little too enthusiastically. “Stealth systems are smooth, no drift on the thrusters, and the new drive core’s purring like—”
He paused, eyes narrowing slightly as he looked her over again. His mouth moved before his brain caught up.
“Okay, I gotta ask. What did you do with Commander Shepard?”
Oh no.
The moment the words left his mouth, Joker braced for impact. Anderson would’ve given him that look—the one that meant he was two seconds from latrine duty until retirement.
But Shepard?
She laughed.
Actually laughed—a short, surprised sound that lit up her entire face.
“Figured I’d burn off some energy in the cargo bay. Not as comfortable doing that in uniform,” she said, grinning. “Thought I’d stop by first. Make sure you weren’t flying us into a star.”
Joker let out a breath, pressing a hand to his chest in mock relief. “Please. I could fly this thing blindfolded. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
He hesitated, but she was still smiling. That gave him just enough nerve.
“Hey, Commander? Real talk—why do we have a Council Spectre on board?”
She raised a brow, but the smile didn’t fade.
“Real talk? Then I think you can drop the Commander for a minute.”
She leaned back, folding her arms. “Does he make you nervous, Joker?”
“Spectres are trouble, Shepard” he said, shrugging. “The crew’s on edge. A Spectre on an Alliance ship? That screams ‘something’s going down,’ and nobody likes being kept in the dark.” He paused. “Including me, if I’m being honest.”
Something shifted in her expression—understanding, maybe even a flicker of frustration.
“You’re not the only one who feels that way.”
Joker blinked. “Wait, seriously? You don’t know what’s going on either?”
“Anderson’s playing this one close to the chest,” she admitted. “But we’ll find out soon enough. We always do.”
The way she said it—calm, confident, but not dismissive—caught him off guard. She got it. Anderson was a good captain, no question, but he treated Joker like a systems risk with a mouth. Shepard, though?
She talked to him like a person.
“Well,” Joker said, leaning back in his chair, “if we’re flying into some top-secret nightmare scenario, at least you’ve got the best pilot in the fleet at the helm.”
She smirked. “And the most humble, apparently.”
“Hey, it’s not arrogance if it’s true.”
She shook her head, still smiling, and stood. Her hand landed briefly on his shoulder—just a touch. Grounding. Friendly. And then she turned toward the stairs.
Joker watched her disappear down the corridor, his hand drifting absently to where hers had been.
Huh.
Commander Shepard was… not what he expected. Smart, sure. Tough, obviously. But funny? Easy to talk to? That was new.
And yeah, okay, she was beautiful. Really beautiful.
But he was also the guy with brittle bone disease flying the most advanced ship in the fleet. She was his CO. And someone like that? Definitely not single. Probably had some perfect boyfriend stashed somewhere anyway.
He shook his head and turned back to the console.
Not happening, Moreau. Focus on the job.
Still.
It was nice to have a CO he could actually joke with.
Nihlus
From his position at the workbench, Nihlus watched her in silence. He’d noticed her the moment she stepped off the elevator, but she hadn’t seen him. Remaining unnoticed was a skill he’d perfected over the years as a Spectre, and it served him well now.
It wasn’t often that someone truly piqued his curiosity, but Shepard had managed to do just that.
Her movements were sharp and deliberate, better than most humans he’d observed. Each strike to the punching bag carried precision and power, her form a testament to years of training. He’d read her file—Akuze survivor, N7 operative, commendations for valor and leadership. Surviving Akuze alone was a feat few could claim. But files could only say so much. Watching her now, it was clear she wasn’t just surviving—she was thriving.
She hadn’t noticed him yet, her focus entirely on the bag. He debated whether to make his presence known or keep observing. She was clearly lost in thought, her strikes intensifying with each passing moment. Whatever was on her mind drove her forward, pushing her to work harder. He respected that—that need to prepare, to sharpen oneself against whatever challenges lay ahead.
Finally, he decided to step forward.
“Commander,” he said, his voice breaking the quiet.
She turned sharply, her body tensing briefly before she relaxed. “Nihlus,” she said evenly, reaching for her water bottle. “I didn’t realize anyone was down here.”
He inclined his head slightly. “I didn’t mean to intrude. But since you’re here…” He glanced at the mats, his mandibles flaring slightly. “Care to spar? It’s been a while since I’ve had a good match.”
Shepard’s expression didn’t change, but he caught the glint in her eye. “All right, Spectre,” she said with a faint smirk. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The hum of the cargo bay’s lights buzzed faintly in the stillness. Nihlus adjusted his stance on the mat, settling into the familiar rhythm of combat assessment. Shepard mirrored him, her posture relaxed but ready.
He’d sparred with humans before. They often relied on brute force or clumsy techniques, leaving openings he could easily exploit.
Shepard was different.
Her strikes were relentless, precise, calculated. Every blow aimed at weak points—the gaps in his plating, the vulnerable spots no ordinary human should know about. She moved with a fluidity that caught him off guard, her footwork clean and efficient.
Impressive.
He stepped back to regroup, recalculating. He’d underestimated her—a mistake he rarely made and one he wouldn’t repeat.
How did she know so much about turian physiology and combat techniques? Her file mentioned no joint exercises with turian squads, no apparent connections to suggest this level of familiarity. She moved as if she’d been trained by one of his own people.
Nihlus lunged forward, throwing a calculated jab at her midsection. Shepard twisted at the last second, his strike grazing past her side. She countered with a sweeping kick aimed at his legs. He barely managed to block, the force reverberating up his arm.
“You’re good,” he said, his subharmonics carrying genuine admiration.
Shepard’s lips curved into a faint smile, but her eyes remained sharp, focused. “I aim to impress.”
Her movements grew faster, more aggressive. She pressed him, testing his limits, forcing him to adapt. It reminded him of his military training days—facing opponents who could actually challenge him. The thrill of it sharpened his focus.
But she was hiding something. There was no other explanation for her skill.
He saw his opening and took it, using his superior reach to drive her back toward the edge of the mat. She evaded skillfully, but he was closing the distance. One more push—
He swept her legs out from under her.
She hit the mat hard, and he was on her in an instant, pinning her arms above her head, his weight keeping her immobilized.
“Submit,” he said, his voice low and commanding.
Shepard didn’t flinch. Her eyes gleamed with something that sent a spark of warning through him. “Not yet.”
Before he could react, she shifted her hips and twisted, using his forward momentum against him. Her freed hand struck at the vulnerable joint in his shoulder, forcing him to loosen his grip. In the same motion, she hooked her leg around his and pulled.
The world inverted.
Now it was Nihlus pinned beneath her, one of her knees pressed just below his collar plating, the other positioned near his neck. She had his wrist trapped, applying just enough pressure to keep him immobilized without causing harm.
“Your move, Spectre,” she said, her voice light but edged with triumph. “Or should I say… submit?”
He stared up at her, mandibles flaring slightly in reluctant respect. He had no way out of this.
“I submit,” he said evenly.
She released him immediately, stepping back and extending a hand. He took it, pulling himself to his feet. As he dusted himself off, she grabbed a towel and slung it over her shoulder, satisfaction playing across her features.
“Very impressive, Commander,” he said. “I’ll admit, I didn’t expect that.”
Shepard smirked, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “I’ll be sure to pass on the compliments to my father.”
Nihlus tilted his head. “Your father?”
She didn’t elaborate. Instead, she threw him a casual wave as she headed for the elevator. “Goodnight, Spectre. Let’s do this again sometime.”
As the elevator doors closed, Nihlus remained where he stood, staring at the empty space.
Shepard was a puzzle, and he wasn’t the type to leave puzzles unsolved.
Nihlus
Nihlus stood outside Captain Anderson’s quarters, his mind still spinning from the events of the previous night. Shepard—Commander Shepard—was unlike any human he had ever encountered. Her skill, her precision, her knowledge of turian combat techniques… It didn’t add up. No Alliance training could explain it, and her service record had no mention of specialized turian combat instruction. There was something missing.
He tapped the door panel, and Anderson’s voice called, “Come in.”
The door slid open, and Nihlus stepped inside, inclining his head in a polite gesture. Anderson looked up from a datapad, his expression neutral but alert.
“Spectre,” Anderson greeted. “What can I do for you?”
Nihlus wasted no time. “I have a question about Commander Shepard.”
Anderson’s eyebrow raised slightly, but he gestured for Nihlus to continue.
“Last night, we sparred in the cargo bay,” Nihlus said, his tone measured. “Her technique was exceptional. More than that—she fights like she was trained by a turian. She knows vulnerabilities, weak points in plating, combat styles that no Alliance program teaches.” He paused, mandibles twitching. “She implied her father taught her. But there’s no mention of him in her service record.”
Anderson leaned back in his chair, and Nihlus caught the faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Not mockery—something closer to understanding.
“You sparred with her?” Anderson asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“I did.”
“And?”
Nihlus hesitated for only a moment. “She won.”
Anderson’s smile widened into a grin. “I’m sure Selvek will be pleased to hear his daughter just beat a Spectre in hand-to-hand.”
Nihlus went still. “Selvek?”
It wasn’t a unique name, but it wasn’t common either. And only one turian came to mind immediately.
“Selvek Itanus,” Anderson confirmed. “He married Hannah Shepard about twenty years ago and adopted Jane shortly after.”
For a moment, Nihlus wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “Selvek Itanus,” he repeated slowly. “The Selvek Itanus?”
“Only one I know,” Anderson said.
Nihlus felt his mandibles flare involuntarily. Selvek Itanus wasn’t just a name—he was a legend. Blackwatch operative. Tactical genius. One of the most decorated officers in recent turian military history. The kind of soldier whose name was spoken with reverence even among Spectres.
“That’s… impossible,” Nihlus said, though even as the words left him, he knew they weren’t true. It explained everything—Shepard’s combat style, her knowledge, her confidence. She hadn’t just been trained by a turian. She’d been trained by one of the best.
Anderson chuckled. “Not impossible. Just unexpected. He took partial retirement from active duty at the time so he could raise her.”
“But he was on track for—” Nihlus stopped himself, trying to process. “He could have been Primarch. His career was…” He trailed off, mandibles twitching. “Why would he—?”
“Give it all up for a human wife and a kid who wasn’t even his?” Anderson finished, his tone quieter now. He shook his head. “I’m the wrong person to ask.”
Nihlus stared at Anderson, his mind racing. He’d read about Selvek Itanus in tactical briefings, studied some of his operations during his own training. The man was brilliant, disciplined, utterly committed to the Hierarchy. To walk away from all of that…
“Does she know?” Nihlus asked. “What he gave up?”
Anderson’s expression grew more serious. “She does. Doesn’t say it, but I’m sure it’s the reason she’s pushed to become who she is.”
Nihlus nodded slowly, his thoughts already shifting to what this meant. Shepard wasn’t just skilled—she was the product of one of the finest military minds in turian history. And Selvek had chosen to raise her, to train her, to give her everything he’d built his life on.
Why?
“Thank you, Captain,” Nihlus said finally, turning toward the door.
“Nihlus,” Anderson said, nodding in acknowledgment.
As Nihlus walked back toward his quarters, one thought kept circling through his mind.
Selvek Itanus had chosen love over duty. Over honor. Over everything the Hierarchy valued.
He walked away from Primarch. For a human family.
Nihlus couldn’t understand it. He couldn’t fathom making that choice—abandoning everything he’d worked for, everything he believed in. And yet Selvek had done exactly that.
And now, Nihlus was beginning to understand why Shepard fought the way she did—not just with skill, but with purpose. She’d been raised by someone who had made an impossible choice and never looked back.
But understanding her didn’t mean understanding him.
Nihlus
The cargo bay was quiet, the hum of the Normandy’s engines a steady backdrop as Nihlus stood near the workbench, his omni-tool casting a faint glow across his face. To anyone passing by, he appeared focused on routine maintenance checks. In reality, he was deep in classified turian military records.
Selvek’s service history was everything he thought he knew. Blackwatch operative. Dozens of high-risk operations. Commendations from the Primarch himself. Strategic innovations still taught in turian military academies. The man had been on a clear trajectory to the top of the Hierarchy. Primarch wasn’t just possible—it was expected.
Nihlus scrolled further, his mandibles twitching as he found the relevant files. Joint operations with Alliance forces, post-First Contact War. Hannah Shepard’s name appeared repeatedly, paired with Selvek’s on mission after mission. High-priority targets. Human extremists threatening the fragile peace. The reports praised their partnership—efficient, effective, unprecedented cooperation between species.
Then came the retirement request.
“…citing a desire to spend more time with family.”
Nihlus stared at the words. Family. Selvek had given it all up. Not for illness, not for injury, not even for political maneuvering. For family. A human wife. An adopted daughter who wasn’t even his by blood.
Why?
The question gnawed at him. Turians didn’t abandon duty for personal reasons. They didn’t walk away from Primarch for—
Footsteps.
Nihlus glanced up as Shepard entered the cargo bay, a young marine, Corporal Chase if he remembered correctly, trailing behind her. He quickly minimized the files, switching to a mundane diagnostic screen, though his attention remained divided.
Shepard walked to the nearby locker, pulling out her pistol, then walked over to the workbench. Her attention seemed focused on the weapon as she answered Chase’s questions about their next mission with her usual measured responses—enough to reassure without revealing anything concrete.
Chase seemed unsatisfied. His eyes flicked toward Nihlus, lingering a moment too long before his voice dropped. He clearly thought lowering his tone would keep the conversation private.
It didn’t.
“Commander, don’t you think it’s a little… odd? Having him here?”
Shepard’s gaze subtly followed Chase’s, however she seemed less that amused.
Chase’s voice carried just enough edge to make his discomfort clear. “I mean, he’s a turian. This is an Alliance ship, an Alliance mission. What are we doing letting aliens call the shots?”
Nihlus’s mandibles twitched slightly, but he remained outwardly still, his focus apparently on the omni-tool. His sharp hearing caught every word.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Shepard glance in his direction. Not a full look—just a flicker. A faint smirk tugged at the edge of her lips.
She knows I can hear.
Shepard straightened, her stance shifting subtly but unmistakably. Her voice remained calm, but an edge crept in. “His name is Nihlus Kryik. He’s a Spectre, and he’s a damn good soldier. You’d do well to show him the respect due a superior officer.”
Chase blinked, clearly taken aback by her sudden shift in tone. “I just don’t see why we need them,” he said, defensive now.
“And…by them, we mean…aliens?” she asked with an obvious frustration.
“This is our mission. Humanity’s mission. Why should we let them interfere?” Chase continued.
Shepard’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Because humanity isn’t alone anymore, Chase. We’re part of a galactic civilization. The Citadel Council runs the show, and the Alliance agreed to play ball. That means we work with aliens. Whether you like it or not, that’s the reality.” She paused, letting the words sink in. “You don’t have to like him, but you do have to respect him.”
Nihlus found himself caught off guard. Shepard’s defense wasn’t just professional—it was personal. She didn’t have to correct Chase so directly, especially knowing he could hear every word. But she had, without hesitation.
Why?
Chase shifted awkwardly under Shepard’s sharp gaze. “Yes, ma’am,” he said finally, subdued. He glanced once more at Nihlus before nodding and walking off, leaving Shepard and the Spectre alone in the cargo bay.
Nihlus remained silent, watching as Shepard exhaled quietly and resumed leaning against the workbench. She didn’t acknowledge him directly, but it was obvious she knew he’d been listening.
He considered stepping forward, saying something. But he found himself hesitating, his thoughts turning inward instead.
Why had she defended him so openly? Shepard’s loyalty to the Alliance was unquestionable, yet she’d spoken as if she truly believed in cooperation with the Council, in the broader galactic community. More than that, she’d chosen to correct her own crew in his defense, knowing exactly how it would look.
Shepard didn’t strike him as someone who did things without reason.
It wasn’t about me. She was defending her father.
He replayed her words in his mind—her conviction, her poise. It wasn’t just what she’d said, but how she’d said it. Unapologetic. Confident. Commanding.
She wasn’t just impressive. She was remarkable. The kind of leader who could hold her own in a fight and inspire loyalty and respect from anyone—even him.
His gaze drifted to the now-closed files on his omni-tool. Selvek Itanus. Blackwatch legend. Future Primarch.
Who gave it all up for a human.
Nihlus’s mandibles twitched as an unbidden thought surfaced.
Was this what Selvek felt about Hannah? This… pull? This certainty that made no logical sense?
He still didn’t understand Selvek’s choice. Couldn’t fathom giving up Primarch, abandoning everything the Hierarchy valued, for a human family.
But for the first time, he wondered if understanding it was even possible—or if some choices could only be felt.
Shepard pushed off the workbench and headed toward the elevator, her posture as commanding as ever.
Nihlus stayed where he was, watching her go.
And wondering.