Shepard X

 Awakening in the Dark

The cold was the first thing Commander Susan Shepard registered. An invasive, bone-deep chill that had nothing to do with environmental controls and everything to do with the fact that she was naked and soaked. She dragged a gasping breath into her lungs, the air thick with the metallic tang of ozone and stale disinfectants.

Shepard’s eyes snapped open. The light was dim—a sickly, yellow-white glow that felt like a bruise on the ceiling of her cramped cell. Her muscles screamed in protest, a heavy, dead weight after whatever drugs they had pumped into her system. Shivering violently, she tried to orient herself. The floor was rough synth-metal, scored with drainage channels. Water, probably icy condensation, beaded on her skin.

Panic was a luxury she couldn’t afford. She pushed herself up, bracing against the slick wall, her mind starting its ruthless assessment. The cell was barren: no bed, no sanitary unit, only the door. And the door, she realized with a start, was open.

Not visibly ajar, but the red locking indicator was dark. A thin, almost imperceptible line of light separated the frame from the panel. The guards hadn't just forgotten her; they must have intended this, or, perhaps, been interrupted.

Holding her breath, Shepard took one slow, careful step toward the breach. The silence was absolute, heavier than the cold. She pressed her ear against the metallic frame, listening for footsteps, the mechanical whir of automated patrols, or the distant murmur of voices. Nothing.

She slid through the gap, keeping low and moving like a shadow. The corridor was narrow, leading to a junction. The walls were painted a sterile white, broken only by dark grey trim—a colour scheme both familiar and chillingly impersonal.

A few meters down, a discarded pile of materials sat next to a sealed supply closet. Buried beneath some used biotic shielding pads, she found them: a thin thermal undersuit, dark grey cargo pants, and a stiff, high-collared jacket—standard, unmarked Cerberus field gear, clearly intended for a research tech. They were still damp, but better than nothing. She pulled the suit on first, then the clothes, the familiar weight of fabric against her skin providing a measure of mental armour.

Now armed with movement and concealment, Shepard began to explore the immediate area. The facility was arranged in a confusing, modular block, but the signage was consistent. Access panels bore the stylized, three-pronged logo of the enigmatic human-supremacist group, and the data pads scattered on a desk in a nearby control room were emblazoned with Cerberus Research Division crests.

She was deep inside an enemy installation. The realization, though chilling, was met with a surge of grim determination. She didn't know why they had taken her, or what they had done, but she knew what came next. She was Commander Shepard, and she was getting out. A faint, low hum—the sound of a mass effect core running at low power—thrummed through the floor, pointing the way toward the facility's deeper mechanical levels. That was where she needed to go.

The Architect of Fear

Shepard moved down the corridor, the cheap Cerberus gear feeling thin against the facility’s pervasive cold. She hadn't travelled far when she came upon the first body.

It was a Cerberus technician, or what was left of one. The remains were smeared across the floor and wall like spilled paint. The chest cavity had been eviscerated, organs scattered in dark, coagulating masses, but it was the crushing damage that caught Shepard's eye. The skull was flattened, and limbs appeared to have been snapped and folded under immense, impossible pressure, suggesting the attack was either biotically charged or delivered by something tremendously heavy and fast.

A few meters away lay a second victim, pinned almost perfectly to the ceiling by a spike of metallic shrapnel, their eyes wide with frozen shock.

Shepard swallowed the bile rising in her throat. This wasn't the work of guards. This was powerful, brutal, and sloppy—the hallmark of an escaped specimen or something that had gone critically wrong. She knelt beside the first corpse and stripped the weapon from its dead grip: a standard Cerberus M-8 Avenger rifle. She immediately felt the problem; the barrel was dented inward, the stock was split, and the heat sink was cracked. It was a useless piece of junk.

Focus, Susan. She ran a hand through her short, damp red hair, forcing her breathing to even out. This facility wasn't just a prison; it was a cage for something volatile.

She rounded a ninety-degree corner and stopped dead. Halfway down the next corridor, the metal was scorched black. A section of wall and a reinforced door had been completely pulverized, leaving a ragged hole framed by twisted rebar and thick, billowing rubble. The smell here was different: acrid chemical smoke mixed with the distinct, sweet stench of raw human tissue and something else... something vaguely mineral.

As she crept closer, her heart thumping against her ribs, the only sound was the drip, drip, drip of viscous fluid echoing in the ruined space.

Shepard reached the gaping doorway and peered inside. The room was a large bio-research lab, now utterly wrecked. Glass shards glittered everywhere, and specialized equipment was bent into unrecognizable shapes. The central feature was a massive, horizontal cryo-tank, ripped off its moorings and lying half-crushed on the floor. Heavy leather and synth-fiber restraints—designed for an adult human—had been violently torn from the tank's frame.

A low platform was mounted near the tank's head. On it sat a squat, steel vat, half-full of glowing, hot molten metal. Thick, flexible tubing led from the vat to a pair of terrifyingly precise, servo-driven injection guns mounted on the remains of the frame above the tank.

What in the hell were they doing here?

Ignoring the pervasive dread, Shepard moved quickly to the nearest intact console. The screen flickered to life, showing Cerberus proprietary software. She navigated the files, finding patient logs, physiological reports, and genetic sequencing data. Every file folder was categorized under the same identifier: Project Phoenix.

Then she found a folder labelled Subject Data: S. Shepard.

Her Alliance medical records, her DNA baseline, deep-tissue scans detailing her implants from the war, and hundreds of hours of raw physiological data were all here. With a finger shaking so badly she had to use her thumb to steady it, she clicked on a file labelled Ablation_Phase_01_Video.

The security feed began playing. The camera was mounted directly above the cryo-tank. She watched, detached and cold, as she saw herself—unconscious, pale, and covered only by a thin sheet—wheeled in on a gurney and strapped to the frame above the tank.

A respirator was fitted over her mouth, masking her face. The injection guns were positioned. Then, slowly, the entire frame was lowered, submerging her body into the cooling liquid of the tank. After a second or two, IV lines were inserted into her neck and arm, and drugs began to pump into her bloodstream.

Then, the true horror.

The injection guns activated. The heavy, flexible tubes pulsed, and the molten metal from the vat—glowing faintly orange—was slowly but steadily piped directly into the points where the guns had been positioned on the frame, right over where the main arteries and deep muscle groups in her legs and chest would be.

Shepard slammed her fist on the pause button, the screen freezing on the terrifying image of liquid metal being forced into her body. She stared down at her own hands and forearms, pale against the dark grey fabric of the stolen undersuit. Her skin was unmarked. Perfect. But she knew the truth now.

"What the hell did they do to me?!" she whispered, the raw terror finally breaking through her Commander’s composure.

Emergence and Encounter

Shepard stood in the ruined bio-lab, the fear momentarily overriding the cold analysis of the Commander. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably, her eyes fixed on the frozen image of the molten metal being piped into her unconscious body. Every primal instinct screamed violation. She felt her skin, smooth and untouched, but the memory was now fused with a chilling, internal sense of being changed.

The low, rhythmic drip of fluid in the shattered lab was abruptly interrupted by a crisp, mechanical hiss. A door opened somewhere down the corridor behind her, followed by the soft, measured tread of footsteps—someone attempting stealth, but not quite succeeding.

Shepard instantly suppressed the panic. The fear became a cold, sharp weapon. She darted away from the console, melting into the shadows and rubble near the pulverized doorway. She flattened herself against the scorched wall, barely breathing, her eyes locked on the entrance.

The figure that walked into the ruined lab was tall and clad in Alliance blue and grey N7 armour The helmet was sleek and anonymous, and the figure moved with a practiced, military caution, their own rifle held ready. Shepard's anger, fuelled by the terrifying video and the crushed bodies, spiked into a cold fury. Another Cerberus trick? Alliance colours? No. They had brought her here. They were involved.

As the armoured figure slipped past her position, focused intently on the debris and the crippled cryo-tank, Shepard struck.

She moved with a speed and silent economy of motion that even she didn't recognize. Her right hand shot out, wrapping around the stock of the rifle and ripping it from the man's grasp before he could react. Simultaneously, she raised her left arm, drawing it back for a devastating, adrenaline-fueled punch aimed at the armour's weak point on the back of his neck.

In that fraction of a second, she felt a profound, alien sensation—a metallic slide within her own flesh. Three long, deadly silver metal claws, sharp and wickedly pointed, slid out from between her knuckles. They were perfectly aligned with her punch, poised to tear through the environmental seals of the armour and pierce the man’s throat.

Before she could deliver the killing blow, the man reacted with a panicked shout, his voice muffled by the helmet.

"Shepard! Susan, stop! It's me, Kaidan!"

The punch froze inches from the blue helmet. The sound of his name, her first name, and the familiar, strained pitch of his voice shattered the red haze of her attack. Kaidan wasted no time, yanking his helmet off and revealing his face—his eyes wide with a mix of terror and profound relief, fixed not on her face, but on the monstrous extension of her hand.

Shepard's rage instantly fizzled into utter confusion. She saw Kaidan’s scared expression, then followed his gaze. She looked down at her own hand.

Three shimmering, lethal claws extended a good thirty centimetres from her knuckles, reflecting the sickly laboratory light. They were inorganic, impossible, and undeniably part of her. Her jaw went slack. The Avenger rifle clattered onto the floor.

Her eyes snapped from amazement to pure, paralyzing horror. She focused on her fist, willing the metal back. Slowly, agonizingly, the claws retracted, melting back into her hand as silently as they had emerged. Her knuckles were bruised, but the skin was unbroken, leaving no trace of the silver spikes.

Shepard stared at her shaking palms, then back at Kaidan, her breath ragged. She stammered, the words barely audible over the roaring in her ears.

"What did they do to me?!"

The question, raw with terror, was her last conscious thought. The adrenaline crashed, the drugs still lingering in her system took their hold, and the shock of her transformation overwhelmed her. Commander Susan Shepard crumpled onto the wrecked floor of the Cerberus lab, unconscious.

The darkness yielded slowly, not with the violent jolt of an alarm, but with the gentle ebb and flow of hushed voices. Shepard heard fragments of conversation—low, worried tones punctuated by the occasional mention of her name, Susan, or Commander. She clung to them, trying to make sense of the muffled words, but the weight of exhaustion and lingering drugs was too great. She sank back into the comforting abyss.

The next time she snapped awake, it was complete. Her mind was a sharp, clear instrument, instantly assessing her environment. She was lying on a crisp, white medical bed. The low hum of familiar ship systems, the scent of antiseptic, and the sight of standard Alliance diagnostic monitors told her everything she needed to know. She was on the Normandy. Specifically, the medbay.

She sat up, running a hand over the rough fabric of the stolen Cerberus pants and jacket. She was still wearing the clothes she'd escaped in.

"Welcome home, Commander."

Dr. Karin Chakwas appeared at her side, her face creased with relief and exhaustion. She held a datapad, but her eyes held genuine warmth.

"We've been looking for you for quite a while, Susan. I only wish we could have rescued you sooner."

Shepard’s throat was dry. "How long?"

"Six months, give or take a few days," Chakwas said gently, adjusting the blankets. "Your team tracked you to a facility in the Horizon cluster, but they were too late. You were shuffled from facility to facility—they were determined to keep you hidden from the Alliance. We finally got a tip, an anonymous ping about a mobile lab ship. Kaidan’s team led the assault. You were the only one they found alive."

Shepard absorbed the six-month gap—six months of lost time, six months of being under the knife of the Illusive Man.

"What did they do to me, Doctor?" Shepard’s voice was steady now, the Commander fully back in control. "I saw the video. The metal. The vat. The bodies crushed in the hall."

Chakwas sighed, her expression professional and grave. She put the datapad down. "That's what we need to figure out, Commander. Your vitals are better than perfect. But I can tell you something about your immediate condition."

She pulled a small, sterilized surgical blade from a container on the nearby tray. "Give me your hand."

Shepard hesitated for a moment, then extended her right palm, laying it flat on the sheet. Chakwas took the blade and, with a quick, decisive movement, drew the razor-sharp edge across the back of Shepard’s hand.

Shepard braced for the searing pain of the cut, but it never came. Instead, she felt only a faint, odd tugging sensation, like skin stretching taut.

As soon as Chakwas withdrew the blade, Shepard looked down. A thin, dark red line had appeared across her pale skin. But even as she watched, the wound didn't bleed; the two edges of the skin drew together with impossible speed, knitting themselves shut. Within seconds, the crimson line was gone, the skin flawless, as if the blade had never touched her.

"Your pain receptors are completely dormant," Chakwas explained, her voice low. "And your healing factor... well, it’s off the charts. Any minor tissue damage, even something like a broken bone, would heal in minutes. Major organ damage, maybe an hour or two. I have no clue what combination of nanites, gene therapy, or trauma they used to trigger it, but I’ll keep looking."

Shepard stared at her now-perfect hand. Her fear of the violation was swiftly being replaced by a terrifying curiosity about the resulting power. She clenched her fist, focusing her will, thinking of the encounter with Kaidan, thinking of the metal.

With a chilling, mechanical shucking sound, three long, lethal, silvery claws—perfectly clean, impossibly sharp—slid out from her knuckles, reflecting the medbay's lights.

Chakwas blinked once, slowly, and put the surgical blade down, her composure finally cracking. She looked at the glistening metal talons, then at Shepard’s wide, amazed eyes.

"Yes," the doctor said dryly, adjusting her glasses. "Now we need to discuss that."

Adamantium Skeleton

A cold, clinical curiosity overcame Shepard’s horror. She watched the claws in the light, turning her left hand over. The silver was unnervingly sleek, reflecting the harsh medbay lamps. They weren't attached to her hand; they emerged from it.

Then, she focused on her right hand. She concentrated on the sensation of the metal, the sliding she’d felt when confronting Kaidan, and willed the same thing to happen.

Shuck. Shuck. Shuck.

A matching set of three long, deadly blades extended from her right fist. They were identical—perfect, sharp, and impossibly beautiful in their lethality. She turned them this way and that, the sheer foreign power of them giving her a dizzying sense of violation and strength.

Shepard then focused on retraction. As she did, the claws pulled back into her flesh, leaving only a faint, temporary tracing of bruised skin over her knuckles. Even as Chakwas watched, the bruising visibly began to fade at an impossible rate.

Shepard slid to the edge of the bed, her bare feet touching the cool floor, and fixed her gaze on the doctor.

Chakwas, recovering her professional demeanour but still visibly shaken, muttered under her breath while picking up the datapad "The Quatermater is not going to like this. He's going to have to order special gauntlets for her now."

Shepard grinned, a slow, predatory curve of her lips. She hadn't heard the words with her ears, but she felt the vibration of the air, the slight movement of Chakwas’s jaw, and her mind had translated the whisper with startling clarity. "I think I’ll be fine with the ones I have, Doctor."

Chakwas blinked, startled that Shepard had caught the whisper, and then quickly composed herself. She accessed a schematic on the datapad and rotated the screen for Shepard to view. It was a complex spectral analysis of the metal that formed the claws.

"We ran a full chemical and radiological analysis. Commander, the metal—the material Cerberus used—it’s adamantium."

Shepard knew the name. One of the strongest, most indestructible, and rarest metals in the galaxy. Reserved only for the most critical armour plating on dreadnoughts and the outer shells of the largest Citadel stations.

"It’s not just the claws," Chakwas continued, her voice flat. She tapped the datapad, bringing up a full skeletal scan of Shepard. The entire bone structure was overlaid with a shimmering, silver metallic sheath. "They bonded the adamantium to your entire skeleton. Every bone, from your phalanges to your skull, is coated. Your bones should never be able to break. The claws—they appear to be an extension of the metal, anchored deep within the skeletal structure of your forearms. They are, quite literally, part of you now."

Shepard stared at the scan, the sheer scale of the violation crushing her. Six months. Six months of being rebuilt by the enemy. Her breathing became shallow and shaky.

"Can it be... can it be removed?" she asked, the words catching in her throat, her commander’s composure finally dissolving into the frightened woman who had just collapsed on a lab floor.

Chakwas shook her head slowly, her face etched with profound pity and seriousness. "No, Susan. Not without killing you. It's fully integrated into the marrow and cellular structure of your existing bone tissue. To remove the adamantium would be to remove your skeleton. You are... permanent."

A Predator’s Senses

The words of Dr. Chakwas—“You are… permanent”—reverberated in Shepard’s mind, but the sting of finality was momentarily dulled by the sheer, magnificent terror of the silver claws. She slowly raised her other hand, made a fist, and focused her thoughts, visualizing the metallic extensions. With a soft, synchronized set of shucking noises, a matching trio of claws slid out from her right knuckles.

She turned her hands this way and that, examining the flawless, deadly metal. They gleamed under the medical lights, a stunning monument to Cerberus’s destructive ambition. As she watched, she felt a slight tug in her forearms, a deeper, internal connection to the impossible extensions. Then, she concentrated on drawing them back. The silver dissolved back into her flesh, leaving only a hint of temporary discoloration on her knuckles, which began vanishing instantly.

Shepard slid off the bed, her bare feet meeting the cold synth-steel floor. She was facing Chakwas when she felt a shift in the air pressure, a faint, rhythmic vibration in the deck plating, and a subtle disturbance in the ambient sound waves outside the medbay door. It was a person, moving with the gait of a trained soldier. Her mind processed the input not as information, but as absolute certainty.

Chakwas, who had just finished muttering, "The Quartermaster is not going to like this," jumped slightly when Shepard spoke.

"Kaidan is outside," Shepard stated, her voice quiet but firm.

Chakwas turned, confused, and was about to question the Commander when the medbay door whooshed open. Kaidan Alenko stepped through. He stopped, looking between the Commander, who was standing at the edge of the bed in Cerberus clothes, and the astonished doctor.

"What?" Kaidan asked, genuinely confused by the atmosphere.

Chakwas immediately grabbed her high-sensitivity scanner and ran it over Shepard’s head and shoulders, her brows furrowed in concern. "Commander, how did you know Kaidan was outside?"

Shepard shrugged, pulling on the jacket she'd found. "I heard him."

Kaidan stepped up to the bedside, his expression softening with relief. "I’m fine, Susan. And how are you, Shepard?"

Shepard met his gaze. "Scared, confused, but physically I feel fine. How are you, Kaidan? I hope you don't hold it against me, what happened in the lab."

Kaidan smiled, the tension easing around his eyes. "Not going to lie, I needed to change my shorts when I got back to the ship, but I’m fine. Forget about it."

He reached out and clapped Shepard gently on the shoulder—a supportive, comforting gesture. The physical contact was supposed to elicit a friendly response, a slight give. Instead, Kaidan felt like he'd just punched a solid block of tungsten. Shepard didn't move an inch. Chakwas, who was still staring at her monitor, turned around slowly, looking at Shepard with a slightly exasperated, almost defeated expression.

"Shepard," the doctor sighed, running a hand over her face. "Just when I think nothing from you would surprise me, you go one step over and surprise me again."

Shepard looked over, already knowing the answer. "What's wrong, Doctor?"

Chakwas pointed to the datapad, which now displayed a detailed, luminous schematic of Shepard's central and peripheral nervous system, glowing with unnatural activity.

"Not satisfied with modifying your skeleton and giving you a lethal handshake, they have boosted your senses beyond human levels. Your hearing range is now well into the sub-sonic and ultra-sonic. Your tactile senses pick up vibrations in the deck plates. Even your vision is registering far more data than a normal human eye should. They didn't just rebuild your body, Commander."

Kaidan finished the thought, his voice grave. "They were turning you into a predator."

Reinstatement

Shepard didn't linger. The realization that she was a permanent fusion of biology and adamantium was something she would process later, probably alone with a bottle of expensive red wine. For now, there were immediate needs: mission, survival, and control.

She quickly requested a secure locker and clean clothes. Ignoring Dr. Chakwas’s protests about further observation, Shepard headed to the nearby head. She stripped off the grime-soaked Cerberus fatigues and stepped under the shower, enjoying the sterile warmth. She ran her hands over her body, checking for any subtle difference in texture or structure. The skin was smooth, but she could feel the adamantium beneath it—an unnerving, dense presence.

Ten minutes later, Commander Shepard was dressed in crisp Alliance N7 fatigues—the familiar black fabric with the red and white stripe across the chest and shoulders. She felt better for being in uniform again though she couldn't hide the difference she felt now. She nodded a quick thanks to Kaidan and Chakwas, grabbed a data-slate, and headed for the elevator, riding it up to Deck 2. She made her way to the aft section, past the Galaxy Map, and into the War Room where the Quantum Entanglement Communicator console was located. She initiated the encrypted channel. A moment later, the holo-image of Admiral Steven Hackett shimmered into existence. His face, usually gruff, was softened with genuine relief.

"Shepard. It's good to see you back where you belong," Hackett said, the sound clear and resonant through the QEC. "The Alliance had you listed as KIA for three months before we got the first actionable lead, how are you feeling?."

"Thank you, Admiral. I appreciate the rescue," Shepard replied, standing at rigid attention. "You asked how I feel. I feel better than ever, sir. And I'm ready to get back to work."

Hackett nodded, his gaze professional. "Good. Because Cerberus wasn't just holding you; they were experimenting on you. We are not treating this as a recovery operation anymore. We are treating this as an immediate counter-intelligence threat. The Illusive Man crossed a line he can't walk back from."

He brought up a complex data schematic on his side of the QEC console. "Effective immediately, Commander, you are reinstated to full command of the SSV Normandy SR-2. Your mission is to investigate everything tied to Project Phoenix. Find out what Cerberus was trying to achieve, who else they were modifying, and shut it down permanently. I'm transferring every piece of actionable intelligence the Alliance has on Cerberus's deep research projects to the Normandy’s servers now. It's not much, but it's a start."

"Understood, Admiral," Shepard confirmed.

"Good luck, Shepard. Hackett out."

The call ended. Shepard immediately accessed the ship’s internal comms.

"EDI, Hackett just transferred a heavy intel packet to the main servers. Start running a correlation analysis on 'Project Phoenix.' Link up with Lieutenant Alenko in the medical bay and have him assist you with the physiological data. Prioritize Cerberus research labs and personnel tied to genetic augmentation."

“Understood, Commander. Data analysis initiating. Kaidan Alenko has been alerted,” EDI's synthesized voice responded smoothly.

Shepard closed the comm channel. She needed to know the limits of the monster Cerberus had created. She left the War Room, descended the elevator to Deck 5, and headed past the shuttle bay toward the Armoury and the training facilities attached to it.

Super-senses. Regenerative healing. Indestructible bones. And these.

Shepard paused at the door to the gym, clenching her fists. The metal she could manifest was the ultimate test. She was heading in to learn how to fight with the blades, and more importantly, how to fight with herself.

The Price of Power

Shepard stepped into the Normandy’s gym on Deck 5. The room was sparsely populated with crew members performing routines, but the atmosphere immediately shifted when the Commander walked in. She ignored the stares, heading straight for a training mat.

She focused on her body. Everything felt different. Her senses, boosted beyond human capability, made the ambient noise of the ship—the air filtration, the distant thrum of the mass effect core—a constant, low roar. But the most profound difference was her adrenaline response. Where her body used to release a controlled rush of fight-or-flight hormones, she now felt an instantaneous, volatile surge of power, ready to be unleashed. It wasn't natural; it felt engineered.

She was running through a basic warm-up, testing the limits of her new range of motion, when Lieutenant James Vega walked in, a grin splitting his face.

"Commander Shepard," Vega called out, clapping his hands. "I hear you're back in fighting shape. Wondering how you'd feel about a little sparring match? Always wanted to test my mettle against the famous N7."

The challenge was loud enough to draw glances from the other crew members. Shepard considered declining, but a deep, driving need to know what she could do won out.

"Fine, Lieutenant," Shepard replied, pulling off her jacket. "But go easy on the enthusiasm."

They squared off. The match began professionally, Vega relying on brute strength and solid Alliance technique, Shepard matching him with speed and precision. Shepard felt incredibly light and fast, her movements executed with zero hesitation. Vega’s punches felt like soft impacts against her solid form, hardly registering. She moved around him, landing controlled strikes, forcing him onto the defensive. She could sense his momentum shifts, hear the faint hiss of his lungs working overtime. She was dominating the spar.

Then, Vega saw an opening. He dipped his shoulder, feinted low, and lunged, connecting with a powerful hook punch aimed at Shepard’s head.

The strike landed cleanly on the peak of Shepard's cheekbone.

The impact stunned Shepard, not from pain—for she felt only a dull, vibrational shock—but from the sheer force of the kinetic energy transfer. It was a momentary breach in her control.

Vega immediately let out a strangled cry, clutching ,his fist and staggering back, his knuckles visibly mangled. He hadn't just hit her; he had hit the adamantium skeleton, and his hand was broken.

The sight of Vega in pain, mixed with the shock of the impact and the six months of trauma and violation, triggered the engineered rage. It was like a thermal core going critical. Every alarm bell in Shepard’s mind screamed attack.

The next sequence was a blur of hyper-fast, animalistic motion. A low, feral growl escaped her throat. Before Vega could register what was happening, Shepard had him slammed onto the training mat, her immense, new weight anchoring him down.

The unmistakable, mechanical shucking sound ripped through the gym. Three gleaming, silver claws erupted from her right fist, stopping a hair’s breadth from Vega's exposed throat. His eyes, wide with pure terror, stared up at the impossible blades.

"Hey! Susan! Stop it now!"

The sharp, familiar voice of Ashley Williams cut through the red haze. Ashley was instantly at her side, her hands gripping Shepard's shoulder, pulling with surprising strength.

"That's enough, Commander! He's down! He's hurt!" Ashley commanded, her voice firm but laced with desperate pleading.

The command registered. The rage instantly evaporated, leaving behind a cold, desolate fear. Shepard looked down at the terrified man beneath her, the lethal metal poised to end his life. With a sickening lurch, the claws retracted back into her hand.

She scrambled backward, pulling off the mat, scrambling away from the man she had almost killed. "Oh god, James! I—I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to!" she stammered, panting, the adrenaline violently shaking her frame.

Ashley immediately moved to Shepard, pulling her into a tight, grounding hug. "It's alright, Susan. It's alright. Just breathe. It's not your fault. It's theirs."

Ashley tried to help her girlfriend up, intending to steer her toward the medbay, but stumbled. Shepard’s full weight—augmented by the heavy density of the adamantium skeleton—was far more than Ashley expected.

Shepard, still trembling but regaining her balance, steadied Ashley with a gentle but firm hand. "I’m fine," she whispered.

Vega, cradling his hand, was slowly pulled to his feet by another nearby crewman. The three of them—a terrified Commander, a deeply concerned Lieutenant, and an agonizingly injured soldier—made the silent, awkward trip to the medbay.

Dr. Chakwas took one look at the trio—Shepard pale and shaking, Vega clutching a clearly broken hand, and Ashley radiating anxiety—and sighed deeply, already grabbing sterile supplies.

"I leave you alone for less than an hour, Commander," Chakwas said, her expression one of utter lack of surprise. "Honestly, I don't know who is more reckless: you or Lieutenant Alenko, who decided to rescue you with no backup. Now, get him on a bed, and someone tell me exactly why a simple sparring match resulted in a potential compound fracture."

Shepard sat down heavily on a nearby diagnostics couch, watching Vega’s agonized face. Her hands were still shaking, and the fear was a cold knot in her stomach. The adamantium was a shield, a tool, and a bomb waiting to explode.

"I'm scared, Doctor," Shepard finally admitted, her voice hollow. "I couldn't stop it."

Sixteen Hours

The trip from the med bay to the Commander’s private quarters was short but silent. Shepard was still wearing the N7 fatigues, and the grim silence was only broken by the smooth whir of the elevator.

Her quarters were exactly as she had left them six months ago. Nothing was displaced. The datapad she’d been reviewing was still on her desk; the bed was perfectly made.

Shepard ran a hand over the edge of the desk, a wave of gratitude washing over her. She knew Kaidan, despite being placed in temporary command by Hackett, would have been entitled to these quarters.

Ashley, sensing her partner’s thoughts, came up behind her and rested her hands lightly on Shepard’s shoulders. "He wouldn't," Ashley confirmed softly. "Kaidan slept in First Officer's quarters on Deck 3. Said he was holding the seat for the real Commander. He didn't touch anything."

Shepard relaxed her shoulders slightly. It was a small, profound gesture of respect in the chaos of her return.

They sat down on the sofa, the conversation subdued. Ashley held her close, a comforting anchor.

"What were you feeling, Susan," Ashley asked quietly, "when you lost control back there with James?"

Shepard leaned into her, the dense, indestructible skeleton within her suddenly feeling heavy and isolating. "Rage," she whispered, the word tasting like ash. "But it was different. It wasn't my anger. It was… instantaneous. It felt like a circuit was tripped. One moment, I was sparring, the next, it was pure, cold, engineered fury. And then the claws were out. I didn't consciously will them to come out, Ash. It just... happened."

She pulled back slightly, looking at Ashley with raw fear in her eyes. "I’m terrified of losing control, Ashley. Or worse, hurting anyone else on this crew. I don't know what triggers the rage, and I don't know what my physical limits are. If I can take a full-force punch without flinching, what happens when I hit back?"

Ashley stood up, her expression resolute. "Then we figure out the limits. We don't wait for Cerberus’s trigger to activate you in a crisis. We find the edge of the cliff and we put a fence around it. Come on."

Shepard followed her back down the elevator to the Armoury and shuttle Bay Deck.

Ashley secured a private lock on the gym door, instructing the nearby crew to give the Commander absolute privacy for an indefinite time. Then, she accessed the holographic simulator grid.

"We’re going through a modified N7 survival trial," Ashley explained, stepping away. "I'm pushing the intensity up, focusing on sustained, non-biotic engagements. I need you to go until you physically can't stand. And Susan," she paused, looking serious, "I need you to let the rage come. Use the claws. Use everything they gave you. You need to control the monster by knowing its strength."

Shepard nodded, took a deep breath, and stepped into the grid.

The simulator flashed, generating the first wave of fast-moving, heavily armoured mercenary holograms. Shepard moved like a machine. The boosted senses made predicting incoming fire almost easy. Her speed and strength were impossible. She broke a holographic neck with a single, fast twist. She punched through armoured chest plates.

The rounds that struck her fatigues felt like strong pushes, nothing more. Her healing factor ensured the physical exertion was instantly rectified. She could run, dodge, and fight without the build-up of lactic acid or muscular fatigue.

As the difficulty ramped up, the synthetic, instantaneous adrenaline kicked in. The red haze returned, sharper and more focused this time. She roared, letting the power flow.

Shuck!

The silver claws extended from her fists. Shepard didn't use her rifle; she didn't need it. She charged the next wave—krogan holograms—and tore them apart. She gutted one, slashing the simulated abdomen, and used the momentum to drive the claws straight through the faceplate of the second. The rage was there, but she was directing it, focusing the feral intent through the indestructible metal.

Wave after wave fell. Slashing, gutting, crushing. She transitioned from combat scenario to endurance run, from close-quarters slaughter to objective defence. Hours blurred into a singular sequence of hyper-efficient violence. She didn't need food, or water, or rest. The adamantium and the regenerative nanites took care of it all.

Finally, during a simulated ambush in a rocky canyon, Shepard destroyed the last wave of synthetic enemies with a final, desperate flurry of claw strikes, the power finally starting to ebb. She dropped her arms, panting hard, the claws retracting instantly.

"Stop program!" Ashley's voice cut through the air.

The holographic simulation dissolved. Shepard stood alone in the gym, drenched in sweat that instantly dried on her super-heated skin. She turned toward the door, her eyes adjusting.

The entire viewport of the gym was filled with faces. Not just the dozen crew members who had been working out, but Kaidan, Dr. Chakwas, Thane even Tali'Zorah the entire core team, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, watching in stunned silence.

Ashley walked up, holding a stopwatch high.

"Commander," Ashley said, her voice filled with awe and a touch of fear. "You just ran the trial on maximum difficulty. Without rest, food, or water." She flipped the watch to show the display.

The digital clock read: 16:54:12.

Sixteen hours and fifty-four minutes of continuous, high-intensity combat. Shepard stared at the time, horrified and shocked. Cerberus hadn't just created a soldier; they had created a weapon of impossible, unrelenting endurance.

A Quiet Understanding

Shepard stood in the centre of the gym mat, breathing deeply. The initial shock of the impossible time—sixteen hours, fifty-four minutes—was fading, replaced by a cold, hard confidence. She had met the monster Cerberus created, and she hadn't just survived it; she had controlled it. She had felt the surge of engineered rage, sensed the moment the adamantium claws slid forth, and directed the violence. The stunning feeling receded, replaced by a quiet, deep sense of belonging and affection.

She turned toward Ashley, who was watching her with a mixture of pride, relief, and exhaustione. Shepard walked slowly across the mat, stopping just in front of her. She reached out a hand, not to strike or fight, but to touch. Her fingers ran through Ashley’s dark, gorgeous brunette locks, smoothing them back from her face. Shepard leaned in, and the kiss was slow, gentle, and utterly grounding. Ashley immediately reciprocated, melting into her, a silent recognition of the terror they had both survived, and the permanence of their bond. The affection, so long suppressed by the fear of her new, lethal body, was a powerful, necessary release.

Beyond the soundproof glass of the gym viewport, the crew, who had gathered in stunned silence, gradually averted their gaze. One by one, they returned to their duties, leaving the two women their moment of privacy. Soon, only Dr. Chakwas remained, watching with a small, knowing smile.

When Shepard and Ashley finally broke apart, they headed for the door to turn the gym back over to the crew. Chakwas stepped in front of them, holding up a hand.

"Commander, a word of advice, before you two head to your quarters," the doctor said, her tone both professional and maternal. "I’m thrilled you’ve found some stability, but please remember the parameters of Project Phoenix."

Shepard and Ashley looked at her expectantly.

"You are much, dmuch heavier, Susan. And immeasurably stronger than you used to be. I don't want either of you turning up in the medbay later tonight with a broken bedframe, a fractured bulkhead, or worse, Lieutenant Williams apologizing for a hairline fracture."

Shepard and Ashley exchanged a quick, knowing look, both nodding solemnly at the doctor's pragmatic warning.

"Understood, Doctor. Structural integrity is paramount," Shepard confirmed, a faint, genuine smirk playing on her lips.

They left the gym and took the elevator up to Deck 1, the Commander’s private cabin. Stepping through the secure doorway felt like truly coming home after six months of being lost.

Shepard headed straight for the utilitarian shower unit in her ensuite, needing to wash the lingering simulator sweat from her skin. Ashley joined her without a word, the familiar rhythm of the shared space instantly restoring normalcy. Washing the training residue from each other’s skin soon gave way to more passionate endeavours The terrifying reality of the adamantium skeleton and the lethal claws was momentarily forgotten in the comforting permanence of their love.

Before long, the captain's cabin echoed to the honeyed muffled tones of pleasure and release, first from Ashley, and then from Commander Susan Shepard.

The Architect of Fear 

Sleep offered no respite. It was merely a doorway into the black labs she had only glimpsed. Shepard’s mind, hyper-aware and traumatized, forced her to relive the last six months in brutal, vivid detail.

She was back in the cryo-tank, the chilling liquid embracing her. Needles pierced her skin, pumping unknown narcotics that suppressed her consciousness but left her nerves screaming. She felt the heavy leather restraints biting into her wrists and ankles. She could taste the metallic tang of the oxygen mask, hear the high-pitched whine of the heavy machinery, and feel the searing, deep-tissue burn as the molten adamantium—no longer a schematic, but a real, internal fire—was forced into the deep structure of her bones.

Through the haze of pain and drugs, she saw faces. Faceless Cerberus technicians running diagnostics. But one figure was there through it all, always shadowed but when she tried to focus on the figure The details slipped or blurred.

The nightmares spiralled becoming more violent, driven by the volatile rage Cerberus had engineered. The final, terrifying sequence was her escape. She watched, trapped in the mind of the monster, as her body burst from the cryo-tank, wet skin glistening, claws extended, and a primal, metallic roar ripping from her throat. She saw herself move with impossible speed, massacring the research team. She watched her silver spike drive through the chest of the blue-eyed man, his shocked, terrified face fixed in her memory forever.

Shepard snapped awake with a guttural, earth-shaking scream.

The noise was deafening, a physical force tearing through the small cabin. She was panting, trembling uncontrollably, her heart hammering against the adamantium cage of her ribs.

Ashley was instantly awake and protective, gripping Shepard, ignoring the sharp, painful ringing in her own ears caused by the sheer volume and acoustic intensity of the scream. She pulled Shepard into a tight hug, anchoring her.

"Susan, shh, it's okay. You're home. You're safe. It was just a nightmare."

Shepard clung to her, desperately needing the warmth and the reality of human touch. "I couldn't stop it, Ash. I killed them all. I saw it all." She trailed off, unable to articulate the depth of the violation.

Before Ashley could fully reassure her, the intercom near the bed chimed softly. EDI’s synthetic voice, usually so clipped and precise, was gentle and concerned.

“Commander, is everything satisfactory? Do you require medical assistance?”

Ashley reached for the comms panel. “Everything’s okay, EDI. Commander Shepard just had a bad nightmare, but she’s fine.”

“Understood, Lieutenant Williams. I suggest that both you and the Commander schedule an appointment with Dr. Chakwas as soon as feasible. Additionally, I will be prioritizing a work order to reinforce the acoustic baffling and soundproofing of the Commander’s quarters. The initial spike in auditory output was registered in the CIC, and several crew members reported an unconfirmed hull breach due to the resonant frequency.”

Ashley’s eyes widened, locking onto Shepard’s terrified gaze. The CIC was a deck away. Her scream hadn't just been loud; it had been acoustically devastating.

Shepard felt a fresh wave of horror. The rage was an uncontrollable weapon, and even her emotional distress could cause physical damage to the ship and the crew. She buried her face in Ashley’s shoulder, utterly terrified of the strength she now possessed.

Shared Fear and a New Joke

After the horrifying episode in the observation lounge, Shepard was led back to the Med Bay. She quietly sat on a diagnostics bed, gathering her composure. The room was mostly empty now, the crew having dispersed, but Lieutenant Vega was still there, sitting patiently with his bandaged hand elevated.

Shepard looked at Ashley, who stood by the desk with Dr. Chakwas, and mouthed a request. Ashley nodded, understanding.

"Dr. Chakwas, Ash," Shepard said quietly. "Could I have a moment alone with James, please?"

Chakwas nodded and gently steered Ashley toward the desk, respecting the Commander’s request for privacy.

Shepard slid off the bed and approached Vega, who was watching her with characteristic openness.

"James," she started, her voice heavy with sincere remorse. "I owe you a profound apology. For my loss of control in the gym, and for the injury to your hand. I have no excuses for what happened. It was unprovoked, it was animalistic, and I am truly sorry."

Vega looked at his bandaged fist, then up at her, his usual upbeat mood instantly kicking in. He shrugged easily. "Come on, Commander. You just got back from Cerberus playing mad scientist with your wiring. My hand is going to mend. It's good to know my Commander is a better combatant than me, though. It'll just drive me to train harder." He gave her a confident, if slightly strained, smile. "Besides, I hear I took a swing at an indestructible woman. That's a story for the history books, right?"

Shepard felt a genuine, deep-seated smile crack through her fear. Vega’s manner, his unwavering loyalty and simplicity, was a powerful tonic. "I guess it is, Lieutenant," she conceded.

Vega leaned in conspiratorially. "So, uh, what are we calling those things anyway? The claws. They gotta have a cool name. 'The Shredders'? 'The Silver Spikes'?"

Shepard laughed—a hard, genuine burst of noise that drew startled but relieved glances from Chakwas and Ashley across the room.

"How about 'Quartermaster's Nightmare'?" Shepard offered, referring to the doctor's earlier muttered concern about special gauntlets.

Vega roared with laughter, clutching his side. "Perfect! That is perfect, Commander!"

As their laughter subsided, the door whooshed open, and Lieutenant Commander Kaidan Alenko walked in. He stopped, sensing the shift in mood from the raw terror of the observation lounge to the strange camaraderie in the med bay.

"Everything alright in here?" Kaidan asked, stepping closer. He looked at Vega’s heavily bandaged hand and then at Shepard, his expression mixing concern and relief. "I heard we had another… sensory incident."

Shepard’s smile faded, replaced by the deep seriousness of command. She looked from Vega to Kaidan, the two men who had been hit hardest by the volatility of her new body.

"James, thank you. You're a good man," Shepard said, squeezing his uninjured shoulder. "Go get some rest."

Vega nodded and left the other officers alone.

Shepard sat down on the empty bed, signaling for Kaidan to take the seat beside her. Ashley and Chakwas quietly approached, forming a tight circle.

"Kaidan," Shepard started, keeping her voice low. "James waived the apology, but I need you to understand what happened in the gym, and what happened just now in the lounge. It wasn't just rage; it's a programmed response. Cerberus built a trigger."

Kaidan nodded, leaning forward. "We saw the aftermath, Susan. The fear is understandable."

"The fear is that I can’t stop it," Shepard countered, her gaze sharp. "When the rage hits, I move with impossible speed. I don't feel pain. I have enough kinetic power to snap James’s bones. And the endurance..." She shook her head, unable to describe the sixteen-hour fight. "I'm a self-sustaining weapon, and I have no safety."

Ashley took her hand. "But you stopped, Susan. Twice. Once for Kaidan's voice, once for mine."

"That’s luck, Ash, not control," Shepard insisted. "I can’t risk that. The Alliance Admiral—the woman I saw in my dream—she was supervising the whole procedure. I am terrified that Cerberus designed a backdoor, a specific sonic trigger, or even a neural command that can be issued by Alliance command staff to turn me into a projectile. The next time the rage hits, I might not stop until the Normandy is breached."

Kaidan, the biotic expert and her trusted second-in-command, focused his gaze on the floor before looking up, his expression determined. "If they built a weapon, we find the flaw. We don't exile the Commander; we isolate the trigger. Dr. Chakwas, can you scan for the active nanite frequency? Maybe we can use my biotics to interrupt it."

Chakwas shook her head. "It's too risky. Biotics could cause a catastrophic neural feedback loop. But James is right. Commander, we need to know the extent of the conditioning. If they programmed you to kill, there are specific mental pathways that can be identified and, eventually, deconstructed. We need a way to safely activate the rage, study the spike, and find the counter-command."

Shepard looked at her two most trusted officers—her First Officer, Kaidan, and her partner, Ashley. Their eyes were unwavering. They weren't just ready to help; they were ready to risk everything for her.

"So, we weaponize the research," Shepard concluded, her voice regaining the Commander’s edge. "We use what they gave me to find out why they gave it to me." She looked at Kaidan. "I need you to work with EDI on the intel packet. Find anything related to Project Phoenix, adamantium bonding, or psychological triggers. Ashley, you’re on point for threat containment. If I lose control, you have to be the one to stop me. No hesitation."

Target Aquired

Shepard was back in the War Room on Deck 2, sitting at the console where the QEC was housed. Two hours had passed, filled with rapid correlation searches initiated by EDI and Kaidan. The results of that concentrated effort floated above the desk: a three-dimensional holographic image of the woman from her nightmare.

The blonde Admiral in the crisp, blue Alliance uniform hovered there—the visual manifestation of the deepest betrayal.

Shepard felt the familiar, cold pressure building in her chest, the precursor to the red rage. She leaned slightly forward, a low, guttural growl vibrating in her throat.

“Commander, heart rate elevating. Cortisol spike detected. Remember the breathing exercise,” EDI’s voice issued softly from the console, monitoring her as she worked.

Shepard inhaled slowly, counting the seconds, visualizing the claws retracting into the bedrock of her control. The anger receded, leaving her cold and focused.

"Thank you, EDI," Shepard replied, her voice steady. "Run a full facial recognition matrix against all existing Alliance personnel records. Priority: Special Forces flag officers. And EDI, confirm: is Special Forces Headquarters still officially based out of Arcturus Station?"

“Affirmative, Commander. Arcturus Station remains the operational hub for the Special Forces Command structure,” EDI confirmed.

Shepard’s finger hovered over the console. She didn't hesitate. "Joker, set a course for Arcturus Station. Maximum velocity. This is a priority one mission."

“Arcturus it is, Commander. Routing jump calculations now,” came Joker's clipped reply from the cockpit.

Shepard moved from the console and walked over to the adjacent desk where Ashley was running her own data analysis, likely looking for weaknesses in the adamantium structure. She lowered herself gently onto the chair next to Ashley, carefully leaning her full weight against her partner’s arm.

"Ash," Shepard said quietly, keeping her voice low enough that it wouldn't carry across the room. "I'm already on route to Arcturus Station. I know where she is. The Admiral."

Ashley looked up, her expression tense but unwavering. "That was fast. You're going to confront her?"

"I have to. Project Phoenix is tied directly to the Alliance, and that woman is the key. But here’s the problem," Shepard continued, meeting Ashley’s eyes. "Should I call Hackett first? I have firsthand proof, a clear image, and the knowledge that a high-ranking flag officer is coordinating Cerberus’s science division. But if I call Hackett, she'll know we're coming, and if he’s compromised, I just warned the Architect."

Ashley frowned and then responded with just one word "No"

The Architect 

Six hours melted away in transit. The Normandy had made a silent, non-FTL approach into the Arcturus system, its highly advanced stealth systems masking its presence from the Alliance Fleet stationed there. Hidden on the edge of the system, the ship deployed a single asset: the Kodiak shuttle, expertly piloted by Chief Cortez, who maintained radio silence and an impossibly low signature.

Inside the cramped shuttle bay, the air was thick with tension. Ashley, Vega, and Kaidan sat silently on their armour cases, rifles checked and ready. Shepard, however, was in the uniform of the enemy. She wore a standard Alliance duty uniform over a form-fitting suit of liquid crystal armour a flexible fabric that could shift its rigidity and opacity on command. Her mind was sharp, focused, and utterly cold.

The coldness was necessary to contain the volcano within. Her mind flashed back to the moment the information was confirmed.

The Gym, 6 Hours Ago

Shepard was going through a series of complex stretches in the gym, pointedly ignoring the apprehensive glances from a few crew members who were aware of the recent "sensory incident." The door whooshed open, and EDI's mobile frame entered. The AI moved with quiet efficiency, her chassis emitting a low, internal hum.

“Commander, I have completed the facial recognition query. This requires your immediate, private attention.” EDI’s voice was hushed, carrying only to Shepard.

EDI handed Shepard the datapad she was carrying. "I will prep the holo-systems to run an enhanced N7 combat session, Commander, should you require immediate catharsis," the AI stated before exiting and closing the door, preemptively initiating the lock.

Shepard’s hand trembled slightly as she hit the activation sequence. The datapad displayed the full, unredacted personnel file linked to the image from her nightmare. The rank, the Special Forces division, the flawless blue eyes, the familiar facial structure... The identity of the woman who had watched her torture—the high-ranking officer coordinating the Project Phoenix atrocity—was revealed.

The datapad slipped from her numb fingers, hitting the mat with a soft thud. The shock of the betrayal was absolute, immediately replaced by the most violent, incandescent red rage she had ever experienced. The woman, whom she had trusted beyond almost anyone, had done this.

The world dissolved into the trigger. She roared, a sound that would have shattered glass outside the sound-dampened gym. EDI, true to her word, had already activated the enhanced N7 combat session. For the next 45 minutes, the gym was a blur of motion and metallic shucking sounds as the Commander massacred wave after wave of holograms, the adamantium claws a continuous, blinding silver.

She didn't stop until the rage was utterly spent, leaving her collapsed on the mat, panting, the silence absolute. She picked up the datapad, which had been kicked into a corner, and the calm that returned was brittle, precise, and lethal. She exited the gym and immediately called the war room meeting that led to this infiltration.

Present: Arcturus System

The Kodiak shuttle dropped out of stealth near the gigantic, rotating wheel of Arcturus Station, the central military headquarters of the Alliance. It looked like a legitimate Alliance shuttle on patrol.

"Arcturus Command is only running standard IFF checks, Commander," Cortez reported quietly from the cockpit. "We're reading as a Special Forces courier team. We're clear to dock at the low-priority external bay."

Shepard was ready. The knowledge that she was about to confront the woman who had orchestrated her transformation had filed her focus down to a razor edge. She looked at her team, her family.

"Ashley, you and I take the Admiral," Shepard stated. "Kaidan, you run point on the security systems. Vega, you hold the entrance and monitor for Alliance patrol rotation. We are not here to fight the Alliance. We are here to apprehend one officer. Understood?"

"Understood, Commander," Kaidan affirmed, his face grim.

"Loud and clear, Commander," Vega confirmed, tightening the straps on his armour

Ashley reached out and squeezed Shepard's hand briefly. "We've got your back, Susan. All of us."

Shepard nodded, feeling the warmth of Ashley's touch—a reminder of what she was fighting for. She took one last deep breath and stepped toward the shuttle ramp, the liquid crystal armour shifting to mimic the gray undersuit of her uniform.

"Let's go find Admiral Svetlana Shepard."

Breach on Deck Delta

The Kodiak settled softly onto the assigned pad in the low-priority external bay of Arcturus Station, blending seamlessly among a dozen other shuttle types used for logistics and personnel transfer. Chief Cortez stepped out immediately, a data-slate in hand, launching into a loud, technical complaint to the Arrivals Officer about sensor misalignment—a perfect distraction.

While Cortez kept the officer occupied, Shepard and her team disembarked discreetly. Their combat armour was minimized beneath their outer uniforms, but the disruptor units woven into the fabric were active, constantly modulating local sensor fields to ensure they registered as background noise or legitimate personnel on the bay's wide-spectrum security sweeps. They moved with the professional ease of seasoned operatives, merging into the ebb and flow of technicians, security personnel, and officers moving to and fro in the massive docking cavern.

Once clear of the immediate docking area, the team split.

Vega peeled off first, heading to a lower deck access point near a redundant service tunnel. His task was to establish an overwatch point, monitoring the cyclical rotation of Alliance patrols and serving as the exfiltration anchor.

Kaidan moved toward the central core access, his biotic focus and technical training making him the ideal candidate for systems work. He moved with a swift purpose, his target the primary security nexus on the Operations Deck. Within minutes, Kaidan had bypassed the first layer of digital security using a portable Omni-tool interface, establishing a silent, encrypted comms loop with the rest of the team.

“Security loop patched,” Kaidan’s voice whispered only in Shepard’s ear. “We are registering as authorized Special Forces personnel. Local surveillance feed is running on a five-minute loop. You have limited visibility, Commander.”

Shepard and Ashley moved quickly but without haste, navigating the labyrinthine corridors of the massive station. They rode public transport tubes, moving ever upward toward the executive administration tower where the flag officers maintained their primary offices. Shepard’s uniform was crisp, her demeanor commanding, and her mind was a whirlwind of hyper-sensory data.

The sheer volume of input was overwhelming, yet useful. She could hear the faint thump-thump of a repair drone two levels below them, the subtle hiss of environmental seals changing pressure on an adjoining deck, and the faint, high-frequency signal of the security scanners they were successfully fooling. Every sound was magnified, every vibration felt, forcing her to rely on the breathing techniques Chakwas had prescribed to manage the sensory overload.

"Executive Deck access point, twenty meters," Ashley murmured, adjusting her uniform collar. "Three armed guards. Standard rotation, two minutes."

"I hear their patrol route," Shepard confirmed, her voice low. She didn't mean hear the sound of their boots; she meant she could trace the distinct, rhythmic vibrations of their steps on the synth-steel flooring even through a solid wall. "They linger by the access panel for twenty-five seconds on the minute."

They reached the door labelled Executive Administration – Delta Sector. The three guards passed them, oblivious. As they waited for the scheduled twenty-five seconds of hesitation, Shepard felt a distinct, unique pattern of movement on the floor directly above them. A measured, confident pace.

"She's in," Shepard confirmed. "She's active."

As the three security guards rounded the corner, Ashley swiftly activated a covert override on the access panel. The heavy door hissed open. They stepped through into the pristine, hushed atmosphere of the executive sector. The corridors here were lined with dark polished wood and sparse, severe decor. According to the schematics Kaidan had provided, Admiral Svetlana Shepard’s personal office suite was only fifty meters away, at the end of the central hall.

“Commander, I’m detecting a slight anomaly in the security protocols on your current deck. Proceed with extreme caution,” Kaidan warned over the private channel.

"Copy that. Kaidan, be ready to blind the local surveillance feed on my mark," Shepard whispered.

Shepard and Ashley stalked down the long, silent corridor. At the end stood a solid, reinforced door with a glowing plaque: ADMIRAL S. SHEPARD – SPECIAL OPERATIONS COMMAND.

Shepard stopped right at the door, her fist clenched, fighting the urge to let the claws erupt. She could hear the distinct sound of slow, measured breathing just beyond the titanium panel, and the faint, precise click of fingers typing on a metallic datapad.

She looked at Ashley, her eyes filled with a lethal resolve that contained zero rage, only cold, justified fury.

"Ash," Shepard breathed. "On three. Three, two..."

They raised their fists, ready to shatter the glass and breach the reinforced door simultaneously.

Why?

"One!"

The door to the Admiral’s office suite exploded inward. Shepard and Ashley moved in perfect sync, the silence of the executive corridor shattered by the rending metal.

Shepard was not running; she was a blur of contained fury, traversing the expanse of the plush carpeted office in a fraction of a second. The Admiral—Svetlana Shepard—was sitting at her expansive glass-topped desk, reviewing a datapad. She had barely looked up before Shepard slammed into her.

The impact was that of a hammer hitting a ceramic block. Svetlana was driven backward, chair and all, against the reinforced wall. Before Shepard could process the movement, the red rage fuelled by the agony of the nightmare and the six months of betrayal seized control.

Shuck!

The claws of her right hand extended with terrifying speed, positioned to punch straight through Svetlana's skull.

Admiral Shepard was frozen beneath her, her striking blue eyes wide with sheer, unadulterated terror and surprise. The polished composure of the high-ranking officer was instantly replaced by the raw, animal fear of a victim.

That look of mortal panic, the terror directed at her own sister, slammed the world back into sharp, devastating focus. The rage snapped, broken by the immediate, visible consequence of her actions. The claws remained extended, vibrating inches from Svetlana's head, but the killing blow never landed.

Ashley, standing by the desk, her pistol aimed at Svetlana's immobilized form, spoke rapidly into her comms unit. “Kaidan, we are secure! Admiral apprehended, no shots fired, but Commander’s condition… unstable. Stand by for extract.”

Shepard slowly, deliberately, pulled the claws back into her knuckles. She grabbed Svetlana by the front of her Alliance duty uniform, hauled her off the floor and out of the ruined chair, and slammed her against the desk, not hard enough to break bone, but hard enough to dominate.

Svetlana gasped, clutching her chest, staring up at her sister's terrifiying, sweat-sheened face.

Shepard, panting, brought her right fist up, the fist that had just housed the lethal adamantium spikes and pointed it at her sister's face. The word was not a question; it was a demand, torn from the wreckage of their relationship.

"Why?"