The Translation in Blood

Hannah was the image of calm standing on the bridge of her ship, watching the Citadel shudder and give off explosions off her starboard bow. Her shoulders were tight and she gripped the railing of the CIC so hard her knuckles were white, but she was still focused, intent, unflinching.

Inside she was screaming.

Sparatus was in about the same state. His mandibles were pulled so tightly inward it changed the geography of his face, a severe expression reserved for funerals, executions, and the stench of poor hygiene. He had a gentle grip on the Admiral's right shoulder, but she could feel the tremor of control that reverberated through him.

He was trying not to keen in grief.

Hannah didn't have the luxury either.

The Citadel was far from falling apart, and the Normandy was ordered to evacuate just in case... just in case...

There was a flash of light as the ship jumped, and Hannah braced herself against her Turian husband as the red light radiated from the Crucible, flaring out to embrace every ship, Reaper and Alliance, Asari, Krogan, Turian-

There was a ripple in the Universe, a shudder of change, and everyone felt it into their bones.

Sparatus was still next to her, squeezing gently and inhaling audibly beside her. He whispered a name.

The name she gave the infant in her arms over thirty years ago, the gentle gray eyes of a newborn starying up at her, quiet and thoughtful and only moments old.

Hannah closed her eyes and prayed.

***

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Hannah Shepard worked around the clock. It wasn't that she refused to sleep, or that she wasn't aware of the passage of time, it was just that she couldn't.

Orders needed to be given and passed down, tallies had to be taken, organized troops needed to be sent where they were needed the post, survivors needed to be rescued, bodies needed to be found...

Her daughter would never forgive her for ignoring her duties in the wake of her fear.

She was at a breaking point when the news came; the Normandy was back, limping but whole, broadcasting questions, and her omnitool blipped from a personal message.

Standing in CIC (where else could she go?), she raised the note and was surprised to find it was an open commlink. A Turian face with blue clan marks and scars across the right side of his face.

"Garrus," she sighed. His worry was as deep and as jagged as her own.

"Admiral-" he began. Her heart wrenched. He sounded so tired.

"It's Hannah, now, you wingless, hollow-boned, son-of-a-bitch," she murmured, happy to see his mandibles twitch in amusement. "We need to forget the formalities. I know you're bonking my little girl. That's about as close to family as you get until you start popping out babies." His laughter came out as a choke, but it made her smile nonetheless. "I heard you were on the ground with her at the end," she continued, growing serious. "Anything you can tell me about ... about where we can find her...?"

A bit of steel came into his eye. He could do better than that.

***

The rail Hannah leaned against now was inside of a hospital unit, her brow mashing against the observation window, eyes shut, shoulders sagging with something akin to relief.

We've got her. We've got her. The best in the Universe is watching out for her and they say she might even make it. We've got her. She's safe. No matter what happens...

"I didn't expect to love her."

Hannah raised her head and turned to look at her husband. She blinked at him. When he felt her gaze on his face, he turned to return her look, head lowered in submission and confession.

"I knew I'd admire her, perhaps feel a bond of some kind as a mentor or a sponsor," he continued, the subvocals in his voice thick with emotion. "But watching her grow up from afar, hearing you talk about her, reading about everything she did... and then, letting myself stoop to spying on her as often as I could find a way..." His mandibles flared, then drew in again. He was looking down at their entwined fingers; he couldn't lift his eyes yet to hers.

"And then she came out of girlhood into a headstrong, intelligent, wise young woman, who made tough calls and followed her instincts and had every single bit of your charisma... All of the affection I'd had for her focused into the single moment she stepped before me the first time. I thought I would explode with pride. The line of her shoulders, the way she lifted her chin and stared right into me, like she wouldn't back down without a good, solid, bloody fight-"

Hannah drew her free hand up his cheek. He closed his eyes and tilted his head into her palm, a soft croon escaping him before he could stop himself. He was shaking, pressing into her side. She wound her arm around his neck and drew him down to her, feeling him press his face into her hair with a groan of anguish.

"I'm sorry," she whispered into his ear, closing her eyes as the tears overcame her again. "I'm sorry we weren't allowed to be a family."

A shudder rippled through him before his arms wound like bands of iron around her middle, crushing her against him. Silence reigned for several intense, long minutes.

And then he whispered back,

"Yes. But then, we always were anyway."

***

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