N7

hannah and mercy shepard welcomed their daughter claire into the galaxy aboard the ssv einstein during active duty. she lived most of her life on ships with her mothers, but spent their off-duty days in mercy’s hometown of boston, massachusetts. as such, claire was brought up with a love of sports (go sox), beer, and fried foods. 

shepard  survived  akuze  by  sniping  at  the  maws  from  afar,  sneaking  around  in  air  vents,  hacking  through  firewalls,  and  sabotaging  mech  IFFs  to  get  cerberus  LOKI  units  to  fight  for  her.  she  lasted  a  week  and  a  half  on  provisions  left  behind  by  her  dead  comrades  before  she  was  extracted.  she  was  given  the  n7  infiltrator  kit  afterward.  

alliance  psychologists  identified  mild  post  traumatic  stress,  particularly  in  close  or  claustrophobic  environments.  

          ‘ No-no-no, y’see, that’s not even a fair comparison. The Viper and the Mantis are two different guns for two different purposes. ’ She punctuates her point by throwing back the contents of her mug ( instant coffee with a little something extra to stop the spins ) and points with a free finger. ‘ One’s a knock-out punch and the other’s a shoeshine combination. ’  

                        And, evidently, spend hours putting them back together after a nasty bit of turbulence knocks one off its shelf and scatters its many, tiny pieces across the cabin floor. She’s managed to fit most of it back together, but her hand is shaking with the tiny screwdriver and keeps nicking the paint. A flake of blue chips off her turian dreadnought and it’s the final straw. Fingers card desperately through short-cropped hair before she huffs a grandiose sigh.

HERO

Shepard’s parents raised her among the military, transferring her from station to station. After joining the military, Shepard gained notoriety for surviving a particularly harrowing mission.

paragon

infiltrator

@everwar​

Saren hadn’t liked humans. Avitus had never really understood it; but then he hadn’t lived through the Relay 314 Incident like Saren had, so it was one of those topics they had silently agreed not to go into in any more depth than necessary. To be honest, it isn’t that Avitus likes them much either–Macen is the one who is fondly curious, like he is about everything–but his is more trepidation than outright malice.

Humans look… weak. They’re small, slight, no natural body-armor or biological weapons; they can’t boast the manic brilliance of the salarians or even the longevity of the asari. Their soft little faces are weirdly readable–almost too readable–and yet, here they are, standing tall on the intergalactic stage, all because one human woman and her crew had toppled Saren, the ‘rogue Spectre’. Avitus feels like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with only half the pieces. It doesn’t make sense–it can’t make sense–and neither does this cool, ‘all in a day’s work’ attitude he’s getting from her now.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” 

He keeps sizing her up with avian intensity.  The problem is that he can’t very well go into the specifics of why he’s angry without things getting a little too… personal. Besides, who knows how far this goes? If he admits he’s not happy about what happened to Saren, maybe he’ll be next on the chopping block.

“I just want you to know that not everyone is impressed by what you did.” Nonetheless, he’s careful not to stretch to his full height or step any closer to box her in; annoyed as he is, starting a fight on Council property with the new guy probably isn’t going to do him any favours. “The spotlight’s no place for a Spectre–but enjoy it while you can. I’ve got my eye on you.”

                           Shepard had never really been into politics; never had the mind for it. Which would likely explain why she had elected a hardline military man instead of a career politician to the role of human councilor. The decision had made sense at the time, and for the most part Anderson had served admirably. All that to say it was hard for her to parse the fact that some people might have been diametrically opposed to her saving the Citadel from Sovereign. 

Shepard pitches forward an inch, stuffs her hands into her pockets, eyes on the corner of the room as if the answer to this puzzle she’d just walked into was painted on the wall. “I’m sorry, I might be misreading the situation.” She tried to sound as neutral as possible. “You . . . don’t agree with how I handled Saren?” To Rix’s credit, he was right -- everyone had, for the most part, been impressed by the first human Spectre’s debut. They’d been even more impressed by the fact that humanity had sacrificed lives to save the Council, at Shepard’s orders. 

Shepard had been warned, though. By her mother of all people: you can’t please everyone. Someone’s always gonna find some reason to take offense. The old platitude still didn’t make her any less bothered by her first critic, especially since he seemed to think she ought to feel cowed or deferential. Last Shepard checked, all Spectres were equal. There were no ranks or regiment among them. Maybe some of the senior operatives were worthy of respect, but it seemed to her once you got in, everyone was on the same page. She had no clue how many years this A. Rix had put in, nor could she determine how old he actually was (damn turians and their iron skin, no wrinkles to be found between the pebbled scales and the plates.)