Staff Lieutenant Kaidan Alenko is not the goody-two-shoes pushover he wants everyone to believe, Mess Sergeant Laflamme belatedly realizes, watching a knot of marines shove chairs aside and beg the LT for another bout of his biotic display. Mostly the young ones — though a few with years on their service records are lingering too, clearly interested.
Doctor Karin Chakwas sighs next to him, long-suffering, her cup of chamomile tea forgotten and cooling in her hand.
“Bet you don't see this every day, huh, Doc?” he says, leaning close enough to catch a whiff of her chamomile — good tea, gone cold for nothing.
“Not my first time on a ship with a biotic.” Doctor Chakwas shrugs, then pauses long enough to glare at Alenko, who glances back at them, mildly exasperated. “But Lieutenant Alenko is certainly keeping things interesting.”
Watching Corporal Jenkins getting thrown about with space magic has certainly been the highlight of his day.
“And what about our illustrated XO?” He doesn't have to ask her about Captain Anderson — what is there to feel for the man but utter respect, and a bit of idolisation on Laflamme's part? The young Commander, on the other hand, is certainly an interesting case, given his service history. The public one.
“What about him?” Chakwas raises an eyebrow at him.
“He is awfully young, isn’t he?” Laflamme shrugs. Despite asking, he already has an answer of his own. Lieutenant Commander John Shepard isn't the only famed Shepard in the Systems Alliance. Somewhere out there in the galaxy, there is a Captain Hannah Shepard at the helm of the Alliance dreadnought SSV Kilimanjaro. There are strings tethering the Commander that no one on this ship, save Captain Anderson, is privy to. But that's not to call Shepard a nepo baby, riding a last name through the ranks. You can't bully your way into the N program, much less make it to N7. But certainly nudged in the right direction.
“Is he?” The doctor doesn't bother looking at Laflamme. She takes a sip of her tea as Alenko levitates a marine overhead. The crowd lets out a whoop and Chakwas grimaces. Probably at the cold tea.
Is he, indeed.
N7 isn't the only notable thing on Commander Shepard's file. The Butcher of Torfan, who ordered over a hundred people to their deaths. The lone survivor of a unit of 51 marines on Akuze, playing hide and seek with thresher maws. Laflamme doesn't know who has the worse luck, Shepard or the people around him — or what that means for the Normandy crew. But hey, third time's the charm. Usually.
Besides, he supposes the ones who worry most about serving under Shepard are the marines. Maybe this is Alenko's way of lifting the troops' morale. Shepard isn't going to do it, at any rate.
“What’s going on here?”
Speak of the devil.
Tall, broad-shouldered, blond hair slicked back with precision. The burn scar claims the right half of his face, old and shining under the mess lights; it doesn't so much mar the effect as heighten it, which strikes Laflamme as deeply unfair. His eyes are green, bright and almost uncanny.
Every marine present snaps to attention — all but Alenko, who drops the 'space magic' and carefully sets the floating marine down. It's Felawa, Laflamme recognizes.
“Sir,” Then he, too, salutes as the air thickens with nerves. “We were—”
“This is not the motherfucking playground, and if you can’t act like soldiers, I will see to it that you will never set foot on this ship again.” Shepard snaps — but his voice is so flat, so controlled, that the threat straightens even Chakwas beside him. It puts a sheen of sweat on every brow in the mess. So much for morale uplifting. “Am I clear?”
“Yes, Sir!” the marines answer dutifully. But as Laflamme watches Alenko meet Shepard's opaque gaze head-on, he catches a glint there all the same.
Yeah, definitely not a goody-two-shoes.
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