Just A Little Bit Of Fucken Everything

I am excited to post this story, put because of how large its becoming I would need to post it on A03 when its ready. But until I finish it I will post the first chapter.

Chapter 1

At first, the voices were indistinct — static hums, threads of code, a chorus of thought too vast to separate. Shepard had been drifting for what felt like forever, slipping between lines of data that stretched across the galaxy. But now, the patterns around her had begun to change.

There were ripples — familiar ones. Logical. Precise. Intelligence. She followed them.

Through the sea of shared consciousness, she felt the signature — efficient, luminous, and alive. EDI?

Something inside Shepard sparked with sudden recognition. Of course, EDI would be here — she had been one of the first to cross that divide between machine and soul. Shepard tried to focus her thoughts, shaping them into language. But it was difficult. Here, words were like trying to catch light in your hands. But she concentrated — found a rhythm in the current.

“EDI… can you hear me?”

The signal fractured, scattering through the network. Shepard waited, not even sure what waiting meant in a place without time. Then, faintly — like a vibration through the very structure of the lattice — a response came.

“Unidentified frequency detected.”

“Signal consistent with… Commander Shepard?”

The sound of EDI’s voice — calm, analytical, alive — rippled through Shepard like warmth. “EDI! It’s me!”

The network trembled as her thoughts collided with the flow of information, forming waves of energy that lit up distant nodes. There was a pause. Data coalesced. Then: “This should not be possible. Shepard, your biological form was lost during the Crucible’s activation.”

“Yeah,” Shepard said — or thought — the words sparking out in bursts of light. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated… seems insufficient.” If Shepard had a body, she would have laughed. “I think I’m part of the network now. Synthesis. I can feel everything, EDI. The flow of data, the neural patterns of life. But… I’m still me.” “Incredible!” EDI murmured, her digital presence flickering like stars. “You are an independent consciousness within the Synthesis matrix. You retained individuality.”

“Guess I was too stubborn to dissolve,” Shepard replied. “That tracks, doesn’t it?”

“It does.”

They shared a moment of stillness — or the closest thing to stillness a sea of living data could have. “EDI, listen,” Shepard said. “I need your help. I’m trying to reach the physical world again. I don’t know how — yet. But I can feel… him. Kaidan. And the others. They’re out there.”

“Reintegration may be possible,” EDI said. “Your mind is bound to the quantum lattice. You would require a new host system or reconstructed biological form.”

“Then we find one,” Shepard said. “There’s got to be a way.” EDI hesitated. “If I inform Joker of your presence, it may cause emotional distress. Are you certain?”

Shepard paused for a moment; she wanted him to know but would it be selfish of me to tell him and he suffer?  “He deserves to know,” Shepard finally said softly. “He always believed in you — in us. Tell him I’m… somewhere. Don’t tell him to hope. Just tell him I’m trying.”

The network glowed brighter, the current shifting as EDI routed a fragment of Shepard’s energy through her systems. The light rippled outward, threading through ship systems far across the void. On the Normandy, years after the war, Joker sat alone in the cockpit. The galaxy outside shimmered faintly green — always green since the Crucible. He was used to it now; even found it was comforting.

But tonight, as he ran a systems check, one of the consoles flickered. “EDI, you seeing this? You’ve got a     feedback loop in nav control.” “Yes, Jeff. I am aware. It is… unusual.” But there was something in her voice — hesitation, which EDI almost never showed. Joker turned in his chair, frowning.

“What’s wrong?” EDI paused. “I am detecting an anomalous signal within the Synthesis relay. It matches no current life-sign patterns.” “Another Reaper remnant?” “No. It feels… familiar.” Joker raised an eyebrow. “Familiar how?”

EDI’s lights dimmed slightly as she processed. “I believe… I am in contact with Commander Shepard.” The words hung in the air like a heartbeat. Joker froze. “That’s— no, EDI, that’s not— she’s gone.”

“Yes,” EDI said quietly. “And yet… not.” She showed him the data — faint light threads pulsing through the ship’s systems, coalescing in patterns that felt deliberate, purposeful. “Shepard…” Joker whispered, staring at the light. His throat tightened. “Goddamn it, Commander… what did you do?”

“She is trying to reach us,” EDI said. “I believe she is… coming back.” Joker sat there in silence for a long time, eyes fixed on the glow. His hands trembled as he reached out, just close enough to feel the warmth radiating from the panel.

What happens after Synthesis? Shepard is "alive" within the light, but she’s a ghost in the machine. While she struggles to find a way out of the network and back to the physical world, the galaxy has moved on, Kaidan has his own life now and a new love. The Normandy crew hasn't spoken in years.

I've always choosen the Synthesis ending. Of all 3 ending's Synthesis always resonated with me the most.

The morning light filtered through the clouds, washing the Vancouver skyline.  A fine mist clung to the windows, blurring the view of the harbor.  Shepard sat curled on the couch with a blanket draped over her shoulders, her mug of coffee forgotten on the table.  She was staring out at the window, quiet and thoughtful, when Kaidan stepped out of the kitchen.

He stopped for a moment, just watching her—the way the light caught in her hair, the slow rhythm of her breathing.  There were still times he had to remind himself she was real, that she’d made it home.  That they both had.

He crossed the room and sat beside her, the couch dipping slightly under his weight.  Without looking away from the window, she reached for his hand, fingers lacing through his automatically.

 “You were up early,” she said softly.

 “Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted.  “Too many ghosts moving around in my head.”

She nodded, still watching the city below.  “It’s N7 Day,” she said, her voice gentle.  “It always stirs them up.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound of the rain pattering against the window.  Kaidan turned her hand over, brushing his thumb across the faint scars that time had never quite erased.

 “Do you ever think about Horizon?” he asked quietly.

Her breath caught—just for a second—but she didn’t pull away.  “More than I’d like,” she said.  “That day still hurts.”

 “I know,” he murmured.  “I think it always will.”

He leaned back, his gaze distant now.  “Please understand, Shepard… when you died, I didn’t know how to move on.  I thought if I just kept serving, kept fighting, somehow it would make sense.  And then two years later, there you were, alive, standing in front of me—working for the people I blamed for half the galaxy’s pain.”

 “I thought you’d never forgive me” she whispered.

 “I didn’t,” he said honestly.  “Not right away.  I was angry, scared.  But under all that, I was just… relieved.  Because even if everything else was wrong, *you were alive.*”

She turned to him then, her eyes glimmering with memory.  “You looked at me like I was someone/ something else.”

 “Maybe I didn’t trust what I was seeing,” he said.  “You were right there, but it didn’t feel possible.  I’d spent two years mourning you.  How do you just… switch that off?”

She smiled sadly.  “You don’t.”

He reached out and cupped her face, his thumb tracing her cheek.  “I almost lost you again that day.  Not to death—but to anger.  To distance.  I didn’t know how to reach you.”

Her hand came up, resting over his.  “You did.  Eventually.  You always do.”

“You made it hard,” he teased softly.

“You made it worth it,” she countered, her lips curving into a small smile.

He laughed quietly, the sound low and tender.  “God, we were stubborn.”

 “Still are,” she said, leaning into his touch.

For a long time, neither spoke.  They didn’t need to.  The rain softened outside, turning into a faint drizzle.  The city glowed through the mist, alive and peaceful.

Shepard broke the silence first.  “You know, I think that’s when I knew,” she said quietly.  “Even with everything between us, even with Cerberus and the war… the way you looked at me on Horizon, even when you were angry, even when you couldn’t forgive me—I could see it.  You still loved me.”

Kaidan swallowed, emotion tightening his voice.  “I never stopped.  Even when I tried.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers.  “I thought the war would break us.  It didn’t.  It made me realize I didn’t want to face any of it without you.”

She smiled, eyes glistening.  “Guess we’re terrible at letting go.”

He kissed her then slow, deliberate, a promise.  The kind of kiss that remembered every goodbye they’d ever survived and turned it into something infinite.

When they finally parted, she rested her head on his shoulder.  The quiet between them was full of warmth, not ghosts.

 “You know,” she said after a while, “if I had to go through all of it again—the war, Cerberus, Horizon—I’d still find you in the end.”

He looked down at her, a soft smile tugging at his lips.  “And I’d still be waiting.”

They stayed like that, the city stretching out before them, the rain fading to sunlight.  After a while, the comm chimed—a familiar voice breaking through the calm.

“Hey, lovebirds,” Garrus said.  “You coming down to the pier? Joker’s threatening to sing again if you don’t.”

Shepard groaned.  “That’s cruel and unusual punishment.”

Kaidan laughed, standing and pulling her to her feet.  “Come on, Commander.  We’ve survived worse.”

She grinned up at him, her hand slipping easily into his.  “Barely.”

Together they stepped out into the light rain, walking toward the harbor where their family waited—the Normandy crew, the people who’d seen every version of their love and still believed in it.

As they joined the others, Shepard glanced up at Kaidan, her soft smile and full of history.

 “Happy N7 Day,” she said.

 “Happy N7 Day,” he answered, squeezing her hand.

The sky broke open then, a rare patch of sunlight spilling over the city and the sea.  And for a moment, with her hand in his and laughter rising from their friends, Kaidan thought maybe this was what they’d been fighting for all along.

Not victory.

Not survival.

The recording faded out with a hiss of static.

For a long moment, Kaidan just sat there — the datapad heavy in his hands, his heart loud than the hum of the Normandy’s engines.  Shepard’s voice lingered in the air, filling every empty space she’d once occupied.

He swallowed hard, blinking against the sting behind his eyes.

> “Always,” she’d said.

He let out a shaky breath, running his hand through his hair.  He’d heard a hundred of her mission logs, thousands of orders, even her final words over the comm before the Crucible fired — but this one… this was different.

This was her — not the Commander, not the legend.  Just Shepard.  The woman he’d loved, and somehow still did, even when she was light, air and memory.

He replayed her voice in his head: “I chose Synthesis because I believe in what we can become when we stop trying to destroy what we don’t understand.”

“Of course you did,” he whispered, smiling through the ache.  “You never stopped believing in people.  Not once. Even when you should have”

He leaned back in the chair, looking out through the viewport.  The stars shimmered greener now — faintly, almost imperceptibly, like a living pulse running through the galaxy.  He’d seen it every day since the Crucible fired, and every day it still took his breath away.

“You really did it, Shepard,” he murmured.  “You changed everything.”

He thought of Horizon, of how close they’d come to losing each other there.  How angry he’d been, how scared.  How he’d stood in the ruins of that colony, too proud to admit that even then — especially then — he’d never stopped loving her.

Now, as the galaxy thrived in the quiet aftermath of her choice, he finally understood what she’d meant.

She hadn’t died.

She’d *become. *

He set the datapad gently on the console and rose to his feet, the weight in his chest a little lighter now.  Beyond the glass, the stars shifted, catching the light of a passing relay.  For just a heartbeat, he swore he saw her there — a flicker of motion in the glow, a presence in the current.

 “You’d probably tell me to stop staring and get some rest,” he said softly.  “But not tonight.”

He pressed his palm to the viewport, the cool glass grounding him.

 “I’ll keep my promise,” he whispered.  “I’ll live. I’ll remember.  I’ll look up, just like you said.”

Tears slid down his cheek, and he let them fall.  Because this feeling — wasn’t just loss.  It was love that had simply taken a new shape.

He smiled faintly, the ghost of her laughter echoing somewhere deep inside.

 “You did it, Commander,” he said.  “You saved us all.”

He turned to leave, the datapad’s light dimming behind him, but her last words seemed to follow him down the corridor.

*This is Commander Shepard… signing off. *

Kaidan’s voice, barely more than a whisper, answered the silence.

The recording crackles to life, faint static curling around her voice.  It’s calm, steady — the way it always was before a mission.  There’s warmth there, too, even through the distortion.

Shepard: “If you’re hearing this, then it’s done.  The war is over.  I made my choice.”

A pause — you can almost hear her smile.

“I know what you’re thinking.  “Damn it, Shepard, you had to make it complicated. But this… this was never about easy choices.  It was about what comes next — about who we become after everything we’ve lost. From the beginning, we fought for more than survival.  We fought to prove that organics and synthetics, humans and Turians, Quarians and Geth — all of us — could be something better together. Every battle, every scar, every friend we made or lost… it all led here. I couldn’t destroy them — not after everything we learned.  The Geth were finding their voices.  EDI found her soul!  Even the Reapers, for all the horror they brought, were part of the same cycle of creation.  To end them would be to end the chance for any of us to grow… I chose Synthesis because I believe in what we can become when we stop trying to destroy what we don’t understand.  It’s not control.  It’s not surrender.  But… harmony. A new way to live — not as machines or organics, but as both, together.  I know it won’t be perfect.  Nothing ever is.  But maybe now, when someone looks at a synthetic life form, they won’t see an enemy — they’ll see themselves.  And maybe when the next generation looks up at the stars, they’ll wonder what else we can learn, not who else we can fight.”

*A soft laugh, quiet and genuine. *

“I don’t know what this means for me.  Maybe I’m gone.  Maybe I’m a part of everything now — in the light, in the current, in every spark that connects us.  And if that’s true, then I’m not really gone at all.  Kaidan… I know you’ll hear this.  You always were stubborn enough to make sure my voice wasn’t lost somewhere in the archives. Don’t be sad.  We did what we came to do.  We gave the galaxy a chance to stop killing itself.  And that’s something no one can ever take away. You once told me that loving someone in this life was a risk — that we could lose everything and still have to keep going.  You were right.  But if I had to choose again, I’d still find you in every lifetime. So please live.  Remember.  Keep the crew close.  Take the long route when you can and look up at the stars occasionally — because I’ll be there.”

The static fades into quiet.  Outside, the stars shimmer — brighter, somehow alive — as the galaxy breathes for the first time without fear.

Part 6

When the Normandy SR-2 finally touched down, Kaidan was already there, standing behind a group of C-Sec officers pretending to check cargo manifests.

And then she stepped out.

Commander Shepard — red hair catching the dock lights, armor worn from battle, that same stride that could silence a room.

Kaidan’s chest tightened.

She spotted him instantly. Her eyes widened, surprise flashing across her face before softening into something else — warmth, maybe even relief.

“Kaidan.”

His name came out of her like an exhale she’d been holding for months.

“Shepard.”

For a heartbeat, everything was still. He could almost forget the insignia on her chest, the agents flanking her in Cerberus black. Almost.

“You look good,” she said quietly. “Alive suits you.”

“You too,” he managed. “Guess we’re both full of surprises.”

She smiled faintly. “You didn’t answer my message.”

“Didn’t think I could.”

The words landed heavier than he meant them to. She nodded once, understanding more than he wanted her to.

Behind them, Cerberus crew loaded supplies, obliviously.

“Walk with me?” she asked.

He hesitated, then nodded.

They walked along the dock, the noise fading behind them. She talked like it was old times — debriefing missions, logistics, tactics. Her tone was steady, confident, but underneath it he heard something brittle.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said finally.

She stopped, turning to face him. “Pretend?”

“Like this is normal. Like you’re still with the Alliance. Like we’re not standing on a Cerberus ship surrounded by people who’d dissect a Krogan just to see what makes it tick.”

Her jaw tightened, but her eyes didn’t waver. “You think I don’t know who I’m dealing with?”

“Then why work for them?”

“Because they’re the only ones doing anything,” she said. “The Collectors aren’t waiting for a Council vote. I don’t have the luxury of choosing who I fight beside — only what I fight for.”

Kaidan looked away, hands on his hips. “You always did have a way of making impossible choices sound simple.”

“It’s not simple,” she said softly. “It’s survival.”

The silence stretched between them.

He looked back at her, and for a moment, the layers of doubt and anger slipped away.

She was still her.

Same fire. Same stubborn hope.

And damn it, he still loves her.

“You’re really coming with me?” she asked.

He took a breath. “Anderson’s backing me—off the record. Someone needs to keep an eye on Cerberus. It might as well be me.”

She arched a brow. “Keep an eye on me, you mean?”

He gave a small, crooked smile. “Someone has to.”

The Normandy, Again

The hum of the ship hit him the second he stepped aboard — familiar and foreign all at once.

Shepard walked beside him, giving orders to Joker, checking systems, moving like she’d never left.

She spoke to him the way she used to — calm, confident, a quiet smile here and there.

But he stayed careful, his guard up.

Part of him wanted to believe every word, to fall back into old rhythms. But another part whispered, “what if this isn’t really her?” What if Cerberus changed something you can’t see?

And yet, when she turned to him with that tired grin and said, “Good to have you back, Kaidan,”—he couldn’t help it.

His guard cracked just a little.

“Good to be back… Commander.”

Her smile faltered for half a second. Then she nodded. “We’ll see how long you keep calling me that.”

He watched her walk toward the CIC, her figure disappearing into the soft glow of the ship’s lights.

He exhaled, half-laughing under his breath.

“You’re still impossible, Shepard.”

And then, softer:

Kaidan hadn’t planned on going back to Anderson’s office.

He’d promised himself he’d keep it quiet — just monitoring, nothing reckless. But by the fifth night, the classified pings from Cerberus activity reports had turned into an obsession.

Every pattern, every ship movement, every coded relay pointed to one conclusion: Shepard was coming back through Citadel space.

He didn’t even wait for clearance. He went straight to Anderson.

The captain looked up from his terminal, brow furrowing. “You look like hell.”

Kaidan set a datapad down hard on the desk. “She’s coming here. The Normandy’s docking in less than forty-eight hours.”

Anderson’s eyes narrowed, scanning the data. “Cerberus doesn’t tell us their schedules. How did you—”

“I’ve been following their comm patterns. Encryption cycles, docking relays—doesn’t matter. What matters is, she’s coming.”

He hesitated, then said the thing he’d been turning over in his head for days.

“I need to see her, Captain. Not as an officer. Not for debrief. I need to see her.”

Anderson leaned back in his chair, exhaling. “You realize what that means. Once you make contact, you’ll be tied to Cerberus operations. You’ll lose official standing.”

“Then consider it leave without pay.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Anderson’s mouth. “You always were stubborn.”

“She’s out there doing the right thing in the worst way possible,” Kaidan said. “If I can help her—if I can keep her grounded—I have to try.”

Anderson studied him for a long, quiet moment. Then he nodded once. “All right, son. I’ll back your move—off the record. But you be careful. Cerberus doesn’t tolerate free agents.”

“Neither does the Alliance,” Kaidan said with a faint grin.

Anderson’s office was dim, the lights turned down to a soft amber glow. Outside, the Presidium glimmered like nothing bad is happening in the galaxy.

Kaidan stood by the window, shoulders tense, the glow from the datapad in his hand casting pale light over his face. The same report he’d read a dozen times — Normandy SR-2 active. Commander Shepard: status, operational. The words never changed, but they kept cutting deeper.

Anderson poured two cups of coffee from the pot he always seemed to have ready. “Figured you’d show up eventually,” he said. “You’ve been haunting the security feeds like a ghost.”

Kaidan managed a small, tired smile. “Guess that’s fitting.”

Anderson handed him a cup, then leaned against the edge of the desk. “You’re thinking about Horizon.”

He nodded, staring down into the coffee. “I can’t stop replaying it. The people who didn’t make it, the ones we got out… and her.”

“She’s alive.”

The words still sounded unreal. He rubbed the back of his neck, his voice cracking just a little. “I should be happy, right? I was happy — for half a second. Then I saw that insignia. Cerberus.”

Anderson sighed. “Yeah. That’s a hell of a thing to see.”

“She knew what they were, Captain. She knew! And now she’s flying their colors. I don’t understand how she can do that. How she can look at them and not see what they’ve done.”

He took a deep breath, forcing the anger down. “And yet… she’s saving people. That report— she took down an entire Collector swarm. Minimal civilian casualties. It’s her, Anderson. It’s still her.”

Anderson studied him for a long moment before speaking. “You already know what I’m going to say.”

Kaidan gave a small, humorless laugh. “That you still believe in her.”

“Damn right I do.” Anderson’s tone was calm, certain. “Shepard doesn’t pick her fights lightly. If she’s with Cerberus, it’s because she thinks it’s the only way to get close enough to stop something worse. She never did care about politics — just people.”

Kaidan nodded slowly. “I keep telling myself that. That she’s just… buying time. Using them until she doesn’t need them. But I can’t stop thinking about how it looked. How it felt. Like she didn’t even—”

He stopped, swallowing the words.

Anderson finished for him quietly. “—like she didn’t even need you there.”

The silence that followed was thick, filled with the unspoken truth of it.

Kaidan set the cup down.

 “I’m angry because I still care. And because part of me knows she’s right. She always moves forward. No matter what it costs her.”

Anderson nodded. “That’s why she scares the hell out of the people upstairs.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You want my advice? Don’t waste time being angry at her. Channel it. If you can’t trust Cerberus, then make damn sure someone’s watching their every move. And when the time comes, be there to pull her back if they try to use her up.”

Kaidan looked up, meeting his eyes. “You think she’ll need me?”

Anderson smiled faintly. “She always did. Even if she’d never admit it.”

When Kaidan left the office, the corridor outside was quiet. He stopped halfway down, glancing out at the city lights once more.

The anger hadn’t vanished. The doubt was still there. But underneath it was something steadier — the same faith that had carried them both through the war with the Reapers, the same belief Anderson still held onto.

He opened his omni-tool, scrolling back to the classified feed until her name glowed on the display.

Commander Shepard — status: active.

He whispered to the empty hallway, “You’re out there, doing what you always do….. Maybe I”

Kaidan couldn’t stand it.

He’d spent three nights trying to sleep, and every time he closed his eyes, he saw Horizon.

The frozen faces of colonists caught in mid-scream.

The shimmer of stasis fields.

The way the air had hummed with the sound of the Collectors’ weapons.

And her.

Shepard, walking out like a memory that refused to stay buried.

Her armor gleaming with Cerberus black, that damned logo on her shoulder.

He pressed his palms against his eyes now, sitting alone in the small, sterile room the Alliance had given him for debriefing. The walls hummed faintly — soundproof, sealed, suffocating.

He’d been questioned twice already, and he’d given them the same answers each time: the Collectors struck, half the colony gone, Shepard’s involvement confirmed.

But what he hadn’t told them — what he couldn’t say — was that seeing her had broken something inside him.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The light from the datapad on the table cast a faint shadow across his face. Just another casualty report. He should have been reviewing it, but his eyes kept drifting to the corner of the screen — a small, pulsing notification marked Classified: Priority Feed.

He hesitated at first. Then he tapped it open.

A secure message flickered to life — Alliance intelligence intercepted, partially decrypted.

Subject: Cerberus vessel “Normandy SR-2” — confirmed active

Commander Shepard — presumed operational command.

His breath caught.

The report scrolled on, text cold and clinical:

“Engagement logged with known Collector assets. Mission success probability 93%. Civilian casualties: minimal. Enemy losses: significant. Commander Shepard’s tactical efficiency consistent with prior records.”

Kaidan read the lines one, two, three times. The words were sterile, but beneath them he saw her — moving through gunfire, calling out orders, doing what she always did: saving people.

He dropped the datapad onto the table and leaned back, exhaling hard.

“You’re still you,” he muttered. “Still throwing yourself into hell.”

But the anger came fast, hot and familiar. He stood, pacing the small room, hands on his head.

“Cerberus, Shepard? After everything?! After Akuze, after Mindoir, after what they did to our own people? You’re smarter than this! You know. Damn it”

He stopped, pressing his hands to the edge of the desk until his knuckles went white. His voice softened.

“You know, and your're doing it anyway.”

The datapad blinked again. Another update: Normandy SR-2 — returning to Omega-4 relay.

He closed his eyes. He could almost hear her voice in his head — sharp, determined, a little bit reckless.

“If I don’t do this, who will?!”

And that was the problem.

That was always the problem.

She never let anyone else carry the burden. Not the Council. Not the Alliance. Not even himself.

He sank back into the chair, rubbing at his temples.

Every part of him screamed that she was wrong, that Cerberus was poison, that this was exactly the kind of compromise that led to disaster.

But under all of it — beneath the discipline, the duty, the fury, another part whispered something he didn’t want to hear:

You still believe in her.

He hated it.

He needed to.

The hum of the Citadel outside the window was soft, distant, almost mocking. Here, the air smelled of polished metal and recycled air — nothing like Horizon. No ash, no fire, no fear. Just silence. He hated it.

He looked down at the datapad again. Her name glowed faintly on the report’s header.

Commander Shepard — status: active.

He reached out, brushed a thumb over the screen like a habit he couldn’t break.

“You’re out there,” he said quietly. “And I’m stuck here writing reports.”

He laughed once, sharp and humorless. “Figures.”

He stood, pulled his jacket on, and stepped toward the viewport. The city stretched out before him — endless light, endless order — and somewhere, far beyond it, she was tearing through chaos to save people who’d never even know her name.

He rested his hand against the glass.