His hearing came back in waves as a dull encasing roar that clung to the sides of his face just like the thin, smoky haze that blanketed the stretching silhouettes that were closing in. Dizzy and disoriented, he palmed at the dampened soil beneath him until the earth stopped spinning and the ringing in his ears ceased. He crawled towards the overturned transport shuttle that came to rest a few yards away after violently tumbling over him, grimacing as the stench of burnt flesh and plastic filled his nostrils. The target was less than a quarter mile away, its intense light easily penetrating the debris and dust that had yet to settle. The ground was scorched and smoking where the laser had recently struck, creating a deep trench and yet another obstacle to overcome as he sluggishly brought himself to his feet.
Seeing the Normandy fly past Harbinger's defenses did little to soothe his fears. He became fixated on the worst case scenario; obsessed with the possibility of seeing the ship as a smoldering ruin. 'Make it to the beam at any cost.'Hackett's words blared in his ear between the sound of his own pulse. Crimson sweat slid down the bridge of his nose as he continued to trudge forward, every heavy footstep causing the bulbs of blood and sweat to drip from his face and add into the collection below his feet. The scars on his face burned as did the ones beneath the remnants of the ceramic plates of his armor. Each excruciating step caused the serrated edges of his abdominal guard to sink into and twist against his deep laceration but regardless, he continued to move forward. The stakes were simply too high.
A moving figure in the distance broke his concentration. He stumbled forward and tripped just as the blur came into focus. Tubes and wires weaved between muscle and tissue, it's unnatural blue eyes glowing fiercely as they locked on his weakened form: a husk.
John inhaled shakily, bracing himself against the ground with his other hand clasped against the oozing gunshot wound in his belly. The creature shrieked and flailed wildly as it approached, it's demonic face strained and permanently frozen into a haunting scream from the hoses shoved down the throat of what used to be human. His sight lined up before the rest of him; Shepard's brilliant blue eyes targeting the incoming hostile with trained quickness as he made a reach for the M-96 Mattock at his side. Hand shaking, he closed his digits around the cool metal of the barrel, his own eyes going wide as he fumbled with the weapon he was normally so versed with. The monster closed in, now just inches away. His heart plummeted as the gun slipped from between his blood-slick fingers only to plunge and shatter into a hundred little pieces at it made contact with the black and white checkered tile below.
Shepard slothfully dodged the husk's first attack as it swiped at him violently. He fell to his knees and began to feverishly reassemble all of the fragments of plastic, steel, and glass. It didn't escape him how strange it was that his gun had splintered into dozens of pieces upon making contact with the ground yet he continued to frantically match them as if they were a puzzle—pink with pink, straight lines with straight lines, the section with the letter B painted on it fit next to the one with the L.
A pained hiss escaped his lips as he cut himself on one of the sharper edges, watching as the blood trickled down his calloused palm and onto the puzzle below. "Blasto?" He blurted out sluggishly. The husk had disappeared and the Mattock pistol had seemingly melted into the earth only to be replaced with an assortment of glass that made up a poorly drawn Hanar. His breath hitched as the Reaper sounded off once more, its earsplitting and thunderous rumble dissolving into a gentle swish and tumble: rushing water
Puzzled, the Commander looked up from the destroyed Blasto drinking glass and towards the source of the reverberation. The dishwasher. He looked to the spot where the husk had vanished; taking notice of the doorframe that had materialized there.
"Hey Shepard, did you finish unloading the dishwasher? We're going to be late if we don't head out in a few." A disembodied but familiar voice chimed from down the hall. Not a moment later a figure reappeared, however it was not some Reaper abomination standing there this time.
"Kaidan," he whispered, voice husky and breathing sporadic as though he had just run a mile in heavy armor.
The breathless whisper went unnoticed but the mess of broken glass and blood was hard to miss. Blinking in surprise, the Major quickly rushed to John's side and lifted his hand to inspect the gash that ran diagonally across his palm. His lips parted to speak but he was promptly cut off by Shepard's own interjection.
"The glass slipped when I was putting it away," he explained compellingly. Smiling faintly, he withdrew his hand from the other man's grasp and stepped towards the sink in order to wash and disinfect his wound.
"That was my favorite glass, too." The former Commander added as he looked over his shoulder, his face wrinkled with fatigue but his smile too captivating to argue. They had bought it as a souvenir the night they had gone to see the new Blasto flick sometime before London; the media had had a field day with that one.
The L2 biotic stood there for a moment, his brow heavy with concern at his partner's sudden apprehensiveness. However, he didn't pry any further.
"Don't worry. We can always get another one." Kaidan replied tentatively.
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.A noun: a psychological reaction occurring after experiencing a highly stressing event (as wartime combat, physical violence, or a natural disaster) that is usually characterized by depression, anxiety, flashbacks, recurrent nightmares, and avoidance of reminders of the event —abbreviation PTSD.
