Disclaimer: I don't own anything that belongs to Mass Effect... duh.
Rated: T.
Summary: Because I could not stop for Death, he kindly stopped for me. Dying only slowed me down, and now I know how to make a Reaper scream.
I know all your secrets
I know all your lies.
I know where you keep them
Buried deep inside.
There's something about dying that makes you look at the universe differently. Or maybe there's something about being killed by the universe, swallowed up by the stars, buried amongst the cold drift of space.
It changes the way you feel, the way you see yourself. Until she can't separate herself from it. Where once there were bones, now resides celestial dust. Before, a heart beat in her chest, and now a supernova spikes with rage and fades into a bottomless black hole of nothing.
Born a human, she is now a thing forged by the galaxy, with stars in her eyes, and dark energy coursing through her veins. A cosmic champion of a people who turned their backs on her, once hero now renegade.
EDI's voice cracks through the speaker in Shepard's cabin, breaking the ambiance that had settled over the room. The heavy quiet that follows her like a shadow, all across the Traverse.
"Shepard, we are fifteen minutes out from Omega. Operative Lawson would like a word on the bridge before docking."
A singular fish swims across the giant aquarium, dark eyes hard as emeralds tracing its path. Her scars still burn, a sharp ache like someone's actively carving the blade through her flesh… but it beats the cold bite of space that still rattles her bones.
The door to her bathroom opens with a barely audible swoosh, and there's a cold shock of the metal sink against her heated palms. Her jaw is sharp, nose strong, cheekbones high, everything is familiar… but foreign. "You ever look in the mirror and see a stranger's face?"
Even her voice is strong; deep and throaty, with a rough edge that commands.
(But still, this doesn't stop her from feeling broken.)
"I have no face, Shepard."
Surprised, a snort is torn from her throat and a smile cracks across her face. The burning scars in her skin fade and she feels more like herself than she has since - since death, she supposes. "A horrifying statement."
Time ticks by, as it does, as it always will. Whether you're there or not. Whether you breathe or not.
Life always goes on.
Loose red curls fall into the sink, scissors sliding through her hair with ease. With every chop of the blades, the sink becomes more and more full, and Shepard feels lighter. The weight of her hair, the weight of the stars, the weight of a shadow easing from her shoulders.
What does hair matter after the taste of death on your tongue?
"Shepard."
It doesn't seem possible, it shouldn't be possible (then again, nothing seems possible, she shouldn't be possible) but EDI hesitates. Her tone is… curious, maybe. Concerned, if Shepard listened hard enough.
And she does.
She listens and listens and listens.
(There is no silence in space.
The galaxy screams and Shepard can hear it.)
The mirror cracks against her knuckles and a broken reflection glares back at Shepard, but with the chaos comes clarity. The screaming subsides with each throb of pain she feels in her hand, until she can think clearly again. Her rigid shoulders collapse into a relaxed stance and Shepard sighs jaggedly, turning on the water to run over her knuckles.
By the time she's stepping off the elevator and into the onto the CIC deck, her knuckles are healed like it never even happened. She shakes her hand loose a few times before dragging it through her new 'do, a large charming grin on her face as she watches Miranda's eyes tighten.
(She suspects she's found her new favourite game.)
"Commander," Miranda greets seamlessly. As if she hadn't left the woman up in her cabin with rich red locks that spilled like blood down past her shoulders, and was now looking at a hack job attempt at an undercut.
Commander Shepard, Champion of the Citadel, in all her glory… pouts.
She runs that hand through her hair again, scratching the buzzed back, and looks up to one of the curls that falls in her face. "Not too shabby for my very first attempt at barbery."
Off to the side, Kelly's head tilts curiously, like maybe she's going to inform the Commander that barbery isn't a word, but she chooses to focus on her work instead.
Blue eyes scrutinize the messy mop of curls that, apparently, had only been tamed by the sheer weight of all her hair. "Indeed," Miranda hums and clears her throat. "Commander, we're docking in seven minutes, and I thought it best to go over our intel."
Shepard nods, eyes flicking over to Jacob as he approaches. She's still not entirely sure where these guys stand, but they're good in a firefight, and Joker seems to trust them. The Doc, too, and fuck. Shepard really needs to go down and say hello.
(She's not sure why the thought churns like acid in her gut.)
Jacob's all smiles, a heavy hand on her shoulder like they're best friends. "I like the style, Shep!" he laughs and there's happiness in his eyes.
(Nikhol used to smile like that. Bright enough to light up the engine room and make Tali laugh.)
But Nikhol is dead and gone, two years. He was dragged screaming into the void, into the empty black of space as their ship was torn apart.
Just like you.
Nikhol is dead, a ghost haunting her in living eyes, and what does that make Shepard? Here while others rot. A thief of life, living on stolen moments. Ripped from her icy grave to dance for an organization she used to hunt down.
The light in Jacob's eyes dims when Shepard knocks his hand from her shoulder. "Sorry, Commander," he's quick to apologize. Jacob looks to Miranda quickly who is, unsurprisingly, no help, and clasps his hands behind his back. "We have two targets down on Omega. A Salarian and a Turian."
"Tell me about the Turian," Shepard grunts.
Miranda has a pad out quicker than Jacob, tapping the screen until a blue helmet pops up. "The locals call him Arcangel. A contemporary Robin Hood of space, he is an all-around thorn in pretty much any given gang's side."
"And we want him because…?"
Jacob rocks forward on his feet. "He's good at what he does. Time and again, he's been pinned down by each gang, and one by one he's fought his way out. Most notably, against the Blood Pack. Seems like this guy just won't die."
Shepard catches Miranda's eye and raises an eyebrow. "You've a type, Miss Lawson."
"Moving onto the Salarian," she says and pointedly ignores the jab. The screen flickers and switches to a new picture. "Mordin Solus, a brilliant doctor light-years ahead of all his colleagues. If anyone's going to figure out a defence or how to counteract the Collector swarms, it's him."
Two ideal candidates, both with their own unique strengths. A plan of action, the first step in taking down the Collectors. Shepard's starting to feel more like herself and with it, she's breathing a little easier.
"Right," she nods, "there's a club called Afterlife, if memory serves. We should stop in and see if we can dig up any local gossip about these two. The more information we have, the better."
"Yes, Commander."
.
.
.
She doesn't like the way Zaeed looks at her.
Like he knows.
Zaeed watches Shepard like he can see the shadow of death clinging to her armour, like he can hear the ghosts wailing at her, like he can see the carnage in her eyes, and the blood drip from her fingers.
He looks at her and she wonders if he sees the phantom nobody else can, if he knows she's pretending to be what once was, while she desperately runs from what is.
She shakes her head, ignores the gazes she can feel on her, and bashes the front of her helmet into the random merc's in her grip. His gloves scratch and pull at her armour, at the plating, for the gun on his hip, but none of it helps. None of it stops her from heaving him up off his feet and slamming him into the closest pillar.
It says something about her focus that she doesn't even blink when the front of his helmet blows open from the sniper round lodged into his face, blue gunk splattering her own helmet. The scars in her face burn and she swears, for a second there, she can only see red.
(A fleeting flash, but it was there.)
The merc's lifeless body falls to the ground and slumps over. Shepard blinks twice and wipes the alien blood from the visor in her helmet so she can see again, and looks up to the second floor where Arcangel's scope reflects the light. He lifts the gun and nods and Shepard hesitates before nodding back.
"Not bad with a rifle," she says through her comm.
Another merc flies over her head while Miranda's arm glows a brilliant blue. "At least he knows we're on his side now and he can stop shooting at us!" The end of her sentence is shouted in his general direction but probably drowned out by all the gunfire.
"Get to the goddam stairs!" Zaeed growls and fires off his hand-cannon into the chestplate of another nearby merc. "Everyone else caught on that we're with 'im, too. Pouring in like bloody cockroaches."
The door of a Blue Suns cruiser is ripped from the hinges and held behind them in the air, effectively blocking fire, while Miranda studies the readings of her omni-tool on her other arm. "Only one way in, the basement leads out of here. No doubt right into the hands of the gangs themselves."
"Up we go, then," Shepard agrees and hops one of the couches.
They reach the top of the stairs, a unified front that nothing has penetrated thus far. A seamless team. A strong squad. Shepard feels… good. Really good, actually, she can breathe, she can think, there is no screaming, only gunfire, and she wants more.
There's a Krogan at the door, doing a shitty job at attempting to override the lock. "Zaeed, pick him off," Miranda says.
But Shepard is already shouldering through. "Dibs!" she shouts, halfway down the hall in a full on sprint. The Krogan turns at her voice, maybe even smiles as he adjusts his stance. But the sprint shifts into a charge as Shepard angles her shoulder forward and-
SLAM!
The Commander rolls back down the hall towards the other two from the sheer force of hitting the door. Or rather, hitting the Krogan and slamming him into the door. She lifts her head once she stops, staring at the unconscious Krogan in a heap on the floor, and pumps her fist in the air. "Bucket List Takedown."
"Was that necessary?" Miranda asks at the end of the hall. Now that there's a lull in the firefight, she has time to judge the Commander.
Shepard holds her hand out to be helped up and grins when Miranda simply walks past her. "Maybe not but how often does an opportunity like that present itself?" She gets to her feet and shakes the biotic glow from her arm. "I think I could have taken him without the biotics. I feel… really strong."
"As you say, Rocky," Miranda murmurs before the door whooshes open.
Zaeed and Shepard follow closely, weapons drawn. In Shepard's experience, confrontations never go well followed closely after a shootout. It's just easier going in with guns already drawn. Also in her experience, Shepard finds people are much more truthful at the end of the barrel of her gun.
Of course, the gun falls away when Garrus pulls off his helmet.
.
.
.
"Well, you still stand like Shepard."
Garrus' voice breaks her out of the looping thought she was dangerously close to getting sucked into. She lifts a curious brow. "And how does Shepard stand?"
Despite the ache he can still feel down to his bones, Garrus straightens his stance, until he's even more rigid and solid. He even gives her a human salute. "Like a soldier."
"Oh, eat a dick," Shepard snorts and feels herself relax. The burning in her face fades and she grins… just well and truly happy to see her buddy again.
His mandibles glare out from his own smile. "Thank the Spirits, I was actually starting to wonder. You look… different."
"Says the guy who just took a rocket to the face."
"And yet you look like the Puzzle Face here."
This time she laughs, with her whole body and a shake of her head. "Don't let Lawson hear you, a lot of her pride rests on his face."
"Ah, yes, Cerberus. Which brings us back to my original point. Shepard. You were dead."
Her fingers twitch at her side, instinct screaming at her to pinch the breach in her O2 tube. The lights in the room flicker, darken. The empty blackness coming for her, to drag her back to her icy grave.
"Yup."
Garrus watches his friend fade further and further away. "But now you're not."
Green eyes blink. "Nope."
He shakes his head. "Didn't even slow you down. So what's the deal here, Shep? Cerberus, really?"
Her lungs allow a shaky, hollow breath to enter and she blinks again, hands clasping behind her back. Focus returned, hard facts anchoring her firmly amongst the living. The ghosts will have to wait, she still belongs to more than them. "Colonies are going missing, the council can eat my entire ass, Cerberus wants to do something about it, but I don't trust them. If things go south, I'd like people I do trust by my side."
"Just like old times," Garrus grins and holds out his hand. Their shake is as seamless as ever and it just reaffirms his belief that this is Shepard, despite what… "Tali didn't join up again."
Their hands fall apart. "She's on her own mission," Shepard says slowly. "And she had lost her whole team. It was spectacularly bad timing. How did…?"
"She keeps in touch. The only one, really. You were the glue, buddy."
"Or you're all just a bunch of assholes too good to send a damn postcard."
And it does feel like old times as the two dissolve into chuckles and reminiscing.
.
.
.
The… sample creature they had captured from one of the swarms throws itself against the glass, both Mordin and Shepard flinching back. Shepard can feel Miranda's smirk behind her, and squares her shoulders again. "So, tell me you're close to a defence against these little buggers."
Mordin blinks at her. "Close? No, complete! Need to test, of course, but fairly confident."
Green eyes catch blue, Miranda raising a brow. "Fairly confident works for me," Shepard tells her and turns back to the doctor. "Can we name the little guy?"
"Naming occurs with sentimentality, sentimentality results in attachment, attachment clouds judgement. Affects decisions, alters results. No." Shepard deflates but Mordin pauses, staring at the creature. "Suggestions?"
And she's back, hopping down to look at it. "I'm gonna come at you with a Reginald Bastille Bugsbarian. Bugsby for short."
Mordin nods, papers in hand. "Very well. Will continue to monitor and study Bugsby, try best not to kill him."
Miranda's jaw clenches when Shepard's eyes widen in alarm.
.
.
.
Happy N7, hosers.