Disclaimer—The Mass Effect Universe and everything in it belongs to BioWare. Only my words and my interpretation are my own. I derive no profit but pleasure from these works of homage.
Story-specific Notes: This is the current (as of 9-7-11) chronological ordering of my previously posted fragments fic, Parts Answering Parts. Parts Answering Parts is an ongoing work in progress. When-and if- I add a lot of pieces, I'll update this fic...up to and including a removal and repost if-or when-I add pieces near the beginning of the chronology. But these updates will be few and far between. If you want to see updates to this story, the original fragment fic is probably the place to look first. That being said, I thought it might be nice to see the pieces I'd assembled so far in order (and cleaned up a very little), and this is the result.
Notes: This fic is an assortment of all sorts of scenes, dialogues and snippets relating to ME—1 through 3. These chapters will vary as to point of view. My (very vague) intention is to eventually assemble these bits and pieces into a more traditional narrative fic (probably to share the same title as I've gotten attached), but I imagine it will be a long time before that takes shape (if it ever does), and I didn't want to wait that long to begin posting my little bits of plot bunny fluff.
Fic Title Inspiration: Whole \Whole\, n. 1. The entire thing; the entire assemblage of parts; totality; all of a thing, without defect or exception; a thing complete in itself. [1913 Webster];
Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole. -Pope. [1913 Webster]
While I may not post on some fics for long periods of time, I have not abandoned any of them.
Waiting.
I shifted on the blocky, nondescript sofa-I'd never quite been able to figure out what it was about modern society that dictated all furniture had to look exactly the same or that the standard had to be so milk-mild and boring as to be forgotten even when you were in the room with it, but...
the furniture wasn't my problem. Indicative of it, maybe.
I felt like my entire life up to this point had been spent here, on this sofa, uncomfortable and unmoving, but not entirely fixed. Static. A hiss.
White noise.
What a way to describe a childhood.
Sitting here, waiting to sign it over, consign it to the history books, I wanted to look back on my childhood with one last valedictory glance. Tender, fleeting, bittersweet.
The turning of a page.
Maybe it will be. Maybe it is.
But the page is blank.
Waiting.
It is, oddly, the only fitting way to end my minority.
If only I weren't so tired of it.
Tired of waiting.
I've done so much of it... try as I might to remember practical jokes, wild adventures, drunken parties, hopeful daydreams... what stands out, what remains constant through all the jumble of the years is the waiting.
Waiting in plain vanilla little rooms like this one, an anteroom to nothing- or maybe everything- a coffin, a box, a neat little package, all wrapped up and containing air, not hot, exactly, but warm-warm and a little stale. Containing me.
Contained.
Constrained.
Never speaking, never taking action.
Yes, that is me.
Waiting.
Just waiting.
Waiting to be told Mom-or Dad-but usually Mom-has a new assignment. Waiting to be told we're moving.
Waiting to adjust to the new Alliance outpost.
The new world. New gravity. New sun. New sky. New plants. New people. New expectations. New and new and new again... until the very new seems old. Or maybe just constant. Worn and repeated. Plain. Uninteresting.
Like the room I'm in.
Waiting, waiting, waiting to say goodbye, the final hug, the final kiss, the final walk up that long, narrow plank and into a ship... the final launch into the sky... again and again and again... the final isn't final, and that's a relief, but it always could be... and someday it will be... and you won't know... not then, not until it's over, not until it's too late... waiting, always waiting, waiting to know when-if- you will say hello... and then goodbye... again.
It's hard. The waiting.
Maybe the hardest part of it all is that it doesn't really seem hard. It seems easy, far too easy.
Waiting is being bored and worried and angry... but you can't complain...
or you can complain as much as you want.
I did more than my fair share of it. I remember.
But my parents didn't stop and listen. The Alliance didn't stop and listen. The wide open sky, the distant rock vistas, the close dark trees, maybe they listened. Sometimes I thought they did... sometimes I knew they didn't.
Whatever was beyond them, the stars, the great black void, adulthood, eternity...
whether they listen or not, there's no telling. They're unchanging. Unmoved.
And like them, whatever you tell them...
It is what it is and you have to live with it.
Unless you prefer the alternative.
And most people don't.
I hear the words in their voices-my mother's voice tight and impatient, my father's voice calm and almost amused-and I'm not sure if I'm smiling or scowling at the sound of them.
And that is when I hear the recruitment officer call my name.
I stand up and walk over to his console and hope like hell my step looks confident, because I can feel my knees shaking.
He reels off the standard boilerplate. I hear all of it and listen to none of it.
I am what I am, too.
I wish contracts were still signed with a pen or an old-fashioned computer stylus, something heavy, something I could feel the weight of in my hand. Something I could reach out and take...
but there is just a glow of energy hovering above a plain, flat desk.
I know I can't, but I think I can feel the slight warm hum of it washing up into my face, coloring my complexion, changing my face.
I take a breath.
This is it.
Soon, I will be the one walking away. The one walking up that plank, and eventually back down it, full stories to tell. A veritable tome of experience, a vivid memory on every page.
I hold out a thumb, press it into the empty, oddly-lit space.