CHAPTER NOTES: Hey all! I'd really like it if this didn't blend into the monotony of other self-insertions – not to say that I don't like them, because I do. Mass Vexations was in particular most inspirational for me. But, as much as I love his work and his writing style, Herr Wozzeck wasn't me, and neither was Art.

So I felt compelled to make my own thing, in my own way…and I hope that others can enjoy it, just the same that I enjoyed Wozzeck. Thanks for giving me the motivation to create; it's really a great thing to give someone. And thanks to anyone who reads this. Please feel free to criticize, even though this prologue shouldn't be taken as anything more than my writing style, because the rest of the story will differ quite a bit. Not to mention, it's probably the most linguistically offensive, but the other parts shouldn't be. As a matter of fact...the first part here has wayyy more cursing than the other chapters. But it helps set the mood very well.

There are a lot of people I'd like to thank, but none that I want to mention by name, so I'll just say "friends and family" and end it at that.

For the disclaimer – I own none of Mass Effect's characters, or anything that is associated with the Mass Effect universe. Any characters resemblance to you, the reader, is purely coincidental. I mean, jeez, even my character differs from my actual personality. If you are offended by any language or visual imagery exhibited in the story, I probably won't change anything, since it's not worse than all the other stuff on this site...but feel free to shoot me a message.

With no further ado, I'd like to present to you Mass Effect: Comatose. Enjoy the ride, because I'm hoping to make this a pretty large series, unique in its own subtle ways.

Love (because sincerely is weak sauce),

Hadij Drake

PS: Expect new installments every week, exempting the first Chapter, which will be up in a couple days. All of the new chapters will/should be longer than this prologue.

PPS: While this is a self-insertion, it's not how I am now. I'm actally very much sober, and have been for a good while, but drawing upon experience like this helps me to write more convincingly.

Prologue: What Not to Do

Thump thuthump thump. Thump thump.

Vibrations travel through the metal exoskeleton of the '97 Explorer. The bass drum thuds repetitively to the rhythm of "Heart of a Lion," ambient space-like beats and piano echoing in the cramped confines. The leather seats act like a makeshift conduit for the music, rattling the inside of the truck like a snare drum.

Thump thuthump thump. Thump thump.

I'm one of seven people packed into the car, sitting shotgun, listening to Kid Cudi's first release; I'm relaxed, carefree. Elbow resting on the window sill, rolled down enough that I can trail a couple fingers out the window. The wind outside races by, whipping my hair about like I'm sitting in front of a jet engine. The slightest hint of red hovers on the horizon where the sun used to be, little ripples of purple and blue in the distance. It's approaching nine o'clock in Colorado Springs and I can't bring myself to stop smiling.

Thump thuthump thump. Thump thump.

"Hey, everybody, listen up," says the driver, Jared. He looks back at the others, adjusting the volume on the stereo so that he can be reasonably heard. Jared's straight-up African American – legitimate Ethiopian heritage, and damn proud of it. "Hey! I said listen the fuck up! House rules – rule one. Spilling a drink is a party foul, so control yourselves. Rule two – there are penalties for each recurrent party foul. One is cleanup, and then you sing a song of our choice. Two is naked run around the house. Taking pictures on cell phones is greatly encouraged." This got a few laughs from the back of the truck. "Three is an immediate ejection from my house. Comprende? Rule three, if you're too loud, you're a problem, so you're out. Period. You keep this shit down, and we won't have any issues. Rule four, no feeling up the women here on my property. If you're gonna do something, take it outside, or anywhere else. Just don't pull that crap here. Rule five…"

Jared threw an impish grin my way, and we pull into the driveway. "Rule five, I'm gonna get you kids so fucking twisted you won't remember how to stand up. You will enjoy yourselves. You will remember this night. And if you are physically incapable, the rest of us will remember this shit for you."

Have you ever had a night that was blurry, even while you were in the midst of it? You remember telling yourself that you're fine, that it's all making sense, but that's just what you say over and over to your friends. You want to convince them that you'll be alright, mostly to convince yourself.

You know you're fucked up.

The screwdrivers were only the beginning of this night, but you went through them too fast. You've got a happy little buzz going, but your friends are encouraging you to push farther – and hey, you're not bad. Or are you? The answer is no, but the four shots of Jaeger should be enough to get you comfortably drunk. Once you're done with those four, though, you'll simply smile and say how it tastes like Christmas and ask for a Mike's Hard. You don't feel sick yet, and you won't remember throwing up in the morning, so it's obvious they lied to you.

That was this night, except without the waking up in the morning bit. This night was every parent's worst nightmare, filled with tough decisions and confusion, a morose explanation from white jackets who don't really care – they have other stupid kids to deal with. Kids who didn't get into this position of their own free will.

But that's me getting ahead of myself.

So here I am, on my third aforementioned screwdriver, talking to one of my friends. I think it was Nick, but the night was all too hazy…let's call him Nick for now. It's not like he'll remember the night, anyways.

"Dude, it's ridiculous we haven't hung out yet since you left for U-dub. How's that shit going anyway?"

"Great," I say back to him, feeling more than a little distracted. I'm not sure why exactly, but drinking and getting wasted night after night does get repetitive after a while. I just feel like I really shouldn't be here. The buzz is gentle at the moment, and I take a longer sip from the orange juice blend, wiping my mouth with the sleeve of my hoodie. "Wyoming isn't like what you'd think, I guess. Don't know how else to put it."

He laughs. "What, because people know how to party there? This is the US of A, bro, everywhere has someplace to fuck shit up. You just gotta look to find some cats that know what they're doing." Nick sits back in the couch, sipping at a screwdriver of his own. "Damn man, Brad made these fat."

"Only way to make em," I say, lapsing into another grin. We bump fists and I relax, allowing my eyelids to drift shut. "Yo, Jared's gonna smoke me up a few bowls of his new shit, you down? I'll cover you."

"Down as fuck, man."

"Drake, get your jive ass over here!" My head swivels at the words and I finish off the drink, tossing the plastic cup in a trashcan a few feet away. I get up and jog over to Brad, who is (as always) busy mixing drinks. He flashes a cheery smile my way.

"Drake, man, hear me out," he says, taking out a couple of double-shot glasses. "Where the hell have you been? I'm going back to Boulder this weekend and I've only seen you a couple times. We gotta keep in touch more."

"Oh, I hear you Brad," I say as he breaks out the Jaegermeister. "What's up man? I told you, I've got to stop doing shots…drives me out of my mind. I can't even control myself."

"Yeah, and you've got to worry about that military career, right?" Brad shrugs, leaning on the counter behind where he's been mixing drinks. "Doesn't look good on a record if you're always getting tied down with the wrong people."

I sigh. "Brad, you aren't the "wrong people," or however you want to put it. It's just…I can't screw this up. One shot."

"And that's all I'm asking for! Well, technically a couple…"

"Come on, man," I say back, but I've already made up my mind. "Why are you so desperate for this? We can drink any time. Don't have to get wasted in the meantime, though."

He's already filling the two glasses, and he snorts my words away like they were never said in the first place. "I'm going back Drake, I gotta make this night count. And well, there's this, um…" Brad's eyes flicker over to a corner of Jared's house and I follow it subtly.

"Veronica? You can't be thinking…"

"Man, this is my last shot. I need some liquor courage."

"Liquid courage, Brad," I correct, rubbing my neck. "And I think you might just have enough of that in your system."

"Not even close," he answers, handing me a glass. I take it carefully, measuring it up. A couple shots wouldn't hurt anyone…I've been fine this whole time, the screwdrivers are barely giving me a buzz.

You can guess where this is going.

Four shots of Jaeger later and I'm drinking cranberry hard lemonade. Nothing's really blurry – see, that's the misconception about drinking. You lose coordination, sure, but you don't actually lose much eyesight. It's the memories that are blurry. Of course, that might simply meant I've never had enough to drink to get to that point…but that means "enough" is borderline lethal. I'd rather not go there.

"Drake. Drake, get your head in the fucking game, it's your hit."

I'm back in the truck somehow, and Immortal Technique is spewing angry verses from every direction. I blink a couple times as I widen my eyes, staring Jared in the face.

"Dude, he's so fucked," laughs Nick, doubled over.

"Damn man, we've already been through a couple bowls and he drank his ass off. I'd hope he's fucked, otherwise I'm not getting my money's worth." Jared's eyes were all scrunched up, and he's giggling, still driving.

"Light's green, man!"

"Oh, right. Take the damn piece!"

I do, staring down the wooden shaft like a child with his first Tickle Me Elmo. I'm swaying, and blackness tugs at the corners of my vision. The smell of marijuana rolls up through my nostrils and my eyes flutter a bit. I realize my seatbelt isn't even buckled up, but I ignore it for the moment.

After my hit, I cough a couple times and pass it to some kid I don't even know. I'm searching for the belt but it's like Jared uninstalled it. I can't find it for the life of me, and I start laughing, nudging Nick beside me.

"Hey…hey man," I said. "You've gotta help me find my seatbelt man, it's not here anymore, what did you do with it?"

"I don't know dude, ask Jared!"

This is hilarious for some reason and I start giggling and snorting even more. Soon the whole car is laughing, and everything keeps spinning as the car keeps laughing. I don't know why the situation is so funny…it's like something straight out of a nightmare. The streets are winding and steep, and the sky is some strange form of purplish-blue, and at other times, it strays towards lavender. Everything seems so horribly…wrong. Out of place. I feel like I'm going to vomit on the back of the leather seats, but I can't stop laughing…I'm breathless, eyes squeezed shut.

I open my eyes for the briefest second and take in my surroundings. My friends in the car are shadowy and the edges of their silhouettes are slightly blurred, like they're warping, blending in with their surroundings. The outside world seems to be moving, but the car is standing in place…we're flung forward like rag dolls across the street, hurtling into an intersection and across the street. Everything seems too small…the car is too cramped…even in the shotgun seat, where I'm so alone, and the walls are so far apart…

Suddenly, everything distorts. I see the car coming from the left side, streaking towards Jared, and I see the bumper tear through the door. I feel my body jerked suddenly, and I feel myself rising…rising…up through the windshield…

And then, my vision went dark. It wasn't like a gradual fading…it was as though shutters were drawn over my eyes and wrapped around my face, until I felt like my eyes ceased to exist. Until Drake ceased to exist.

And where one story ends, another begins.

June 12th, 2011

A lot of boring patients today, but one that at least drew some of my attention is the patient in Room 318C of the wards. Official identification is Drake Benson.

Drake is lucky to be alive. Out of the five people that were in the car, only he and another patient survived, but the other died of blood loss two hours after the crash, which happened at 1:38 in the morning, according to the survivors of Car 2. All inhabitants of Car 1 have been tested and found with a BAL past the legal limit, and all inhabitants were under the age of 21. Drake himself is 18. Brown hair, brown eyes, approximately 6'3 and 186 lbs. Looks to be in good physical condition.

Currently, Drake is in a comatose state. We aren't sure of what his status will be later, since all patients tend to vary, but it doesn't look good. Brain activity is nonexistent, and many vital organs are damaged. No internal bleeding, though. Severe trauma to the head, he's due for blood transfusion later today. His family didn't take the news terribly well. Not that anyone should, but the shock was evident.

Subject is currently on life support…I'd pull for him, but I just don't see how this can end well. There's always hope, though…for his parents, I'd like there to be that much.

"Doesn't look like there's any trauma…any idea how he got out here?"

"No clue. I'd chalk it down as an UD-6, zip code 80921…how long has he been here?"

"Sorry sir, but I really don't know much more than you do. I found the body a couple minutes ago and phoned you right away. He had a pulse, but you're saying that there's no brain activity? I'm guessing that it might be a stim overdose, but I could be wrong."

My head feels like it has been split in half by a butcher knife. I try to open my eyes just a tad, and light floods through them, making my head throb even more. I manage to make out a couple of figures standing above me, and attempt in vain to squint in their direction.

"No, there's nfo uneven discoloration…if anything, he's only recently went comatose, we just don't know how. And his clothing…how peculiar."

"Poor bastard. It doesn't look like – holy shit!"

I groan a little as one of the shadows bends down over me, curious, as if to reach for my neck. I weakly try to swat at the arm, and the figure recoils in fear, stumbling to the ground.

"Jesus!" It's a whisper from the man on the ground, and I began to make out a few more features. Gray uniform, black hair, probably something near 6'0. Maybe a bit taller. Definitely bulkier than me. I try to open my eyes more fully, but the sun just makes me squint. I roll over onto my face and feel concrete under my cheek…so I managed to survive? But how…

One of the first things I notice is the lack of a hangover. The headache has already subsided. Unusually brief in comparison to my usual, but much more intense. I roll back over so that I'm facing the sky and start to sit up, holding my head in my hands.

"H-hello?" I turn towards the voice, opening an eye. It's the officer, the one who fell over when I started twitching. "What the hell happened to you? Y-you were…the scanner read…"

"Car," I murmur under my breath, my voice coming out like a dry croak. "We were…well, idiots, but outside of that…"

"Goddamn, son, I would not expect to see you alive," says the other man. He's wearing terribly strange clothing, maybe a bit too formal for my liking. And I have absolutely no clue what material it's made of. As a matter of fact…

I begin to stare at my surroundings. Buildings, at least ten stories high, make the horizon difficult to find. I scramble backwards on my elbows and feet, blinking at what I'm seeing all of a sudden. I'm in an alley. Colorado Springs didn't have alleys…and we definitely didn't travel that far last night. All the buildings are unusual, even for a city…white, and definitely not made of bricks. The thought crosses my mind that the material looks a little like porcelain, but I dash it aside right away.

"Where…where am I?" I whisper to no one in particular, eyes wide and afraid.

"Colorado Springs, kid. Where did you think you were?" the man in the suit laughs a bit, but the noise is tinny and anxious. "You sure that he didn't do stims, Private? He's sure acting funny."

"No…no, I'm fine." I get up, staring at everything around me. There are cars in models I've never even seen before, and the streets are freshly paved, everything seems so…new. I cough once and say softly, "What's the date?"

"One second," says the soldier-esque man, and he…he…

Shit. Is that what I think it is?

A near transparent orange virtual interface wraps itself around his arm, and he interacts with it slowly, a nonchalant expression on his face. "March 12th, Earth Year 2182. Hmm…" he says, glancing at my person. "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to take you into custody. We need to get this mess sorted out."

"No problem," I say. Wait. I'm in the year 2182? Everything is so strange; I can't believe this is true…am I dead? Is this all some sort of heaven? Well, I doubt I'd be taken into custody in heaven, so I'm inclined to say no. "Everything should be…in order…my name is Drake Benson, by the way."

"Private Patterson, at your service," he replies, a smile on his face at my friendly manner. He extends a hand, and after hesitating for a moment, I take it. "Nice to meet you. I'm sure that this'll all be sorted out without issue, but I'll need to take you to the police headquarters, at any rate. I'm not technically a police officer, so I'm obliged to report to them for matters outside my jurisdiction."

"Fair enough," I say. A thought pops into my mind. I've been wanting to enlist in the Marines for a while anyway…I might be able to get into a military branch here. For however long anyways…I'm hungry, it's obvious that I can still utilize my senses here. So I need some way to provide, at least until I get home.

"Looks like you've got this covered," says the other man, nodding at the officer. "I'll see you later then, soldier."

"N-7 Private Patterson to Colorado Springs Police Department," says Patterson, his index finger to his ear. I barely keep my composure, staring at him strangely. "I've got someone here named Drake Benson, appears to be legal age…" He turns to me. "Can I see an ID?"

I freeze. "Umm…umm…yes." I fidget in my wallet and take out my military ID, which has an expiration date of 2014. This could be interesting. He sees it and immediately realizes that something is wrong. For a moment, his eyes just rotate to my person, then back to the ID. Then back to the wallet. A bead of sweat appears at my forehead as I wait for him to make a decision…

"Ehehe, apologies officer," says the Private. "It looks like everything has sorted itself out here. Have a good afternoon." He quickly shoves the ID back into my hands and grabs my shoulder, maybe a bit tighter than I would have liked, even though I'm taller by a couple inches. "May I have a word with you, Drake?"

I simply nod and let him take me aside. He pulls out the wallet and looks me dead in the face, his eyes scanning, as though he's looking for something.

"These are artifacts. And yet, they look legitimate enough that I'm actually hesitating before I bring you in for lack of proper identification. Help me out here…what the hell is happening?"

I'm not the best person to ask, bro. "I have no clue." And I can't think of anything else to say. I probably shouldn't have shown him my ID…but then, what could I have done?

There's a terribly awkward silence where I'm not sure what the N-7 Private will do. But eventually, he pats my shoulder and takes a step back. "What are you going to do?"

He must be brighter than I thought at first glance. The question catches me off guard and I search my head for an answer, ignoring the feeling of numbness and disorientation. "I…I was actually hoping to enlist with the Marines, or maybe…maybe another branch of the military. I'm kind of new to this. If you know what I mean." The military? Sure, that's what I'd wanted back home, but here...here I should be looking for a way to get back. Yet, for some reason, I'm intrigued. I want to find out more. And some part of me can't shake the feeling that this is just an eerily realistic dream.

"I can make that happen," says Patterson. "I barely have any influence, but my father is a Major. I don't see any reason to mistrust you...but we should get this taken care of. And fast."

Then you're a bit foolish, but I'm grateful for it. "I…well, thanks." I run a hand through my hair, the gravity of the situation just starting to sink in. The initial disorientation is wearing off. I've been trying to go about this like I was back home, but I've only gotten lucky so far. If the officer wasn't sympathetic, I'd likely be rotting in prison, but instead, I just managed to get a job. It's weird how the world works sometimes.

"You can stay at my place tonight. I don't know why you're here, but…just…let's not talk about this." Patterson sighs. Then, I realize why he's been acting so strangely. He's not trying to be hospitable. He's afraid.

He leads me to his car and I follow in a blind, sad way. My mood had swung like I was bipolar, and whatever giddiness I'd felt before fades away when he speaks again. But I'm not even listening. I feel like crying right now, I really do. Not only am I alone, but anyone will be afraid of me if they find my secret. It'll probably be best if I hide it for the moment. This place...it's like a dream come true…except, in a way, it's a nightmare. I really hope that I can just wake up. As babyish and pathetic as it might seem, I miss my family already. I just...I just want to wake up.

I don't.

Mass Effect is now my reality.