Shepard wrenched from her sleep, yelling, tearing at her throttling sheets. Throwing the blankets off her she sat up on her bed, burying her face in her hands and curling her toes against the cold floor. She hadn't slept well since Earth. Since the escape and the reapers and the boy. Sometimes it was him, burning, his hand outstretched, his eyes pleading with her to save him, who would force her from her sleep. In these instances she wakes with the taste of ash on her tongue and the smell of burning earth filling her lungs. Sometimes it would simply be the sound of the reapers or the heat of their near lasers scorching the ground around her, and sometimes it would be Ashley, talking to her, whispering to her, always reminding her that no matter how many people she may save, too many had already been lost.
She finally stood, shakily, unsteadily moved to her bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. She looked up at herself in the mirror. She looked old, felt older, felt like she'd been dragged back from hell, for obvious reasons. She ran her fingers over her scars. Through her eyebrow and down her cheek, defending the Elysium. Several deep orange marks, being rebuilt by Cerberus. She turned and pulled her vest off her shoulder and touched the rough patches of speckled skin there, shrapnel from the Normandy SR-1. She wondered how many more would join those which already marred her skin by the time the reapers were finished with her. Pulling on a jumper she dried her face with the sleeve. Taking a few last deep breaths, she left her quarters.