Standard Disclaimers: I own nothing of Mass Effect 3 or its characters. Bioware owns. I make nothing off of this but my own (and hopefully a few other people's) amusement.
So I posted this months ago for about three days and then took it down. Re-reading it, I realize that I really do like it. So... here it is again.
1. This story will not make a lick of sense unless you read my other story, Tangling Threads of Reality. For convenience sake, I'd recommend reading it first.
2. Second off: This is not exactly a sequel. Part of the point of Tangling Threads of Reality was that the main character remained…urm… characterized mostly by the struggle of her displacement. Interacting directly with the main characters of Mass Effect was the brief climax of the story that HAD to lead to the end. Her end. Otherwise, after all, she ceases becoming "the girl" and risks becoming "Mary Sue". She only gets that name (and stigma) with her last breath.
Except… well. My imagination kept going, even after that ending. So, even though I knew that writing further meant dabbling in something that probably won't go well if I continued on… I did it anyway.
SO… for those few (those happy few!) that read the first one and liked it, feel free to call this AU. Feel free to ignore it! But, if you do read it, know that I will do my best to keep the realism I established (I hope) for the first piece AND to keep Mary Sue real enough as a character to be interesting even as she starts becoming more … of a person in her own right. SLOWLY ;) Whoa – long note! Without further burbling…
She always loved sleeping. Cool sheets, whether in soft darkness or dappled sunlight. Stretching out to the embracing lilt of white noise in the background…
But it isn't the hum of a fan that she hears as she wakes up. It is the sound of voices, of people talking and weeping nearby. She opens her eyes slowly and blinks at the ceiling lights of Huarta Memorial Hospital.
Oh.
She's dressed in mass produced standard hospital clothing. It itches against her skin as she gingerly touches her stomach. It hurts where she was shot but it's not unbearable. It's rather distant and she's thankful for the drugs that make it so. Still, she silently wonders about things until a nurse finally realizes that she's awake. They had stuffed her in a back corridor, saving the rooms for the more severely wounded.
"You'll be fine," the nurse tells her, "The bullet missed all of the vital spots. Well, mostly all of them." A reassuring smile is given to the girl.
She is surprised. She hesitantly admits that she had been pretty sure she'd been dying.
The nurse pats her shoulder, "No, no. Well, maybe. If you hadn't been found things might have been a bit touch and go. But, you were found and that's all that matters. You'll be home almost before you know it."
The girl thinks for a few seconds and decides this is a good thing. Sure, in those last moments she'd sort of gotten fond of the idea of dying. She'd been so tired and it had probably been her only opportunity to not die alone. This line of thought led to an important question.
"Was I brought in with anyone? I remember a drell?" The nurse looks confused so the girl adds, "I think he might have helped me."
The nurse has to leave to find out. The girl pokes at her stomach to pass the time as she waits. Poke. Nothing. Poke. Ouch. Poke. Ouch. Poke. Nothing.
Yes, she's eventually told. She was brought in with a Mr. Nuara. He, however, was transferred to the care of one Dr. Chakwas early yesterday. He had been stable at the time.
Stable. She didn't know exactly what being stable entailed but it was all the information she was going to get on the subject. She's not entirely pleased about that but she accepts. Stable is alive. Stable is recovering.
She spends the next few days as a contented lump. She reads a little and replays the scent and touch of Thane once or twice in her head, like a silly school girl. She grins when she does this and sometimes outright smirks for the coup she has managed to pull off.
Thane is alive. Neither Kepral's Syndrome nor Kei Lang has claimed him.
And she thinks that it is okay for her to be a little silly.
It is okay for her to be happy.
When she finally walks home from the hospital she revels in the breeze that intermittently accompanies her. She figures that this rare treat is the result of the atmospheric processors working double time to clear the last of the smoke from their filters. However, she chooses to find more personal meaning in it as well. After all, she had decided long ago that a breeze was God's way of comforting the lonely.
There is no thought of revels or comforts once she rounds the corner to her apartment, however.
Her front door, hanging off its hinges and the police "tape" crisscrossed over it steal even the ghost of those things far away.