I don't own Mass Effect or Mass Effect 2 and I'm not making any profit off of this story.
AN: Just a little fun with background characters. Who knew being called a blight could be so endearing?
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He woke up with screaming in his ears and the smell of smoke in his nostrils.
Lingering fear made him tremble, made his voice break as he repeated what the man in the dream had yelled. Over and over. "The end is come!" Confusion had paralyzed him, he didn't understand what the other man said in the dream, but now it was more than obvious. "What can I do?" He asked the small room he rented. "I am nothing."
Going through the day as though nothing was wrong, as though there was nothing over the horizon, was the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life. He couldn't bear it. These people, ignorant of the coming fire, were unbearable. Cheerful, blissful even, when above their heads hung an axe?
When he closed his eyes he could see the landscape he'd dreamed. If he walked with his eyes closed, he could navigate it.
---
"The end is come."
The dream again, just as vivid, just as confusing. The man in his face, the only person he could see in the carnage around him, was still screaming. "What can I do? What can I do?" Can this be stopped or is it inevitable?
"There is a blight."
And then he woke up.
He didn't go to his job that day, he stayed home and searched the extranet for stories of plagues that ended in fiery destruction. Unsurprisingly, nothing came up. But still, it kept him from thinking about the future.
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He'd gotten a message from his boss. He was fired, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but the Word and writing the Word. The man in his dream told him things that were to come and things that had been and it was his job to record what was said.
He could write it on a terminal, but he wasn't a tech and he didn't know how to properly encrypt his files. So, he found paper and he found a pen and he wrote what he was told.
"We created a place for us to love you in, a place with many wide arms open and welcoming."
Sometimes he fell asleep writing, sometimes he forgot to eat, and sometimes he forgot what day it was. But, he didn't forget what he was told.
"These beings are reapers and they bring with them a series of calamities that will bring about the end of the universe. Misinterpret this as you misinterpret all things."
He couldn't make sense of what he was writing most of the time, but he knew it was important and so he kept on even when he had been evicted from the little room he had rented in the slums. Living in the tunnel with the Vorcha was difficult, and they would try to steal his papers, but he was vigilant and they only got the blank ones.
"There is a blight and it is made of flesh."
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He ran out of paper, so he tried writing on the walls of the tunnel he lived on. Then Aria's people came and let him know, with their fists, that she didn't like it. So he wrote on whatever scraps he could find. His collection of pens were lost or broken, so he made due with a sharp piece of metal dipped in whatever fluid leaked from the walls or pooled on the floor.
"We came, from a dark and far away harbor, and brought about suffering that cannot be measured. We left no proof but the Word."
Even when he had nothing to eat and even when the Vorcha decided he needed more bruises, he had the words. He gathered up his papers and he made sure he could read the words he had written. He was content with himself.
---
"You can hear the words, so run away."
And it ended. The dreams stopped and all he had were the words he had written. For the first time in several months he looked around and missed his life before the dreams. He had a room and a job, once. Now? Nothing. Even the lowly Vorcha laughed in their hissing voices, not even bothering to hide their mirth. He gathered the papers he had worked so hard on. Nothing. All a product of a deranged mind. Even so, the words and their echo haunted him and he found himself mouthing snippets of nonsense.
He got up, still clutching the papers and scraps. His limbs were weak and trembled, but he was up. Maybe he could get his life back.
---
Things were looking up. He managed to get a job, a bad one, but it payed. The man who contracted him was one of the rare people with a conscience and pity to spare. He was known as a madman, pity took the place of respect.
Cleaning up vomit and blood wasn't really the choicest job, but it paid for a small room with a small cot and that was all he needed. Sometimes he would look through the papers he had scribbled on in that period of madness. None of it made sense, he couldn't believe he had even written the things on the pages, but it was his handwriting.
"Unfold into uneven odds with an enemy that slept until the yesterday. These principles of the universal plot, which is begetting, which is creation, and destruction makes of it an art form. "
A threat, maybe a warning? Of what?
He decided to rearrange the pages from start and look through the fantasy he had concocted.
---
He thought he had them all together, so he read them after work. It was some kind of story, some odd and convoluted story that couldn't make sense even though it was mesmerizing.
"This will be called the Word, and by the Word I mean the dead. And by the dead, I mean life made blasphemous."
Fatalism and madness, mixed with history 50,000 years old.
"And so they dwelled in filth, on worlds made of dirt and feces, and there they lay until they stumbled into the skies."
It was fascinating in the way that all forms of madness are fascinating. The things a deranged mind could dredge up were amazing. But, it was folly to dwell on it and it was stupid to mourn the time he wasted pouring his energy into a dirty pile of papers.
"And this shall be the beginning of the end."
And the constant references to the end of the world was annoying, not threatening. He wouldn't let it get to him. What madman didn't think there was some terrible event just over the horizon? All of them said something like that.
It was just nonsense.
---
He started bringing the papers to his job, cleaning with one arm and holding the page before him so he could analyze every scribbled word.
"The coming forth and the driving away brings all things around."
It seemed to make sense sometimes, but the thought of sinking back into insanity was terrifying and he stopped reading when it made sense.
---
It was all clear, the Word was clear. There was a blight and there was a coming storm and it was called the Reapers. This blight was made of flesh and flesh was weak. The only thing that wasn't apparent was the form of this blight. What could it be? Never his own people, who were true to their culture and loyal to their government.
Who? Surely only the lowly races. The Krogan, who only thought of violence and death; and the Vorcha; who didn't think at all; and the Humans, who could steal someone's rightful property and think nothing of it.
Yes, these races were the cause of the imminent destruction of all races. And these other, innocent, races must be warned. He must get the message out.
Where? There were always crates across from Harrot's. He could stand on them, preach. Yes.
The Word is clear.