Nightmare
The Prothean nightmare had been erratic at first, then had settled into her dreams like clockwork. A reminder, in case she ever forgot.
As if she could ever forget.
This, however, was not the Prothean vision. This was a desert of her own making – a nameless, indistinct planet, any of the countless she'd ever set foot on. Or none at all. The tremors in the earth were distant, intangible as a memory. The sandstorm obscured the sky, from horizon to zenith; five feet in any direction, and the world became a churning mass of red. The dome that surrounded her kept the crushing force at bay – kinetic barrier, biotic bubble, eye of the storm, or peculiar landmark; she didn't know. Every so often, a hunched shadow would lumber past, just out of sight.
It was a dream.
Outside of her own mind, she was safe in bed, aboard the Normandy, in the heart of the Traverse. Such knowledge was ephemeral – meaningless – flitting in and out of cognizance, and bearing no mark upon the reason of this place.
Something she remembered as often as she forgot.
Safe for the moment, she crouched, lifting the helmet from the discarded pile of blackened armor that lay, half buried, half corroded, at her feet. The faceplate was cracked, fragments missing, the helmet filled with dust. Absently, She traced the edges, listening.
It whispered to her, this place.
The words were fleeting, and she barely remembered them long enough to answer. It was an argument, to be or not to be, or was I ever; regulations marched in perfect time with half-forgotten nursery rhymes; the measured voice, a perfect truth, murmuring indistinctly in her ear. Honey-coated razor wire.
None of these things bothered her.
It was the noise. The noise that was barely perceptible, scantly a high pitched whine, but she knew – by nature of a dream – that it was there; it was constant. The more she strove to listen, the more it seared her mind, drowning her thoughts, making it impossible to concentrate. Laid bare, she struggled to her feet, wanting for a weapon that wasn't there.
It cut to the quick.
Outside of the dome, she could now see them clearly through the impenetrable haze of sand, hear their howling through the grinding cacophony of the wind. Contrary to her expectations, they moved with unfathomable purpose, even as they were ground raw to dust.
The helmet slipped from her fingers, long forgotten.
Sharper than the sound, deeper than the Voice, louder than the sand, the dome softly cracked. The wise thing to do would have been to seek shelter from the storm and the lumbering dead. Instead, she merely watched as the fractures sprouted and grew, curling across the boundary of this small sanctuary.
There was nowhere to go.
With a deafening, ice shearing crack, the sphere collapsed inward. A shock of frost shot through her system as she jolted awake; a queasiness settled in the pit of her stomach, joining the chill in her nerves over her already fading dream.
Contemplating the dimly lit wall, Shepard yearned for the closed comfort of her sleeper pod. At length, she twisted to glance over her shoulder at the man sleeping at her back. A moment more, and she rolled over, slipping an arm under Kaidan's own and pressing her forehead against his back. The rest of the galaxy could burn, for all she cared.
Working Title: Nightmare
Prompt: "Shepard has a nightmare! What is it about?"
Disambiguation: I wouldn't say there's no meaning to it, but I'd definitely say "it's open to interpretation." o_O
Published: January 15, 2011, on The AWA group, on the BSN, in the Mass Effect Writing Exercise: Nightmare Thread.
Derivative work of material © BioWare, Electronic Arts.