Warnings for severe PTSD, depression, and survivor's guilt, as well as some semi-graphic violence.

Many thanks to bloodbright for making me say "huh, second person POV", and to servantofclio for saying yes do it and holding my hand as I wrote this.

Cover art commissioned from the lovely snuffes.

You've been marked for great things.

You know this; it's hard to miss the way heads turn when you walk into a room, how just the mention of your name or the sound of your voice is enough to quiet any number of conversations. They don't call you singular, not yet, because your greatest accomplishments lie on the other side of two graves, but they call you special. They call you hero.

You wish they wouldn't. You were barely a survivor, and how can you be a hero when you didn't save a single one of them?

Not one.

The first time you died went like this: your heart stopped, and your brain stopped, and your breathing stopped, and you were glad, because you finally understood what it means to have failed.

You told the same story to what may have been a hundred people or just one. The maws came, your squad died, you ran, you burned, and you killed the maw that killed your squad.

You didn't tell them about the pain, how it seemed like a living thing inside your body, how it talked to you in the quiet hours between interviews, when everyone thought you were sleeping but really you were waiting to die.

You did die, don't you remember?

For two days you held on, even though you didn't know why after the first few hours — what was there to reach for? Not your squad, they were all dead; not for yourself, because in the face of that much pain, there was no you, just furtive moments of relief in between greater spasms. But you held on, you hero, you survivor, because you didn't know what else to do.

When the rescuers finally came, you died. Right there, in the burned-out carcass of a Mako. You died, reeking of blood and shit and fear. You had vomited too, more than once, and the rescuers were relieved when your heart stopped beating, because at least they wouldn't have to put you back together. No survivors, the report would say, a few tears would be shed and then the file would be sealed.

That way would have been kinder. The rescuers saw what happened to you and to all the people you couldn't save. They wanted you to rest. You deserved it, they told each other, over your twitching, ruined body.

And then you started breathing again.

Why did you do that?

You don't know, do you? And oh, that scares you, that takes your spine and twists it, because you don't know why your heart started to beat again — but you do know that you wish it hadn't.

So when the doctors asked you what you remembered, you said I remember pulling the trigger. I remember killing the maw.

They believe you.

You didn't see what the rescuers pulled out of the rocks, so it's not really a lie.

Your mentor's a matriarch now, or she will be at midnight in three days' time, so you ask for leave, and are granted it. No one refuses you much these days, golden girl, hero, they smile and tell you they'll do everything in their power, because no one wants to be remembered as the person who got in your way. Akuze was only two years ago, but everyone remembers the headlines: Squad Massacred, Sole Survivor Rescued. You drag Akuze behind you, a rank pelt thrown over your shoulders.

You smile back and tell them it's all right. You thank them, and try not to notice how their hands shake when you walk away. The word came down from high up — you get what you want, when you want it.

That's not entirely true, and you're aware of this the way you're aware of how your path has been laid out for you. You get what you want so long as it's good press, because you're not just a hero, you're flashy lights and colors and most importantly, you're a distraction from whatever the Alliance doesn't want the rest of the galaxy to see. You wonder what went wrong, what disaster is greasing the wheels to make this trip a reality, what disaster the headlines from Akuze were used to cover up, and then you wonder when you got so cynical.

You don't wonder long.

Of course they say yes, and you get your leave, and you head for Thessia by way of the Citadel, and the whole way there you try to be excited but you can't unclench your fists, and you can't seem to smile.

You are a spectacle, a useful, glittering spectacle. The fact that an asari matriarch calls you the closest thing to a daughter only makes the show more impressive.

Don't forget: all shows end. If you don't die on a battlefield, you will outlive your usefulness.

Never forget it.

The shuttle stops on the Citadel for three hours on its way to Thessia, and you take the time to buy a dress.

This is where the trouble will find you, though you don't know it yet. You don't know enough to savor these last few moments of peace; you're free and as healed as you'll ever be, and though you're scarred by your failure and by the voices that scour your dreams, you're learning to forgive yourself.

You are a human woman with dark hair and pale eyes, and that means many eyes will slide over you without seeing you, and that's fine, because you want to pass unknown and unnoticed through the bright thoroughfares on the Presidium. You keep your hood up and wear your hair loose around your face, and no one gives you a second look.

When you see the dress, you stop in your tracks. You are a soldier, so people will tell you that you have no business loving beautiful things, just breaking them. You never listen to them; you'll always love beautiful things, like your mother's laughter and your mentor's eyes when they catch the setting sun and the unbearable bright taste in the back of your throat when you use your biotics.

You love the dress like it was made for you. It is velvet and lace and tulle, the kind of dress that not just calls attention but arrests it, and you think, if I'm a spectacle, I'll be a damn good one.

There are dresses in the shop that would cling to your body like men once clung to sinking ships, but this dress is yours, like your skin is yours, or your teeth, or the freckles on your cheeks. You'll have this dress or none at all. It feels alive when you try it on, not like armor but a second skin, and you smile at your reflection. Slowly, at first, because you've lost the trick of it, but as you spin in a slow circle, your smile settles on your mouth, finally at home there, and you think yes, yes, I'm still here, I still have work to do, I'm still alive.

You pay for the dress with the money your mentor insists on sending you, and take pictures of it to send to your mother, laughing and making faces at yourself in the mirror. It's the first laugh to leave your mouth in two years that wasn't drawn out by force, and the sound startles you. You look around, searching for the woman who made that noise, but it was you. You laughed, like you have every right to be a woman laughing on the Presidium, taking pictures to make her mother smile.

This is the first time you realize you're almost ready to begin living, and that the long business of hating yourself for surviving is done. Take these tentative steps forward. Untie the knots that have found their way around your ribs and breathe. You lived. Maybe there's no sin in that.

You're still laughing when the trouble finds you. It comes disguised as a smiling Alliance official, who leads you to a featureless, private room, the dress draped over your arms in a black bag. There are soldiers guarding the door, because you are precious, hero, and too valuable to stand guard over yourself. One of them, a man who laughs too easily to have yet killed anyone, jokes about corpses and body bags. They offer to take the dress and hold it in a safe place, but you shake your head and clench your fists in the fabric. How quickly it has become the symbol of all that you have wanted, of the peace that you know is even now slipping away from you.

You already know you'll never wear the dress. You won't be at the party. You're a soldier, and you came back from death for this: to be aimed, like a weapon in a pitiless hand. So savor these last few minutes, and imagine what it would have felt like to knock the dust of a dead world from your feet.

When the door opens, a grey woman steps through. She is the Major, the rat in the walls of ICT, and she only speaks when you have reached the final test. But you know she's been watching you, and before she opens her mouth you know what she's going to say.

You're ready. A weapon always is.

Hello, hero. Here's your reward. From now on, whenever someone's drowning, they'll call your name with their last breath before they slip under.

You can say no, of course you can, but aren't your dreams already full of the voices you left behind? There's simply no more room. You have to say yes.

Say yes, sir. Remember to be useful.

Yes, sir.

Here is what they want you to do: you must kill five men. These five men were once Alliance soldiers. Now they say that something rotten within the Alliance captured them, experimented on them, tortured them.

It doesn't matter if they're liars. They stole from the Alliance — scientists, technology — and when the Alliance wouldn't negotiate, those five men began to kill the scientists. And then, they killed the infiltration team sent to rescue the scientists.

Now they're sending you, to snuff these men out like candles, and leave nothing but smoke behind.

You're clearing the way for the real heroes. You, golden girl, they can deny, if you aren't as useful as they want you to be.

Whose point are you being used to prove? You'll never know, and you don't ask. You slip silently aboard the first of many ships that will take you to your destination, and hide in the shuttle bay.

You've left behind all that you are. You wear no uniform, no tags, no markings of rank. The Alliance scrubbed you clean as they could before you left, and only someone who knows your scars would be able to recognize you. You have no gun, no omnitool, and your amp is an anonymous model that hisses whenever you try to test the spike. All you have is a knife and the power riding your nerves.

Any more high tech than that, and they'll be able to see you coming a mile away, the Major told you. We're slipping you in under the radar. She paused, a grey smile creasing the skin at her eyes. Enemy casualties are not a concern.

You nodded, and strapped the knife to your thigh. You tap the hilt now, in the dark. It's a good blade, perfectly balanced, but never tested. You have nothing in common with this knife. You aren't good, you aren't balanced, and oh, how you have been tested.

Favored daughter, you have been unmade. They have orphaned you among the stars, and they will only take you back if you succeed. So don't fail them, or you'll never be welcomed home.

You whisper your name in the dark bellies of ships. This is who you are, these fragile syllables; see how far they travel in these places where there is no light. If you die on this mission, there will be no attempt to find your body. They'll bury an empty coffin and make all the right noises, and they'll wash you from their hands. At least this space will know who you are, until the last of you is cleaned from the air and walls.

You've arrived. Take one last look at yourself. Stare until your features blur and you don't recognize your own face.

There. Now you're ready.

The first man you kill is asleep. He was strong once, now he's grey-skinned and run to fat. He snores. In a fair fight, he still would have beaten you in less than two minutes.

This isn't a fair fight. You're quick about it; he never wakes up, not even when you take your good blade and cut open his throat. You're efficient; you're out of the room before his blood spills to the floor.

You find the second man easing himself out of a utility duct. He's fixing the air filtration unit, swearing to himself over his singed fingers. Bad luck; he turns around before you bury your blade in the back of his neck. He's fast, and throws a punch that catches you on the side of the head. You grey out, long enough for him to smash his elbow into your nose. Use the pain. Everything is useful. Clench your hand into a fist, and slam that fist forward in a storm of blue light.

The man's neck snaps when he hits the far wall. His hands twitch, and he tries to say something, but the word is lost between his brain and his mouth before he can form it completely.

There are footsteps, heading fast in your direction. Keep the knife ready. You're going to have to fight.

Were you hoping this mission would finish the job? It would be better that way, if you were laid to rest on a planet with a number instead of a name. Die for your family. The Alliance is your family. There can be no greater service than dying in its name.

You're not done yet, hero. Get up. Get ready to fight. You're a weapon.

You don't get to stop.

The third man is smart. He brings a gun. And he doesn't bother to hide the sound of his steps, because he knows he's just as dead as you are if he fails.

Maybe this is why the infiltration team died. They wanted to live too much. You know better.

He'll try to force you back into the ventilation shaft and trap you there. Smart move. If you can't form the mnemonics, you're dead. But you don't need those, do you? Not really. You were trained for moments like this. All you need is a good spike.

You listen. The footsteps are close, getting closer. He's carrying a shotgun. At this range, he almost can't miss — but he's careful, and he wants to make sure he won't.

You wait until you hear his footsteps stop, and then you blow your corona out in a burst that fries your new amp, and now all you smell is burning hair. Your hair, burning. Now your skin is burning too.

It doesn't surprise you at all, how little those smells bother you.

Now you're free, and the third man is sprawled on his back, with his shotgun out of reach. You leap out of the shaft and cover the ground between your body and his. He's managed to sit up when you get there, and kicks your knees as you try to pivot out of his reach.

You go down.

Fight harder. You have a job. Do your job.

When you get up, he has his shotgun again.

Don't stop.

The third man fires. The shot goes wild, two feet to your left, and you grab the barrel. It's hot, your hand burns through your gloves. Use it. You've already burned, and you'll burn again. Use it.

You twist the barrel to the side, sharp as you can. He tries to fire again, but you both know the heat sink's too hot. You hear a dry click, then you slam the barrel back against his gut and drive him down to his knees.

Your gazes meet. There is nothing in this man you recognize. You're strangers, and he'll die never knowing who killed him. That doesn't matter. What you both know is that very little actually separates you, the same way that there's only semantics and time between a vaccine and a disease.

He smiles right before you smash your forehead into his, then the smile slips away and he slides to the floor. You could leave him there, but you know what the Alliance wants: they want this mess cleaned up. No thieves will be allowed to live.

Your boots are steel-toed. It takes one kick to cave in his skull, and you're almost certain he doesn't feel it.

You hit him too hard. Your vision wavers, grey at the edges, and the skin above your eyes is split wide open. Every other step you take, you have to wipe blood out of your eyes. Don't rush. Take your time. Blink back the headache and the grinding pulse at the base of your skull.

Listen. Do you hear how silent the base has gotten?

Someone is screaming. Someone is dying.

No, that's not right. You're the one who's screaming, survivor. You've never stopped.

Keep walking. Wipe away the blood.

He's waiting for you, the fourth man, using his body to block the last door. There's dirt on his face and grimed into his knuckles, his faded uniform filthy with it.

You face him from the end of the hallway.

We'll let them go. The scientists. You can leave. Just get the hell out of here. We're already dead.

You don't reply. Your tongue is stuck to the roof of your mouth. You've been struck dumb.

He drops his pistol, and pulls a knife from a sheath on his arm.

Just go.

You come at him at a run.

The less said about what you do to each other, the better.

Say it anyways. Be a good little songbird for the Alliance. They'll want to hear every note, every drop of blood as it splashed to the floor. Was yours darker than his? Did you make a sound when he opened your cheek from mouth to ear?

You did, you did. You cried out, an ice-grey sliver of sound, and if there's any beauty in this universe, it's the beauty of pain and loss. They're the only things you'll share with anyone, after all.

So open your mouth and sing about how you snapped his wrist before you drove your knife into his thigh and tore him open. It doesn't matter that you made a mess. You're clearing the way. The real heroes will follow the bodies you leave behind.

Don't ask, don't wonder if that will ever change.

Sing, little bird. Sing of how he scratched at your armor with bloody fingers as you shoved him away. You are just as dead as he is. How else could you do your job?

Take his gun. Open the door. Finish it.

The fifth man

The fifth

The truth is, you barely remember Toombs. He wasn't destined for great things like you are, but he worked hard, and he never shirked an order once it was given. His obituaries said what they could, called him a brave soldier, a good friend, but you couldn't confirm or deny any of it. You served with him for two years, and never knew anything about his family. He wasn't Cropper, or Hamato, or Phillips. He wasn't your friend, he was in your shadow and now he's standing in front of you with a gun held to a weeping man's temple.

Toombs asks you to listen.

Listen. Don't listen. Your back is on fire and the sky is laughing at you. Swallow the blood in your mouth, swallow it down and pray to die. You killed the maw but it killed your squad. They're all dead. You saw them. You smelled them as they burned and as the acid washed their bones clean. Some of them were buried under rock and some fell into cracks in the earth and you were not supposed to live. But you did.

You weren't supposed to leave anyone behind. But you did.

He says your name. He begs you to listen.

They tortured me. Please, stop them. They'll do it again. He licks his lips, and presses the muzzle of his pistol deeper into the scientist's head. We only took the ones who hurt us. We left the good ones behind. I promise. We don't want to hurt anyone.

Both of you were dead, both of you came back. The difference is that you came home. He did not.

He swallows.

The scientist sobs, the sound weaker with every breath. There's only so much terror a human can suffer without going mad, or falling so deeply into themselves that they'll never crawl back out. You know this. Toombs knows this.

But you can still go home. As long as you finish your job.

You lift the gun, and Toombs starts to laugh.

Right. Because there can only be one survivor, right? And it won't be me. Not after this. He shoves the scientist aside, and turns his gun on you. Maybe it will. Maybe I can still —

Later, you'll say that you saw his finger tighten on the trigger before you fired. You believe it.

One shot. You're the sole survivor again.

Put the gun down. Start walking. Wipe away the blood.

Your orders were clear: be gone before the rescue teams arrive. Head back for the window you came in. Move. Don't slip in the blood.

The scientist catches your arm as you turn to leave.

What's your name?

You can't give him your rank, or your name — not the one everyone knows, at least. So you give him your first name, the one your laughing mother gave you, and his tear-stricken face breaks into a smile.

You are the oath of God, he tells you. You saved my life.

No, you didn't. You didn't save anyone. You were never here.

Keep walking. Don't listen. He's not saying anything worth hearing, and you'll never see him again.

That's a lie.

You did your job. Now you aren't just a hero, you're a legend, and people watch you as if they expect fire to spread from your footsteps.

There'll be rumors about what you did to reach N7. The candidates will whisper that you held off a squad of batarians single-handedly for three days, or they'll say that you broke up a slaver ring with nothing but a Striker III and your biotics. Oh, the things they'll say. The things they'll believe.

People will believe anything. You believed you'd be whole someday, and that you would come home. How does that taste, survivor? Home is a foreign country, and your family whispers behind their hands as you pass.

Did they know who waited for you on the other side of the door?

You wonder. You'll always wonder. But it would make sense, wouldn't it? This last mission is meant to test your resolve, to plunge you into the flames and await the shape you take when you come out the other side. They asked, can you?

The answer was yes, you can. It's always yes.

Yes, sir.

Of course they knew. It doesn't make sense, it makes symmetry. The Alliance loves symmetry. You're your own closed circle. Shut the door on yourself. Amputate what is dead and dying and rise up, rise up and sing.

Make sure you hit all the right notes. Tell the truth, but not the whole truth, or they'll bury you alive. Stay useful. Don't tell them that you should have turned the gun on yourself once you used it on Toombs. Don't tell them you wake every morning with aching eyes and your fingertips raw from your teeth. Tell them the job is done, and that you've left the galaxy a little brighter.

Welcome home.

Of course this is home. Where else could you go? What else could you do? You've done unspeakable things in the name of your family, and if you try to run, they'll bring you down and snap your bones in their jaws. This isn't family. They own you, down to the tears you will not shed.

Thank them when they tell you that you passed. Smile. No, not like that. Hide your teeth. You're a songbird, not a wolf.

There's no rescue coming, not for you, golden girl. Do your job.

You bury the dress in storage on the Citadel. Your mentor never asks what you spent her money on, just settles the bill without comment.

When you come across the pictures of you wearing it in the dressing room, you delete them. You never send them to your mother.

In two weeks, by the time your ripped face heals into a scar — and oh, the stories they tell about that scar, the songs they sing about how you got it — you'll have forgotten the dress completely.

This is what saves you: a ship, a mission, and a squad. They know of you, but soon they will know you, and in spite of that, they'll follow you. They'll love you, they'll love each other. There'll be six, and then there'll be five, but you'll forgive yourself for the one you have to leave behind.

You will, you will. You don't believe it now. Don't even try; it's not possible yet. But that day is coming.

And then you'll die. Again.

The second time you die goes like this: you burn, you fall, you freeze. Someday, you'll remember everything that came after.

I've got you, he says.

A lantern in the night, the last warm place in the cold between the stars, a path to guide you home. Cling to this. Keep it safe. Cup your hands around it and don't let the light go out.

Don't. You stand in the mouth of darkness, but as long as the light still shines, you won't be alone.

And remember this: they do not own you.

Are you tired yet of dying?

Of course you are. But it's not quite so heavy now, is it? You're good at being the hero. There it is, your curse. You're meant to survive.

Stand up a little straighter. Breathe in a little deeper.

It'll be over soon. Just a little bit longer.

A date. Dancing, drinks, debauchery. Does this mean you'll dress up too? he asks.

Keep smiling at him. Don't answer. Wait until he laughs and shakes his head, then kiss him. You don't pray, but you are thankful that he's stayed with you for so long, and followed you through all the dim and silent spaces this galaxy has offered you.

He presses his forehead to yours and leaves, the last refuge you have, the one thing you have sworn to keep safe in this war.

Hurry, don't keep him waiting. There's not much time left in the galaxy. It's already slipping through your fingers, but you're not afraid. The worst has already happened to you, and you're finally who you need to be. You're ready.

The dress looks like it did when you bought it, almost seven years ago. Its layers of velvet and tulle are warm under your hands, and when you try it on, it still fits.

Of course it does. It's been waiting for you to be ready to wear it, waiting for you to understand that you're meant to live, favored daughter or not. For all your scars and failures, you're not beyond forgiveness. You will be redeemed.

The last time you die goes like this: