The cloud of dust was sifting out of the air. The last rumble of the Crucible had come and gone. Luke Skywalker was aware of many things, but they were all fading away from him like sand being ripped from his fingers by a hot Tatooine wind. Everything was done. Everything was finished. Part of him was very ready to let it slip away.

The only thing that kept Luke's focus was the sound of a voice. A woman's voice. Distant yet perfectly clear.

Luke.

He knew that voice in some innate way. Maybe through the soft rumbling vibrations that came to him before he was born. Maybe some knowledge passed by blood.

Luke, you need to breathe.

His entire body was so achingly heavy. He had fought so hard, down to the very end. Shepard was a few feet away, he knew that much. It was so much easier to let it drift…

You need to breathe, love. They need to hear you.

It took tremendous effort. He wasn't even quite fully aware of the fact he wasn't breathing until he tried to take in a breath. Every fiber of every muscle screamed at him - but the voice guided him on.

The voice of the stranger - the voice of his mother.

They need to hear you. We'll meet soon, love. Soon enough.

The air was thick like syrup with dust and debris, and it came in wet with blood past his lips. Even as he dragged it in, it came out of him again in a half-screaming cough. Pain was enough to bring a certain clarity with it - and the voice was quickly fading.

I'm so proud of you, Luke. So very proud…

He opened his eyes, the slurry of tears and concrete dust making them stick together. A few shafts of light pierced through the rubble. There was a vague electrical snap - it took a titanic amount of effort to turn his head. Oh. His hand. Something had happened to the prosthetic and the synthflesh had been burned away…. and the wiring underneath was partially destroyed as well. A cut connection was snapping and sparking. He didn't realize what had happened to his other hand until he lifted his arm and pushed against the concrete trapping him. That only sent him a strong scream of pain and left a long smear of blood against the rubble. Apparently the same thing had happened to his hand that was still blood and flesh, and it was bleeding profusely, meat of his palm burned away to show tendon and gristle.

And beside him… beside him…

Luke could see the bright stripe on Shepard's armor. Her chest was still rising and falling, though just barely. He couldn't see her face, only a bit of her torso. That was enough. Each breath he managed to drag in hurt like fire, and brought more blood to his lips. The edges of his vision were going to black. A dull feeling of inevitability settled over him.

They need to hear you…

Voices in the far distance. It took him a moment to realize what they were. "Shepard! SHEPARD!" Yes, a search-and-rescue party. The others had survived the last push of the Reapers. That must have meant some measure of success. "SHEPARD!" Deep and reverberating - probably Garrus'. It was too easy to just close his eyes and let the shouts roll over him like the sound of crashing waves on a beach.

Another voice cut in, much closer. More melodic - definitely human. "SHEPARD! …SKYWALKER!" There was no closing his eyes now, not when someone was shouting his name. Kaidan Alenko? Yes, it had to be him.

"SHEPARD! …KID!" That was definitely Garrus, if someone was shouting out Shepard's nickname for him. "ANYONE?"

Very slowly, he curled his flesh-and-blood hand around the edge of a concrete slab laying over him. Suddenly it seemed as if there wasn't enough space to breathe, much less to shout, but Luke tested it - he wasn't getting it off alone. But he had to say something. His mother's words rattled around in his head, bounced around by agitated pain. And finally, he took a deep breath.

"HERE!"

He wasn't entirely sure the word was really recognizable, but it was something - a shout, a scream, an acknowledgement that he was there. Footsteps moving towards him at a run, scrambling on top of the rubble. Purple-blue flash of biotics. More shouting as others were called over. The concrete slab directly above him was lifted up, but already he was starting to lose the detail of the face to the dull glow and darkness.

"Hang on, Skywalker." Definitely Alenko. The other man reached out, grabbing his bloodied hand by the wrist. "Just hang on. Especially because there's no way you're dying on my watch, if I have to explain it to Shepard."

He had just enough energy to crack a weak smile at the joke. Maybe Alenko smiled back. Luke couldn't tell. The other man's voice became more distant and quietly distorted, as if hearing it through water. "Skywalker…? Luke - Luke -"

The silent dark took him.

And months earlier...

Shepard was screaming.

"Just - just hold on! I'm coming! I'm coming!"

Shepard could tell she was dreaming but it didn't make the dream any more pleasant. Her feet dragged as if she was wading through molasses. Her gun seemed to constantly need reloading after every single shot. There was no backup, and it was all left to her. The desperate panic pressed at the back of her neck, smothering and oppressive.

"Skywalker - SKYWALKER! Just hold on, Luke! HOLD ON!" She raised her voice to a scream, her voice going hoarse as she did. Sweat dripped down into her eyes, stinging and burning. Now she couldn't even hear the gentle buzz of a lightsaber, humming underneath the tempo of the gunfire.

She turned to see him. Youthful stature, sandy brown hair, plain black outfit. His weapon was still on his belt. The adversaries - Geth, Batarians, Collectors, Shepard couldn't even remember - weren't interested in shooting him. Instead he stood near the edge of the tall platform, toes of his boots just barely over the edge, shoulders relaxed as if he was about to take a dip into a calm lake instead of plunging into the same abyss that had claimed his father and the human Reaper. Slowly, he turned to face her.

Shepard screamed. She couldn't remember the words, but she screamed so loudly her throat hurt. Her shoulder ached with the familiar sharp sting of a bullet as she desperately dove forward, trying to claw her way over to him. But Skywalker simply smiled benevolently, full of all the kindness that Vader lacked. He was calm and serene. Even his blue eyes were smiling.

"Don't - don't! - Oh God, just wait, I'm coming, kiddo, just wait -"

He spread his arms out and fell backwards, eyes closing, as if he were a tired schoolboy celebrating a chance to sleep in. But there was only the darkness to greet him. The wind whipped around him and he was gone before Shepard even scrambled over to the edge. The only thing that remained was a long banner of black cloth, caught in the air; Shepard reached out to take it. A familiar scrap of cloth - it was the torn piece of cloak that Vader had always hidden behind. But now there was something wrapped in it. A single black leather glove. That damn single black glove that Luke constantly wore.

Her breath caught in her throat. The gunfire behind her was quiet now: it was all too quiet. Each gasp constricted into a half-sob. This wasn't supposed to happen. She had made a promise, but she had done all she could. She turned around to finally stare at the audience she was keenly aware she had now gained.

Shepard couldn't remember all the names, but she knew the faces. Leia, his sister. Han, his best friend. Innumerable more. An entire galaxy's worth. Every single one, staring her down. Shepard took a deep breath and started to say something, but it slipped out of her as a squeak. "I… I didn't…" Another deep breath. "I tried. I tried, I'm so sorry - I couldn't - I couldn't get to him soon enough…" She gulped, and they all continued staring at her accusingly. "I don't know why he jumped - I didn't think - I'm so sorry -"

And his sister simply stared at her, eyes cruel and accusing. She was so elegant compared to Shepard, and it suddenly made the commander feel as if she had reverted to being that awkward spacer kid, all red hair and freckles and knobby knees. Leia's lips parted to deliver what Shepard was sure would be a damning accusation -

Bzzt, bzzt, bzzt.

And Shepard's eyes opened to her omnitool's alarm and the plain beige walls of her apartment. Her dress blues hung on the opposite wall, pressed and prim, ready for her trial. She had laid them out last night. It was a day where she could not afford to be unprepared. She also could not afford to be late, or to be upset, or to be anything less than impeccable. But instead Shepard rolled over, covering her face with her hands, on the verge of tears as the sunlight snuck into her window.