The ship was so quiet now. The crew were no less busy than usual, the hum of the engines just as loud, but the voices that were always there . . . that were supposed to be there . . . weren't.
Come back alive . . .
Shepard carried her burden in one loose hand, its thin curvature pulling her toward the ground but she knew that if she sat down now she'd never get back up.
Such a small thing to be so heavy.
She palmed the door open and stood motionless, staring at the seemingly innocuous objects that lay on her desk:
A datapad with the formula for the genophage cure typed out on it.
A carved wooden box with a stone inlaid in the lid, from Tuchanka.
A leather jacket.
A purple face mask.
A book of poems.
A blue ribbon, given to her so long ago. So they'd match, she'd said.
And now a blue Kuwashii visor.
It took a long time for her to put that one with the others.
It'd be an awfully empty galaxy without you.
The emptiness that had been eating away at her since she was pulled off Earth was being chased away by a wave of hurt and anger an pain that she knew she didn't want to feel. It would be all-consuming, it would show no mercy, and part of her didn't want it to. It would make this easier, at least.
a three-fingered hand in hers, sticky with blood from a massive charred wound in his side, a strangled scream, "Hold on, god dammit, don't leave me!" and she realized the choked, wracking sobs were coming from her
She sat down at her desk and touched each object in turn, her fingers trembling as she reached the last one: her old trusty Carnifex, there with her through so much. There for her now when she needed it most. She turned it over in her hands.
Such a small thing to be so heavy.