According to some of the devs on Twitter, the epilogue slides take place 10-15 years after the war, and while I'm sure they didn't mean to include Gilligan's Planet and the Breath scene in that estimate, where's the fun in that? I make no promises as to the quality or maturity of Shepard's thoughts – 15 years is a long time, after all.
It's rated T for now despite Shep's potty mouth, but please let me know if you think I should up the rating to M. And to avoid confusion, there is only one Shepard- the gender just doesn't matter and there isn't a simple "Shepard" category.
Additional credit goes to Friends for the direct use of Phoebe's rendition of "My Favourite Things".
ALLIANCE PERSONELL INDIVIDUAL LOGBOOK
Commander [error:invaliddata] Shepard
Service No: 5293-AC-2826
Previous Entry: [4][16][2179] at Arcturus Station, Arcturus Stream, Milky Way Galaxy
Holy shit, there's a diary on this thing?
[EDIT] [DELETE][NEW]
[NEW ENTRY]
Day 1.
There are no words. How can there be? How can anyone, even the finest wordsmith, describe how I felt, what I felt when I awoke? The pain was—is—immense, but I can take it. Actually, when I woke, I initially felt nothing and feared I'd incurred a spinal injury. But in the next second I felt as though I was a light snack for dull-toothed varren. My relief was immediate, but short-lived. I don't have the medical scans to prove it (damnit I am a marine, I know what wounds look like) but I sustained numerous injuries in the blast or the fall after. Large, ugly burns cover my arms and what parts of my chest not covered by armour. I vaguely remember a chest wound even before the explosion and even though I can't see my face, I know I look like I lost a bar brawl with a krogan.
More important is the destruction around me. I do not know where I am. All I can see is slabs of concrete and metal around me and a blue-grey sky unbroken by clouds above. The visual is similar to the projections of the Citadel, but I seem to recall the Citadel also incurring extensive damage. It is more likely I am on Earth, however far-fetched that sounds.
There are sounds of movement in the distance, but only sounds. I would yell for help, but I must have damaged my vocal chords. I cannot manage much more than a hoarse whisper. I can't move either. My legs are stuffed into a crevice formed by falling debris and I only have one free arm. The other is pinned by a thick metal rod via the remnants of my arm greaves. To remove it, I'd need to take off the whole chest piece.
Even my radio and ear comm is broken. In time, I am su
Day 3.
I lost consciousness part-way through my last entry. If it were not for the counter on my logbook, I would have no way to tell the passage of time. My vision swims. My skin is hot. I worry about infection. Even one open wound could ruin me, and I don't even know how many I have, let alone how severe they are. If help does not arrive soon… well, if help doesn't come soon, nothing will matter anymore.
Day 4.
I am on fire, but I see no fire. I can only feel it. Fire on my skin, in my flesh, in my lungs. Do monsters burn?
Day 6.
This is nice. Peace. The sand is warm, like I imagined it would be, but a cool breeze drifts through occasionally. The water is deep green and clear blue at the same time. It never rains. Best of all, everyone is with me.
I found a sea shell yesterday. It pales in comparison to Mordin's monster, but mine is prettier, so I win. Kasumi "liberated" us some towels from the group down the beach, but the constant presence of Wrex and Grunt keep them and anyone else away. Thane seems especially happy. He likes to pace down the shore, where the water overlaps the sand. I don't understand all his prayers, but I don't need to. Off to the side, Miranda has entered into a sandcastle competition with Kaidan and Ash. Ashley, I can understand, but Kaid and Mir are supposed to be too mature for forts. I'll remember this for the next time either one berates me over my creative pseudonyms for 'cockpit'.
And what would our party be without a bar? Garrus never leaves his barstool, but somehow managed to commandeer all the bendy straws nevertheless. Jacob's more liberal with his stock. I think he charmed the bartender and gets all his for free. Joker tried to teach EDI, Tali, Liara, and Jack (of all people) how to play volleyball, but Legion popped the ball when he tried to serve it and they won't give us another one. Samara and Cortez, oddly, have bonded. They talk often, and sometimes Sam joins them. Vega owns a yellow speedo; calls it a banana hammock, to no one's amusement. Zaeed drug some beat-up lounge chair from out of nowhere and seems to enjoy the view. And, of course, Javik finds everything primitive. I could live like this. Forever.
Day 12.
My dreams of a warm beach were nothing more than that—a dream, a hallucination. Infection set in and I lost all sense of time and place. How I awoke today, I have no idea. Last night I thought I heard scuttling, and then perhaps saw the blinking, beady eyes of a keeper. In light of no other evidence, I am forced to conclude that a keeper ministered the medical aid I needed. It is nonsensical, but there is nothing else. My previous certainty of being on Earth must have been wrong. I am on the Citadel. A keeper has been caring for me and broke the infection that gave me such colourful (peaceful, wonderful) delusions. Is that a blessing, or a curse?
Day 13.
It rained. If I hadn't felt it on my face and drank about half my weight in it, I would be certain I was still hallucinating. There are no drainage systems on the Citadel, there are few windows, and most of the common areas are outdoors because it doesn't rain on the Citadel. It can't rain. They artificially generate a skyline, but they don't bother with proper weather… But the keeper—I was so sure—What else would have cared for me, but still left me where I lay?
Day 14.
I'm ignoring the issue of my location. Ignoring it. It is ignored. I will go insane otherwise. The rubble has shifted. I'm still boxed in by metal and slabs, but I have a bit more room to move now. Still not enough to escape, of course, but clotting won't be an issue, at least. One arm is still pinned, and my voice has not returned. Something drops food to my location every night. I am thoroughly sick of ramen.
Day 20.
My injuries are healing well. Chakwas should be happy I'm finally getting all that rest she's been harping for. Don't ask me how the injuries healing, or how the ointment keeps getting applied in the correct dosages. It's one big mystery.
I hear more noises in the distance. Things are louder now. I hear life. I did it. I stopped the Reapers. I saved someone, at least.
I don't know if I'm happy or sad. Should I be elated or in mourning? I have no idea the total death toll.
Was it worth it?
Day 21.
Was anything worth it?
Day 28.
Is Hackett alive? My crew? The ground team?
What about the ones I left behind: Miranda, Cortez, Grunt—everyone—are they alive?
Is anyone?
Day 33.
I don't think it was worth it.
Day 45.
It was worth it. It was worth it. It was worth it. It was worth it. It was worth it. It was worth it. It was worth it. It was worth it. It was worth it. It was worth it. It was worth it.
It was worth it.
Day 60.
I should be dead. And for once, I don't mean it from a moral stance. I'm not being self-depreciating. I'm being medically logical. From a bitter combination of dehydration, starvation, infection, and the eternally bad too-much-blood-outside-the-body, I should be dead. But I'm not.
I'm not dehydrated, though close to it. I'm not starved, even though ramen hits only one of the requisite food groups only some of the time. I'm not drowning in pus and fever. I haven't bled out. Maybe it's because I am dead. That would solve the above problems, but this hardly seems like any afterlife I've heard of. I guess every religion was wrong.
Day 61.
Damnit, I was promised sea shells, oceans, and drinks. Not cool, universe.
Day 63.
I don't think I'm dead. It should've been obvious, but I've spent two months doing nothing but thinking. I guess 63 days of solitary musings messes with your head. No one there to argue with you—no one to bounce ideas off of, and you can convince yourself of anything.
Day 70.
A keeper stuck its head over the ledge above my thighs yesterday. Good thing I'm not trying to figure out where I am, or that'd throw a krogan-sized wrench into things.
I told it that I'd need at least 2000mL of water a day and different kinds of food. I described that stupid food pyramid every kid learns in school, though I think I might have confused it with the colours. I'm not sure why I did this, but today the same keeper (at least I think it was the same keeper) dropped a jug of water and a bag of those asari root things that taste like yams. I don't even know anymore.
Day 81.
I will not vomit all over myself. I will not vomit all over myself. I will not vomit all over myself.
Day 83.
I figured out why I've felt ill lately. My guardian keeper has been pilfering out of dextro-amino stocks. I only realized when it dropped a packet of nuts with the label still on it. I'll explain the difference the next time I see it.
Or maybe I'll just vomit in its general direction and see if it takes the hint.
Day 95.
They've begun cleaning up. I'm not quite sure who "they" are—they sounded turian, but I could be wrong. I still can't see anything but rubble and sky, and the sounds are way off in the distance, but I'm hopeful. It shouldn't be long until I'm discovered.
Day 117.
Day one hundred and seventeen.
I kept thinking to myself that I'd overestimated my sense of time. I ignored the regular passing of dark and light skies. My fingernails weren't growing—it was a trick of the light and wasn't it odd how quickly the last nick on my knuckle healed. Even my guardian keeper was in on the conspiracy—providing me four or five meals a day!
I didn't want to look at my logbook. If I didn't have the actual numbers flashing in front of me, I wouldn't have to face the fact that it's been 22 days and not a single person—being—whatever has come close to my location. I can hear them. The shriek of metal and the grunts of workers sound day and night, yet no one steps close enough to rescue me from this coffin. I'll take anyone at this point. Khalisah Bint Sinan al-Jilani, Conrad Verner, hell, even Udina's undead body could hold out his hand and I'd take it.
Day 139.
Shouldn't be long.
Day 148.
Any day now.
Day 160.
Tomorrow, I'm sure.
Day 175.
I'm in the pit stain, aren't I? Anderson said that they still hadn't rebuilt the Tayseri Ward two years after Sovereign's attack and that was when the galaxy's industrial centres were still intact. Maybe there's someone like me still trapped over there, waiting for rescue. Keep waiting, buddy, I called dibs.
Unless… Unless I'm on Earth. I'd have to be somewhere urban—too much debris for somewhere rural. And people wouldn't just abandon the smoking hole where their home used to be, would they? I mean, spacers would, sure, but—ah, fuck.
Day 196.
I'm going to eat my way out. I'm Commander Shepard, damnit. I can come back from the dead, I can chew through concrete.
Day 205.
I chipped a tooth today and I cried. To save my pride: it was in that order.
Day 221.
I asked for rope. The keeper brought me licorice. I think it's mocking me. Licorice and peach pits do not make for an effective pulley system.
Day 230.
Neither does an empty thermal clip and human hair.
Day 271.
I rubbed a hole through the heel of my boot trying to erode a hole through the rubble. Tomorrow I'll initiate Plan Q: learn biotics through sheer force of will.
Day 300.
I've run out of alphabet. The quarians have 37 characters in theirs. I think I remember most of it.
Day 327.
I'm not sure why I thought I could suck in my stomach enough to slither out, or why I've spent six days trying. There's ten centimeters of room. My ribs hurt.
Day 352.
I'm not giving up. I can see where some might think that I'm giving up, but they're wrong. I'm starting Plan Uy: Reverse psychology. Also called: trick whatever asshole that keeps putting me in these situations into thinking I don't want to get out of here. This better work (or not!). I can think of anything else.
Day 364.
In four hours, I will have been here (still not thinking about my location) for one year. 365 days. 8760 hours. 525600 minutes. 31536000 seconds. It took me an embarrassingly large number of those seconds to calculate those numbers without a properly functioning omnitool.
(After a year, the only thing still working is this stupid diary. I think my omnitool shorted in the explosion, but it's proving ridiculously difficult to fix with only one free hand. Technology these days…)
I told the keeper about the date yesterday, but it only brought me a mushy potato even though I asked for cake. Well, here's to an obnoxiously long, humid year all alone in the rubble, hoping for rescue. And here's to not having to do it again.
Day 730.
Here's to two obnoxiously long, humid years. And here's a giant middle finger too.
Day 762.
I don't know what's going on. They're building some swoopy glass structure off in the distance. I can see vague salarian/asari/possibly vorcha shapes working on it if I tilt my head all the way back and look straight left. It's hideous, but the workers seem pretty excited about it. And I'm still stuck in the fucking rubble.
Day 787.
Swoopy structure is done. It's been painted some light blue/green colour and they've planted those weird pink trees everywhere (I think Ash called them cherry trees?).
So, to recap: two sets of construction crews, a painting team, and a designer and her entourage have managed to complete an entire damn building without looking a few meters down to the piles of destruction and smoking chaos, and oh yeah, me.
Day 789.
Whoever's in charge of reconstruction needs to get their head out of their ass.
Oh, hey, that's not nice. They've probably been under a great deal of stress. Rebuilding the galaxy takes work, and I can see their plan of action: take their time, get one area completely reconstructed and refurbished, then move on to the next. Suuuuuure. I'd personally try something else—anything really—like at least sorting through all of the rubble first, see if anything can be reused, collect mementos of the dead, rescue fucking survivors. But what do I know of stress? I only slipped out of Earth by a hair, had to figure out a battle plan against giant, metal, near-indestructible space fish, all while reconciling the weight of every single sapient being on my shoulders.
Day 809.
I'm sorry Mr/Mrs Reconstruction Organizer. I'm sorry construction crew. I didn't mean it. Please come back.
Day 821.
Please?
Day 844.
I think they're gone for good. It makes sense they'd focus on the most important areas first, but what's so important about the swoopy thing? What the hell possible purpose could it serve?
Day 873.
I miss coffee.
Day 888.
I'm never getting out of here, am I?
Day 901.
I dreamed I had a conversation with my boot last night. She—it had a feminine voice, so she, I guess—complained about the long working hours. I said there was nothing I could do. Is that how low I've fallen? Even my dreams are boring. Stanley says that's messed up, but what does he know? He's a piece of scrap metal. How much psychology could he know?
Day 935.
I'm not talking to Stanley anymore. He's a fucking jackass. My left cheek is not bigger than my right.
Day 1071.
Stanley apologized. Good. It was getting awkward with me, Stan, and Clarice lying around all day. Honestly. Does Clar have to look so stony all the time?
Day 1110.
Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, doorbells and sleigh bells and something with mittens, la la la something and noodles with string, these are a few of my favourite things.
Day 1279.
My name is Commander Shepard and this is my favourite store on the Citadel. My name is Commander Shepard and this is my favourite store on the Citadel. My name my namemy name is I don't know my name. You have to know your name. Commander? Yes. No. No. Yes. Yes. There it is: Commander. I can breathe now. In. Out. In. Out. My name is Commander Shepard and this is my favourite store on the Citadel.
Day 1400.
You'll nevernevernevernever decipher my code, Cerberus scum. I reveal nothing.
Day 1616.
…
I think I went a little crazy there. Let's just ignore this bit when it comes time for the mandatory post-rescue psych evals, shall we?