Title: A Reason to Hope.
Summary: A batarian struggles to cope and adjust to the Reaper War after the fall of Khar'shan and the loss of his family.
Notes: This is something I wrote a few months ago, in one sitting late at night in a hotel room while out of town. I've since taken the time to do a bit of editing, and I like this version better. It wasn't changed much, just a little more added and improved upon.
Rating: T; violence, brief descriptions of war, post-trauma of a batarian refugee.
Disclaimer(s): Mass Effect and its characters belong to Bioware, with the exception of my unnamed batarian character.
2186
A bright, blinding light, a deafening explosion, and then nothing for a long time after.
It was several days before he awoke. His head hurt, his body ached, and he couldn't seem to recall why he was suddenly on the Citadel surrounded by some of his own people, but also strangers of other races.
Mostly turians and humans, and he didn't care much for either.
Yet he didn't complain as they helped him, making him comfortable, easing his pain; he even managed a weak word of thanks every now and then.
He asked for his family; his wife, his son and daughter. They knew nothing, didn't recognize the names he gave them, couldn't assure him whether or not his loved ones were safe and sound.
He didn't like this, didn't like being in such an unfamiliar place, didn't like lying around uselessly in pain while not knowing where his wife and children were.
What had that bright light been? What had caused that explosion? What had happened to Khar'shan, the batarian population? He didn't like to consider that his home planet had met the same fate as the Bahak System some odd months earlier.
He wasted no more than four days resting. He needed to move, find out for himself about his family.
When he asked around, giving their names, their ages, anything useful, he was crestfallen when he found nothing.
He didn't know what to do now. He detested Citadel Space but despite hostilities between the Citadel and the batarians, the doctors working in the refugee camp had been very kind to him. He wasn't about to be ungrateful for it.
He swallowed his pride and helped out where he could. Transporting food and medicine, assisting the elderly, reuniting separated families. He noticed the strange looks he received - a batarian voluntarily helping others, without expecting anything in return? - but he ignored them. Better to keep his mind busy for the moment.
He accepted when he was offered a job in Citadel security. They were impressed by his interactions with incoming refugees, and felt he could be useful in keeping the situation organized and under control.
He was surprised when he found satisfaction in the job. It wasn't easy, but there was always something to do, more so recently because of the war. Aside from refugees, he spoke to others only when necessary, was solitary and reserved, but managed to get along decently with his colleagues, who were friendly but understood his need for distance.
He didn't - couldn't - forget his family. He had his doubts but he wanted to be hopeful they were out there somewhere, alive, in a secure haven in a safe zone of Khar'shan. He would not give up on them.
He was able to distract himself during the day, when activities within the refugee camp occupied most of his time. Sick people, hurt people, people who had been driven from their homes by the Reapers. People he felt a strange sense of empathy for.
The night was a different story. He tried to sleep but when he did, his dreams were plagued by nightmares of that bright light and the explosion. He'd see his wife and two children, all lying on the ground in front of him, faces stained with blood and skin blackened with burns. Another bright light, this one a deep red; he looked up, just as the beam became blinding. He felt an intense flare that lasted barely a second, before everything was lost to him.
He'd wake up shaking, skin covered in sweat, fear mixed with uncertainty mixed with sadness and anger.
Was his family dead? Had his subconscious convinced him of that because of their absence? He refused to believe it, but reality reminded him it had been five months since the destruction of Khar'shan. What was the probability that they were still alive?
Probably much less than what he prayed for.
In sleep one night, he had returned to Khar'shan. It took a moment to recognize his own homeworld. He didn't know where to begin to describe the calamity that surrounded him, from the rubble of collapsed buildings, to fires burning and fading. He couldn't so much as identify what part of the city he was in.
With a glance around, he took in the battle being waged in the area, and no doubt most of the planet. Reapers that towered over the tallest skyscrapers, some slightly smaller but still colossal compared to the batarians. The creatures that were once batarians, now indoctrinated, mutated slaves labeled "Cannibals", attacked their own people, who were opposing the Reapers and their forces desperately, with little, if any, effect against them.
Some were hiding, others evacuating, if possible. He wasn't sure where to go from there, but he knew a way out to escape. Maybe the Citadel. He hated the thought of that but it would be safe there, for himself and his family.
Where were they? They were just with him seconds ago, following close to him. He fought back the panic that threatened to seize control of him, forcing himself to stay calm.
He quickly caught sight of them, several yards away. When had they been separated? He hadn't even noticed when they had slipped right from his hands. Shouldn't he have?
Those monsters, the Cannibals, had hold of them. He felt the natural impulse to run to them, get his wife and children out of their grip, but he was somehow locked in place. He watched, helplessly, as they tore apart his family and devoured them. He shouted at them, begged them to stop; if they could understand him, they didn't listen, and if they knew he was there, they ignored him.
He was jolted from his sleep by the sound of alarms and, further away, gunshots. He kept still a moment, trembling as if cold, the images from the dream vivid as it would be if it were happening right in front of him. He knew it wasn't real, knew it was only a product of a nightmare fueled by fear and trauma, but that didn't make it any less horrific to him.
He forced those thoughts away with a shake of his head, becoming alert to the danger the Citadel was in and grateful for the wake-up call. He joined other C-Sec officers moving towards the gunshots. Like them, he had his weapons out and ready, shields charged to protect him against damage from enemy fire.
Near the docking bay was where a battle took place. He could see the enemies were exclusively human, most clad in heavy white armor. He noticed a familiar symbol on each of them, resembling a black parentheses inside a set of gold. A symbol well-known to and scorned by most of the galaxy.
Cerberus.
He helped to fight them off. He caught glimpses of familiar faces throughout the Citadel: Bailey, Williams, Verner. He spared little more than a second of a glance, more focused on keeping Cerberus away from the refugees.
The battle was over within a few short hours. Cerberus was gone; whatever was their purpose for being here had failed.
The reasons didn't matter to him. He returned to the camp, where he was assured that no refugees had been hurt.
He was struck then by the thought that, even without his family with him, he still had resolve, a cause to go on, people to care about and look out for.
Batarians weren't known for being soft or sentimental, and he didn't outwardly show his concern for the refugees (most of the time), but he couldn't deny to himself that he was proud of the work he'd done here.
Khar'shan was just the first planet to be taken or devastated. Earth followed, then Palaven, and later Dekuuna, Irune, Thessia. Tuchanka and Heshtok still stood but both were infested with Reaper ground troops. Rannoch was safe after a Reaper had been defeated there, Sur'Kesh remained completely untouched, and Kahje had been spared by well-designed defenses and a bit of luck.
He noticed the galaxy slowly coming together as one. Alliances that were once thought to be unlikely or impossible were formed: geth and quarian, krogan and turian, human and batarian. Asari, salarian, volus, elcor; rachni, vorcha, hanar, and drell; mercenary gangs formerly feared on Omega; an ancient race older than the Reapers called Leviathan; colonies from every corner of the galaxy.
He wouldn't have believed it if he weren't seeing it for himself, a sense of unification among all throughout the Milky Way, preparing themselves and each other to combat the greatest threat they had ever known.
He wasn't sure what to think when he learned that, under the command of a batarian named Balak, his people were to play their part in the struggle against the Reapers. At the end of the war, if he lived to see it, he would be proud to say that he and his people had contributed to the fall of the Reapers.
Then again, did they even stand a chance? The asari were the most advanced race in the galaxy, and the turians had the strongest military, but the asari homeworld Thessia had fallen, and the turians' Palaven was barely holding on, even with sturdy krogan support.
He would not express his reservations. He believed it was weakness to do so. When the war effort was ready, he would take up arms with the rest of the galaxy and decimate the Reapers to the best of his ability.
He approached the memorial wall in the refugee camp. People of various other races were scattered there, from humans to turians to asari, even a small number of quarians and krogan. He saw many familiar faces, both refugees and other C-Sec officers.
From his pocket, he pulled out three pictures, let his eyes pass over them.
The first was of he and his wife on their wedding day. Batarians weren't considered attractive by most but to him, his wife was more beautiful than any other. Not even the asari could compete. He missed her, so much it physically hurt to think too much about her.
The second was of his wife, five years after their marriage, just as beautiful as the day they wed. She had loved to read, and in this photograph, she was seated in one of the armchairs of their home, her favorite novel opened in front of her. She looked relaxed; the memory of such peaceful times was comforting to him.
The third and last was of he, his wife, and their son and daughter; a family photo, taken after ten years together. His son was six years old, his daughter two. He resembled his father, while she looked like her mother.
He stepped back once he had added their pictures to the wall. Part of him was hesitant to do this, to let go of the only thing he had left of them, but he knew that wasn't true. He remembered what his wife's voice sounded like. His son's humor. His daughter's smarts.
He sighed, managed a small smile. A fellow C-Sec officer, a turian, stepped up next to him, asked if he was okay.
For the first time in months, he could answer that he truthfully was okay.
He was surprised to realize that, when he arrived on Earth for the final battle to assist the ground forces, he was saddened to see that the human homeworld was in the same condition as Khar'shan.
He fought beside his comrades of his own and other races. Human, turian, krogan, asari, quarian, geth. All coordinating and cooperating, sometimes defensive, sometimes taking the offense, nothing staying constant.
And yet, the tide never turned in their favor. Where one Reaper creation fell, two more took its place. Not just Cannibals, but turian creatures called "Marauders", asari demons known as "Banshees", turian-krogan hybrids designated as "Brutes". They were nothing like anything he had ever fought, and it was almost overwhelming.
And horrifying. Not just because of the devastation they dealt, but because of the psychological effect they had on the resistance. He saw the iron will of the turians waver, the asari tremble as they aimed their biotics at the Banshees, the aggression of the krogan soften. The faltering of their vigor gave the Reapers an advantage their adversaries could not afford.
He often took the lead in combat, finding bravery somewhere within, solidifying his resolve. The others seemed to take courage from that, following his lead. Strategies developed and trust grew, something he, as a batarian, never expected to say about other aliens.
He wasn't sure how much time had passed as people fought and fell around him. His strength grew with minor victories, and it took all of his determination to keep fighting despite all the carnage and death. More than a few times, he was nearly killed himself, no matter how alert and cautious he was.
Then something seemed to shift, as a wave of red washed over the Reapers and their creations. The husks, the Marauders, the Cannibals, all of them, were incinerated where they stood, while the Reapers fell to the ground, throwing up dust and debris.
A lull seemed to fall over the vicinity, all in disbelief, witnessing something too good to be true. The battle was over. The resistance had won.
There were cheers. Guns dropped as people were brought to their knees with relief and joy. People patted each other on the back, hugs were shared, and tears were shed.
He didn't join in, but stared at the downed Reapers with satisfaction in his eyes and pride in his heart.
2188, one year after the conclusion of the Reaper War
The ship was quiet, hardly a sound, a tiny whisper of conversation, but otherwise silence.
They were nervous, scared, of what they would find. It had been over a year since they had last seen their homeworld; they should be triumphant that they could reclaim it at last, but they couldn't say in all honesty if they were looking forward to it.
They still weren't fully prepared when they felt the thump of the ship touching down on bare ground.
One small group at a time stepped out, until every batarian on the ship was in the open.
Destruction, and so much of it. This particular area couldn't even be called a city anymore. Most of the planet probably looked similar, the Reapers having obliterated everything; even the sturdiest of buildings hadn't held against their powerful beam weapons. Structures in pieces, scorch marks left behind from long-dead fires, bones scattered about everywhere one looked.
Not a trace of the Reapers remained but for the damage they had left in their wake, and the memories of the batarians fighting their own kind on their home planet. The war had been won but it was far from over.
One batarian stood at the edge of the group, looking up at what was left of the city he had grown up in, found love in, made a life for himself in. He felt a chill in his blood as he was able to detect the faint scent of death. He dreaded the clean-up, knowing part of what they would find was an innumerable amount of the deceased, more than they were already confronted with, their corpses nothing but bones.
Reluctantly, he moved with the others into the city limits. Climbing over rubble, he tried not to wonder about what was mere dust and what was the faded remains of the dead as he set out for his old home. Even in such disaster, he'd lived here so long pre-invasion, memory aided him to his front door.
He didn't hesitate to go in; if he did, he'd lose his nerve.
Nothing sustainable was available here. The damage to the interior - the living room, the kitchen, the dining area - was severe enough that nothing could be salvaged. For the most part, he was accepting of that.
He visited the rooms of his children next. Sorrow struck him like a knife, bringing him to his knees. How was he meant to lay his son and daughter to rest? Children were meant to outlive and bury their parents, not the other way around. Part of him felt failure that they were no longer alive, but another told him he was not at fault. His responsibility now was to see that they were given proper service in memoriam.
In his bedroom, he was assaulted by a wave of nostalgia and longing. How many hours did he spend personalizing this place to make it belong to he and his wife? How much time did he dedicate to planning their future together? How many days and nights did he spend with her here, their children a room away each, a family, simply happy?
A framed photograph lying on the floor on the far side of the room caught his eye. Compared to everything else under this roof, with only a small spiderweb crack in the glass from the impact of its fall to the carpet, it appeared intact. He picked it up, carefully, as if it were the most fragile thing he had ever touched.
The picture inside the frame depicted he and his family on a vacation less than two years ago, a week that felt like it had occurred in another life. His young son stood between he and his wife, holding his mother's hand; his daughter, a child of only a year, was in her father's arms, watching the sunset of Camala with her family.
The memory was bittersweet. Painful to see his loved ones alive and well, but also something positive to look back on.
He knew he looked strange for it, but he allowed himself a tiny smile in spite of the situation. He'd lost people he loved, and the hurt would never vanish; who knew how long it would take to repair Khar'shan, for everyone to rebuild their lives?
Fear, grief, despair, but also hope. Life went on. He wanted to be there to see the rest of it.
Notes: I was hoping to see the batarians again in Andromeda, in a better, redeeming light, as most of those shown in the first three games (and other ME media) are presented as a mix of criminals and terrorists. Even as much as they contributed and proved themselves in ME3.
~RS