This story has been a work in progress for a long time, so I hope people enjoy it. The Shepard here is Val Shepard, who's appeared in a number of my other fics (and in my avatar), but my intent is for this story to read clearly without knowing my other work.
All the thanks to theherocomplex and probablylostrightnow for dedicated beta-reading, cheerleading, and hand-holding as I stressed about this.
We pick up right at the end of ME3.
Shepard fires her gun—but this isn't her gun, is it? She dropped her gun, or lost it. She's not sure when. A while ago. She doesn't remember where this one came from. It doesn't matter. It fires, and that's all she needs. She aims the gun and pulls the trigger, and there's fire, red fire that blossoms around her, fire and smoke pouring out of a mess of wires. The smoke stings her nose and throat, and the fire's too bright, it hurts her eyes
(She always liked watching fire, liked the crackling flames of her apartment fireplace, clean and bright.)
She closes her eyes, and wipes her arm under her nose. There's blood on her face, blood in her nose, blood running down her arm. Her mouth tastes of blood. The side of her head throbs in time with her heartbeat. She tries to catalog her injuries. Ribs hurt, arm hurts, thigh hurts, head hurts — it would be easier to say what doesn't hurt. Her skin feels hot. Burned maybe. Her brain throbs. Amp overload. Too much biotics. She tries to take a step, but her legs won't work right.
She falls. Her knee hits the deck, her thigh, her shoulder, her back, each impact jarring her head and her arm and her side and everything else that hurts. Everything hurts. She stays down. It's cooler to lie on the deck, the metal is cold and hard against her back, against her legs, against her head. Air passes over her head in a vast rush, hot and then cold. Her armor doesn't feel right. Something's cracked and something's poking into her ribs. Every breath takes a greater effort. She has to think about it, now in, now out.
It's getting harder to think. If she stops thinking, will she stop —
Her father used to tell her myths and stories. He told her that Valkyries come for the fallen. Valkyries take slain heroes to their rest, to feasting and glory. She forces her lungs to open and waits for the Valkyrie. She deserves one, doesn't she? This time she can see her death coming. She knew it was coming all the time, but for a while she pretended she didn't. Now she can't pretend any more, but it's taking so long to come.
Cold. It's so cold. Wasn't it too hot? Did she black out for a while? She's not sure. Isn't she supposed to be dead by now? She's not sure. Only that she's cold. Too cold to move, she can't feel her hands or feet any more, can't tell if she's still in armor. Can't tell where she is, or whether her eyes are opened or closed. She can't see anything. Are her eyes closed or is it dark? Where is everyone? She can't speak, can't move, pinned in place or too frozen. Something is twisting, something is falling, all around her, pushing her, forcing her, crushing her.
Oh. She can feel after all. That hurts. She tries to cry out as she is bent and compressed by the forces bearing down on her. Everything hurts, everything burns, every fiber of what's left of her body, muscle and bone and skin, could sear away into a puff of ash, threads stretched too tight and heated beyond their ability to bear, annihilating her as they go. She tries to cry out, but she can't hear her own voice. She reaches, frantic, for something, anything to hold onto. If she holds on, maybe the Valkyrie will come. Maybe it will stop hurting. She grabs and pulls and reaches with every spark of will she has. She's always been stubborn. Pig-headed, her mother said, strong-willed, her teachers said, insubordinate, her first CO said. Dad never seemed to mind, though. She asked him why the Valkyries didn't get to be heroes, too, and he spun her stories of Brunhilda the Valkyrie. Dad liked to call her his Valkyrie, but she couldn't reach him in time. Always the wrong place at the wrong time. Mindoir, Elysium, Eden Prime, Alchera, Bahak. A whole string of wrong places, wrong times, but she never lets go once she gets there.
The Valkyrie has to come for her. She's done enough. She did good. Anderson said so. Is there a bar in Valhalla? There has to be, right? She wants a drink. Maybe if she holds on until the Valkyrie comes.
She just has to hold on.
