Author's note: Thanks as always to my wonderful beta fongiel. I'm also more than usually indebted to the posters of The Character Room. Any errors are mine.
Warnings: violence, strong language depiction of mental illness, sex between a sixteen and twenty-year old.
Our model was supposed to be pretty, I guess. She had long, straight blonde hair, tan skin without so much as a scar, and big brown eyes. Most of the others guys in class were staring at her like they were wolves and she was a nice, juicy steak. I couldn't. To me, she just looked like every other aspiring actress I'd ever been forced to use as a live model. They all started to blur together after a while. Or maybe my aunt was right and I really did need to see a shrink.
I squinted and studied her a little more carefully. If they were all blurring together, then I wasn't doing my job right. Before she died, Ms. Sarovsky had liked to talk about how portraiture was all about capturing the essential nature of the subject. Any hack could do a decent likeness. I was supposed to make Amy, Andrea, or whatever her name was leap off the paper. I looked again. Faint freckles that all the tanning in the world couldn't hide dotted the bridge of her nose. She had an oval birthmark on the base of her neck. She had a pert little nose that practically screamed "Look how cute I am!" Probably plastic surgery. The hair was probably bleached. Hardly anyone had naturally blonde hair anymore. She'd spent a fortune to look like that.
Aha. That was my way in. She wanted to be a model or actress and she was willing to spend thousands of credits and have a crapload of surgeries to do it. She was willing to model for a bunch of stupid high school students. That took dedication, even if I didn't think it was quite working for her. I could bring that out. A nice straw yellow for the hair, reds and golds for the skin. Just a little this side of unnatural to show how hard she'd worked for it. But first I had to finish the sketch. I picked up the charcoal pencil. Easier to erase than the oil pastels I would use for color, and I'd been off my game enough for the last three months to be on guard against stupid mistakes.
"Note that the nose is about as long as the eyebrow." Mr. Pendersen had a reedy voice that set my teeth on edge. He was thin, his collar bone and elbows jutting out at harsh angles. "And kindly stop chewing that gum, Ms. Fletcher." Pendersen always called us Mr. or Ms. It was old-fashioned, just like the dark shirt and pants he wore. Reds, greens and golds were everywhere on Eden Prime, but Pendersen preferred to look like an undertaker. He didn't miss much, though, and he was a pretty good teacher—or he would have been if he wasn't stuck explaining the basics of proportion to people who didn't want to learn anyway.
Becky flushed and put the gum away. For a long time, the room was filled with nothing but the sound of pencil on paper, punctuated by the occasional comment from Pendersen as he moved around the room and looked over our work. I could feel his gaze on me, but did my best to ignore it. Right now, the model was more important than he was. "Good job, Mr. Shepard," was all he said before he moved on to the next person. I kept drawing, but I couldn't help smiling a little. Last night was the first time since Mindoir that I hadn't had nightmares. Maybe I had finally turned a corner. Maybe I didn't need that shrink.
The door opened. Eddie stumbled in. His dark hair was even more of a mess than usual. He grinned a little too broadly and spoke a little too loudly. "Afternoon. Sorry I'm late," he said without a trace of remorse. I cringed. Eddie was an okay guy, even when he was sandblasted, but he was horrible about hiding it when he was using. Red sand wasn't a huge deal on Eden Prime, but it was still technically illegal.
Pendersen gaze reminded me of a hawk going after a field mouse. "How nice of you to join us, Mr. Martinez." He probably knew that Eddie was coming off a high, too, but it wasn't like he could prove it. Eddie hadn't been dusting up long enough to stain his teeth or anything else that was obvious. "See me after class. For now, you can sketch Ms. Hardy here."
Eddie saluted and plopped down in the seat nearest me. I heard him as he rummaged in his bag and pulled out his supplies. He was close enough that I could smell the cologne he was using to cover up the red sand. It was a strong, clean scent. I was really familiar with it. It was the kind my older brother had liked, the kind he had been wearing the night the batarians came.
I could feel the sweat forming on my palms. My throat constricted, and my heart beat faster. My breath came in harsh, short gasps. Fight it. Fight it. I was supposed to be getting better. I wasn't supposed to freak out over something like cologne. I needed to finish this drawing. Art class had always been my refuge, the one thing in school that I was really good at. The batarians weren't supposed to be able to fuck this up too.
But I couldn't fight it. The smell seemed to take over the whole studio, except now it was intermingled with things that weren't there: blood and dirt and sweat. The hair on my arms stood on end. My skin tingled. The last time that had happened, I picked up a salt shaker on the other side of the kitchen just by thinking about it and tossed it at one of the slavers. It had saved my life, but I couldn't let that happen again. There were stories about what happened on Jump Zero. I had to get out of here now. Before I had a heart attack or worse.
"Bathroom," I squeaked. "I mean, I have to go to the bathroom."
The rest of the class stared at me. I could tell nobody really bought it. Some of them shifted in their seats or cleared their throats awkwardly. And the rest of them... pity seemed to roll off them in waves, like they knew I was a screwup. Even Penderson couldn't quite keep it out of his voice when he said "Of course, Mr. Shepard." But I was too busy fighting off the memories to be humiliated.
I managed to make it to the nearest bathroom without running. I sat down on the toilet and buried my face in my hands. The place was choked in the omnipresent odor of cigarette smoke that made my eyes burn a little. Wetness ran down my cheeks. I could feel myself shaking. There was a dim part of me there was aware I should try to get control of myself because what kind of fuck up had a nervous breakdown over cologne? But most of me was enveloped in a nameless terror and grief. All my muscles tensed. Any second I expected to hear the rat-a-tat-tat of assault rifles or screams and thuds as people ran for their lives toward whatever hiding place they could find. The scream of the batarian as I hit him so I could jump out the window.
I wasn't sure how long I set there, but eventually my brain sort of started working again. I could feel something soft and crinkly under my foot. A plastic bag. There were flecks of red powder at the bottom. Well, at least I knew where Eddie had been shooting up. I didn't get it. There were lots of things that could have given him a really good high. They'd managed to make heroin and cocaine virtually harmless decades ago, just like they'd done with cigarettes. I'd seen him move papers and such for a few minutes after a hit. Why anyone wanted to be a biotic, even for a few minutes, was beyond me. It was scary as hell. I checked my chrono. Class would be over by the time I got back. Part of me wanted to run home as fast as I could, but I'd left my supplies in class.
People were already leaving by the time I got back. Eddie's skin was a little more ashen than normal. I wonder if he knew then it was his cologne that set me off or if he was that terrified of Pendersen giving him a detention. With any luck, they would be so preoccupied with each other that I could get my stuff and go home without either of them saying anything.
"Could I talk to you for a moment, Mr. Shepard?"
Shit. So much for luck. Eddie looked from me to Pendersen. "Does that mean I don't have to stay after?"
Pendersen's glared at him again. "Don't think I've forgotten about your tardiness, Mr. Martinez. I expect you and I will be spending a great deal of time together in the future." He sighed. "But, yes, you can go."
Eddie fought a smile for a second before he noticed that I'd gone even paler and slumped down in his seat in an attempt to look more contrite. He muttered "See you outside," before he left. I squared my shoulders. I knew what was coming. People have been giving me the "concerned adult" spiel since my parents died. The Alliance soldiers that found me, my aunt, everybody. I didn't know whether to be angry or scared.
"I'm worried about you, Mr. Shepard." His voice was softer than I'd ever heard it. He was trying for concern, but it sounded odd coming from him. "I know the past few months have been difficult for you: losing your family and coming to a planet so very different from Mindoir. I know you've had trouble adjusting."
I forced a wide smile. Before the raid, I'd always been able to charm people pretty easily. Might as well try that first. "Not that much."
He raised his eyebrows. "And I suppose you really had to go to the bathroom?"
"Too much soda at lunch, sir."
He sighed again and leaned forward, steepling his fingers as he did so. "There are people trained to talk to those who've been through traumatic experiences like yours. No one would think less of you for talking to someone."
"No!" It came out as closer to a screech than anything, and I wanted to clap my hands over my mouth. I couldn't see a doctor. One: I was managing to function. It wasn't like I was babbling or catatonic like some people. Two: the meds that the doctor would give me might turn me into a zombie who couldn't draw. I wasn't about to screw up the one thing I really loved. Three: I'd have to lie about what happened on Mindoir. Sessions were supposed to be confidential, but the Alliance was really trying to find all the biotics they could. I've heard stories of guys in suits showing up to take people away to Jump Zero. I didn't know whether it was to study or train them. Maybe both. I did know that there were on awful lot of biotics in government jobs, and there were rumors that it wasn't entirely by choice. That every biotic was documented. If people found out what I could do, I could forget about art school and a normal life. Psychologists were really good at catching liars, and it was easier to avoid them than fool them. "I'll be fine. I just need more time."
"It is your choice, Mr. Shepard." He sounded old and tired. "You're a very talented artist. I think you have a decent future ahead of you and I don't want you to lose it."
"I won't." Not to the memories and not to people who might use me for I didn't even know what.
We went around like that for the next few minutes. Eddie was still waiting for me when I got out of there. It surprised me. Like I said, he was an okay guy, but I didn't know that I would really call us friends. Eden Prime was a lot bigger than Mindoir had ever been, but it was still pretty small. Most of the people in my class had known each other since they were in diapers. It wasn't like they were mean to me, but there were dozens of little moments—old friendships and petty grudges—that I would never be a part of. I stood as close to him as I dared, and made sure I was standing downwind.
Eddie pushed his dark hair out of his face. "Are you okay? I thought you were going to puke back there. What did the old vulture want?"
"He noticed I was about to puke, too." I smiled a little, trying to pass it off as a joke. "Nice job coming to class sandblasted, by the way."
Eddie whipped his head around furiously. "Don't say that so loud," he hissed. When no cops came to haul him off for possession of an illegal substance he added, "Strictly as a hypothetical, maybe you should try some."
"What?"
"Biggest rush in the world. It must be so cool to be a biotic." His eyes glittered with undisguised glee. "You can move things with your mind. Picked up a skycar and throw it at somebody. Make a lot of money cheating at hand quasar. Hike up Becky's skirts a lot easier."
"Not cool. It's terrifying. What if you kill someone by accident or they kill you because they're terrified of you?"
"You are no fun at all," And with that, he walked off in the direction of his beat up old skycar.
Me, I had to take public transportation. Aunt Gwen had promised me a car for my next birthday, but that was still a few months off. The monorail was crowded with midafternoon commuters, some of them unfortunate high school students like me and others heading home after work. A few of them nodded or smiled at me as I passed. I did my best to smile back as I headed to the furthest corner I could find. I found myself next to Mrs. Dyar. She didn't say anything, but she never did. Everybody knew her story, even me. She'd been downwind of a transport crash and exposed to eezo. She'd given birth to a baby girl, Samantha I think the name was. Sam was healthy by all accounts until she'd had a sudden seizure and died. Another person whose life has been ruined by the supposed "wonder element." She'd been trying to sell the house she'd lived in with her daughter for years, but nobody had taken her up on it. I would have loved to sketch Mrs. Dyar. Her nose was too large for her face, and grief had aged her prematurely. Her hair was a very light blonde, as if it had faded away along with the rest of her. Lines etched her face, and she always moved as if she were weighted down by her grief. It would've been a challenge to try to capture that, far more interesting than another cookie-cutter model.
I could hear voices talking in the living room by the time I got home. That was strange. We didn't often get company at this hour. Aunt Gwen worked long hours as a neurologist at the med center in Constant. She hardly ever socialized outside of work and I'd never seen her with a boyfriend or girlfriend. "Married to the job," she'd said when I asked. I didn't know anybody at school well enough to invite them over. I crept inside quietly. One of the nice things about living in a more established colony was that the prefab units were starting to be replaced with real buildings with real carpet, even if that carpet was a truly appalling lime green. I was able to sneak right up to the open living room door before they noticed me.
A woman I didn't recognize stood with her back to me talking to my aunt. They navy blazer she wore seemed to cling to her like a second skin, and did nothing at all to take away from her curves. She wasn't some twiggy borderline anorexic like our model had been. I could see a patch of pale skin that stood out sharply against shoulder length dark hair. Her shoulders were tensed, as if she expected to be attacked at any moment. The voices rose and fell. I couldn't hear the words, but I could make out the tones: Aunt Gwen calm but with a slight edge of fear, the anonymous woman cold and contemptuous. She was the one who noticed me first, pivoting suddenly to stare at me.
She should've been gorgeous. Her cheekbones were high and prominent, her skin nearly flawless. Eddie would have been drooling over her breasts. Her eyes were a soft blue a few shades lighter than my own. Every feature was perfectly formed. It was like someone had taken all the things we usually found attractive about women and put them in one person. But there was something deeply, profoundly wrong about her that made my mouth go dry. I looked for some little quirk or unusual feature I could focus on-small blemishes, one eye being higher than another, a slightly crooked nose, anything. But I found only everything my books had ever told me was ideal.
I'd made drawings like her before, back when I was still learning the basics of portraiture. Absolute technical perfection, but no life whatsoever. I'd never thought to see one of those early sketches brought to life and standing in my living room. What would have been mediocre in a drawing was downright eerie in a human being. Skin as smooth and pale as marble. Marble. That was what she was. A carved marble statue, every feature perfectly carved and perfectly symmetrical. She would have made a wonderful statue. Perfect.
But perfect wasn't human.
She strode forward and held out her hand. "Matthias Shepard?" Her voice was harsh and cold with the same Australian accent Aunt Gwen had. She either came from money or wanted to sound like she did.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up again. What had I done to attract the interest of this strange, unearthly woman? It was hard to tell her age, but she couldn't be much older than me. The only thing I could think of was that the Alliance had somehow found out what I'd done, but I couldn't see any official insignia. "That's me." I took her hand tentatively.
Her grip was surprisingly strong. She probably could've crushed my fingers if she'd wanted to. "My name is Miranda Lawson. I'm with the Milky Way Foundation. I wanted to talk to you about your biotics."
Shit. My mind was racing. There had to be a way out of this. There had to. I hadn't worked so hard and held myself together to get carted away now. "I'm not a biotic. That's crazy!"
She smiled, and it somehow made her even more frightening. It wasn't a warm, friendly smile to put me at ease, but a predator baring her teeth. "Oh, I rather think you are. There's a batarian in Alliance custody who swears you threw a salt shaker at him using biotics. According to your medical history, you don't have any implants."
"Of course I don't have implants! I'm not a biotic."
She ignored me. "Being able to lift and throw something without implants is extraordinary. Normally latent biotics can only manage shifting papers or small qualities of sand. You, Mr. Shepard, may just be the most powerful biotic humanity has ever seen."
