"They cannot see that space is our salvation, not our damnation."
Commander Shepard sat in the swivel chair, lazily looking through battle reports and dossiers and newsflash paper copies which lay scattered across his desk in his own personal quarters, on board the Normandy SR-2. At the same time, the holo-visor behind him was broadcasting the news.
"Just coming in are reports that-"said the human reporter, who was sitting alongside another asari reporter, "-there have been a number of anti-human riots on several Turian worlds, with the most violent culminating on the Turian homeworld of Palaven, where estimates put the death toll to one-hundred-and-seventy-six. The Turian Hierarchy has yet to comment on the events-"
He paid no attention to what was being said on the news, and he picked up one copy of a recent article that had recently appeared on a Terminus system newsflash edition, which read in large bold letters: More Mysterious Disappearances on Human Fringe Colonies: When will it End?
He grabbed the copy and skimped through it before he put it aside. The newsflash edition copy below it showed a disturbing hazy picture of a large organic-looking ship in the sky, with red captions underneath reading: Sightings of Mysterious Objects on the skies above the Human Colonies of Santanni and Maitreya. Are the Reapers real?
Once again, he put that copy to the side, and he put his hand to his head, listening to the news.
"Today," said the asari reporter, who was now speaking in a nice and soothing voice, "several prominent religious leaders of the major faiths of the galaxy, including the Pope of Earth and the hanar patriarch, have convened on the human planet of Vega, to discuss several important issues-"
It seemed like he would never stop fighting; the more he thought about it, the farther away a peaceful life seemed. The way it was looking, he would more than likely end up dying in a battlefield.
The Galaxy was such a dark and violent place, never static, always changing and moving, usually for the worse.
God-damn it, he thought, biting his lips and leaning back on his chair, placing his hands behind his head.
He stayed like that for a while, looking at the ceiling, lost in thought, until he glanced at the digital clock on his desk, which read 7:23 PM Standard Earth Time (10:23 PM Standard Citadel Time, as read the clock, which displayed both times).
He stood up, and walked over to the side of his large bed, by the corner, where he reached for a small collapsible tray-table that was reclining against the wall. Once he had grabbed it, he stood up and set it up in the middle of the room.
Afterwards, he grabbed the chair from his desk and put it up on the table. He then reached for a collapsible chair that was against the wall and set it up, putting it up to the table, facing the other chair.
Alright, that looks good, he thought, placing one hand to his chin.
He wished he could've gone somewhere more romantic, somewhere better. Instead, he was stuck in the cold frigid expanse of space, in the equally cold and un-welcoming glass-and-metal starship that was the Normandy. Not that he disliked the ship.
No, he did not. But for his current purposes, he would have liked something better,
What would he think of the beaches on Earth? he wondered. Maybe he'd like them – nice warm weather and sun, and palm trees and water…
He walked over to the small nullenthrophic refrigerator near his officer's desk, where he took out two frozen prepared meals: one for turians, and one for humans (Damn the difference between dextro-amino and levo-amino acids, he thought). He took the two out from their packaged boxes and set the two on the small microwave, and as they cooked, he took out two glass plate, which he set on the table.
As the meals cooked in the microwave, he sat at the edge of the bed, and toying around, he made a small singularity between his fingers.
Ooh, yeah, thought Shepard, enlarging the singularity, watching it float above his hand. He would have gone on until two things happened: one, the objects near him, such as the lamp and alarm clock, began to shake, attracted to the mass effect field. Secondly, the timer on the microwave rung, indicating that the meals were cooked and ready.
He closed his hand, and the singularity disappeared with a small plop!. He enjoyed using his biotic powers; it was something that never ceased to amuse him. And it was handy in combat. Sometimes, he didn't even have to use a gun.
Standing up, he walked over and took out the meals from the microwave. His meal was a meatloaf in tomato sauce with rice and greens. He took the plastic cover off, and carefully transferred the food to one of the glass dishes he had on the table.
He also took out the turian meal. He looked at it, wondering what it tasted like. It was giving off a strange odor, and he wondered how turians could enjoy such food (the labels on the box had said the meal was Kavalah with steamed pajku and kale Palaven-style! Whatever the hell that was)
He too transferred the contents onto the other plate, and arranged it to look as though he had actually cooked the food from scratch. No doubt it would fool the turian anyways.
After he had transferred the two meals to the two plates, he stretched his hands out, and, with a little bit of concentration, mentally took hold of the black plastic trays where the food had been cooked in, and, with a slow motion, he made fists with his both hands.
The two trays rose and hovered, and crumpled, as if some invisible hand were taking them and smashing them. He then relaxed his fists, and the crumpled-up trays fell to the floor. With a dismissive sweep of his hand, the trays threw themselves in the trashcan.
Grinning, he went back to his bed, and sat down on it. As he looked at the food arranged on the table, he cursed himself.
Damn it. Stupid me. Unless he gets here in a while, the food's going to get cold.
Meanwhile, a commercial was showing on the holo-visor. It was an advertisement about travels off-world (For those special off-world vacations, don't choose others, choose us, Quality Travels. Look for us in your nearest district, or on the intranet).
The news were starting again when there was a knock on the door, and Shepard, smiling, stood up from his bed and walked up to it (as he did, he was happy to see that there was still steam rising from the food), reaching up for the light-switch dial near the door and dimming lights.
With the press of a button on the side of it, the door slid open.
In front of him stood Garrus, who was scratching the back of his head nervously, and in his other hand held what appeared to be a bottle.
"So," he said, obviously uncomfortable, inexperienced in the ways of romance (even with members of his own species), trying to make a good and lasting impression. "I'm not late or anything, right?"
"You're just on time," replied the human, smiling, stepping aside on the threshold of the door into his quarters.
"Um…I brought something," the turian said, and he held out his hand, in which he held a long slender glass bottle that appeared to be filled with a dark-red liquid.
Shepard took it, and looked at the bottle, reading the words on the stamping it had on the front.
"Garrus," he asked, after he had finished reading, looking up at him, "this is Tazendan wine from, well, forty years ago. How much did you pay for this?"
"Well, it cost me quite a few credits," was the reply. "But I don't really have much use for buying anything at the moment, so I figured I would buy something special. You know, this being a," he gulped, "special occasion."
There was a silence between the two. Then;
"You shouldn't have, Garrus."
"You don't like the wine, do you?"
"What? No – of course I appreciate it. I mean, Hell, forty-year old Tazendan wine…Man, that's got to be a treat."And he grinned, before he said; "Thank you"
"It was a pleasure, Commander. And it's a pity I can't drink the wine."
"Oh. Well, I have some turian drinks, here. 'Course, they don't look as good as this wine you brought me, but it's either those or you drinking this wine and-"
"Suffering an allergic reaction?"
"Exactly."
The turian scoffed, and entered, his heart beating faster than normal, his dextro-amino based blood pumping rapidly across his body as he tried to let loose, to quote a human expression. He looked at Shepard, his commander, his friend, and (he hated to admit it) his lover before he looked down at his feet before looking back up again.
He was actually impressed with what Shepard had done: the table, although a simple foldable, looked nice enough, and he was impressed by the food he saw set on the table (I didn't even know he could cook human food, let alone turian, was his first thought, but he was glad)
"Have a seat," instructed Shepard, holding the bottle of Tazendan wine. He went to his desk, opening up cabinets, looking for a suitable wine-glass. He fumbled over several medals and finally found his wine-glass, made of an expensive crystalline glass from volus world of Kaitain, nestled amongst his old Alliance war medals.
They two of them ate, and Shepard almost laughed out loud when Garrus told him that he was surprised that he had managed to cook turian food.
He anxiously waited to open the wine from the beginning of the dinner. Once the two had finished their food, he took his wine-glass, and opened the wine bottle using a metallic cork-opener to remove the cork. He put his nose to the rim of the bottle as soon as he opened it, taking in the bitter slightly-fruity aroma of the forty-year old wine.
"Ah," he said, smacking his lips as he tilted the bottle over delicately, allowing some of the dark-red liquid to flow onto the wine-glass, while the turian looked on with curiosity.
Carefully raising the wine-glass to his mouth, he took a drink.
"Well?" the alien asked, holding up his own glass full of a purple-colored turian alcoholic drink made from a mix of distilled fruits native to Palaven.
Shepard brought the glass down slowly, before setting it on the table and wiping his lips with the back of his mouth.
"Amazing," he replied, grinning. He took the bottle with both hands and looked at it, then looked back up again. "Really, Garrus. Thank you."
"You're welcome, Commander," was the response.
After they had eaten, the two of them were lying on the large bed, side-by-side. Garrus had his arm over Shepard's chest, and the two were silent, staring up at the ceiling, content to simply be with each other.
It was the turian that broke that silence.
"That was a good meal you cooked, Shepard. I didn't know you knew anything about turian cuisine."
The human grinned, and pressed his head up to Garrus' neck.
"You idiot. I didn't cook," he whispered, before kissing hm.
"Oh…" said Garrus, embarrassed. He had really thought he had cooked the meal. He now supposed the meal had either been already prepared (maybe frozen?) or made by the mess-hall cook. But he felt stupid for not knowing.
"Yeah," Shepard replied, smiling. "You know I'm not a good cook. I've never really had the time to learn to cook anyways. You know, because of being in the military for so long. And, I mean, if I can barely cook my own species' food, just imagine trying to make turian food?"
"Yeah. I understand that."
"But, you did enjoy the meal, right?"
"Of course."
"Alright. Just wanting to make sure."
"It's been great, Commander. And I'm glad you liked the wine. It made all those credits worth it. I just wish I could've drunk some of it with you. I could smell it, but that's not the same."
"I'm sorry, Garrus. I hope that drink I gave you was fine."
"It was."
There was a silence, the two of them at a loss for words. But, then again, it seemed better that way, to simply be silent, and hold each other.
After all, words weren't enough.