The man looked over the chessboard at Death.
'You are not real', he said
'Come now', said Death. 'You are in no position to cast aspersions. After all, you are dead'
The man's eyes widened before he touched the bust where his heart should have been. There was no beat. He placed his hand over his mouth, feeling for the gasps of breath that signified life. He did not breathe. He touched his wrist. There was no pulse. He touched his arms. He had no warmth.
A fleeting image of ages long past came flying back to him. He had died. He had died drowning in the empty waters of space, trying to save Joker and the Normandy. Grief hit him followed by anxiety. He had died slowly, clutching for life as it continued to gush out from him, in great pain fighting until the end never giving to death.
Shepard – Commander John Shepard. That was his name, had been his name. Had he once walked among the living he would still have use for the name. Shepard could remember almost nothing else about himself but it was good to have a name once more, even if it was symbolic. It was a start, a foundation he could continue to build on.
'Nonetheless', Shepard said, 'you are not real'.
Death raised a long pale hand and lowered his hood. Raising his hands to his head he lowered the hood, only to be confronted with hollow space of endless black. Death let out a patient sigh that was long and eternal just like the nature of eternal beings.
'I understand your predicament, but it is not in the nature of my existence to argue the nature of your reality that allows you to be dead and yet fully aware of your existence, and mine'. Death added on as an afterthought.
Shepard simply glared at the being.
Death smirked, a churning in the endless depths of where his face would be. 'You are, human', He begun grandly, 'In a space within spaces, a place within places, you are in a place where there is no afterlife, and you are in a place where you are an anomaly, a variable, a non-being.'
'Not at all' said Shepard 'I think, therefore I still have the capacity to doubt the reality of this whole experience. If I am dead, then why have you not taken me, you are Death, correct? Shepard paused to take breath out of instinct before realising he did not need to breathe. 'If I'm here, I must be alive; you are only a fragment of my imagination, a personification'. Shepard continued to deny.
Death gave an air of patronising knowledge. 'I'm disappointed, Shepard'. Death stated his name for the first time. 'For such a man among men, for such a unique organic' He paused, 'You are truly unoriginal'.
Shepard was not sure to take the statement as a compliment, or an insult. He looked over the chessboard and asked 'Why am I here?'
'You are here to play the game that all sentient beings play, the game of life and death'
Shepard considered Death's words as he gazed upon Death himself. The idiom stare death in the eye was almost correct, if Death or the being in front of him had eyes. Death took the form of a tall human, very pale of skin. His nails were black. His teeth were black. He was dressed with fine silks the colour of black grape, an abyss of never ending black. On Death's clothes there were many names inscribed. So many countless, illegible names born from different species, and he saw the many human terms of death itched in its fabrics.
Propped on the other side of the table was a scythe. It glowed with malicious intent born of the rape of untold trillions. It was hideous, yet beautiful. The naked metal etched with a scrummy crust which Shepard assumed to be the dried blood of many beings. It was blighted, and radiated with an evil intensity even in such a malevolent environment.
Shepard could not look upon the scythe without feeling queasy, for it screamed with the countless souls of the damned. To alleviate his uneasiness, Shepard decided to stare at the board in front him. It looked like a chessboard, but it was infinitely more big and complex. Each square was filled with an enigmatic symbol that Shepard assumed governed time and space.
It was hard to tell the board's true size. Each square was a hole in reality, a…, it was incomprehensible. The patterns were not like any board, instead the squares where the game was meant to be played on floated in the air at different levels. They were connected by lines, ellipses and something akin to a parabola. All the squares lay in a mass of symbols to which Shepard had no understanding of.
To what he assumed, Shepard hypothesised that each square on the board represented a specific place, some of which he knew and others which has been created after his death or before his birth. The game-board was a map of a very specific reality. His reality. There was an odd pattern to it that echoed to him, something that only he would understand if given time. The echoes told him that what he changes here, changes in his reality. The board was the map.
The game was already in progress. Shepard glanced at Death's pieces. There were a race of insectoid aliens with four eyes, a reaper, and another alien that was taller and brawnier than even a krogan. Shepard glanced at his pieces, he had a drell, an asari, a human woman, and oddly enough pieces of humans with Cerberus armor. One glance born out of experience told him he was losing. Shepard knew that it was important for him to win for reasons unknown to him. If he failed, he knew that the galaxy he fought to protect would fail too. If he failed, his death, the death of Ashley, the crew of the Normandy, and the many human ships he sacrificed to save the Council would be in vain.
Despair filled him. He was no chess player, he was no strategist. He was a tactician; he improvised and adapted to fulfil a strategy that he knew of, and here he had none. When it comes to strategy he was no master, he was adept at best. Not the way his father was.
His father, the very ideal and image of his father screamed recognition, but he could not come with a name. His father had died as well, protecting him as the world he grew up in collapsed.
As he looked upon the scythe, he had a sudden epiphany. The scythe belonged to his father; it was used to harvest the wheat, and to earn a profit when the winter came. It was the weapon he used when the Batarians came, in his reality he died trying to save him.
'You are considering your move', Death said, interrupting his thoughts.
'Negative. I am remembering my father' Shepard replied.
Death laughed. 'Your father was one of my better servants'.
Even lacking all the knowledge of most of his father, he knew it was a lie.
'My father was never your servant'. Shepard stated.
'He was a killer, a great one at that'.
'There are many reasons to take a life'
'Maybe you are right' Death complied. 'Let me say that his actions at one point rather coincided with mine for a while'.
'And what action is that?'
Death gave a smile, 'Wouldn't you like to know?'
Shepard did not have enough energy to press his argument.
Death gazed longingly at an old figure. 'He was a very great killer' he eventually said. 'Even the race your people fought against feared him'.
Shepard gazed back down at his pieces. More specifically he looked upon the asari. Recognition flashed before his eyes. It was Liara, Shepard thought. Gazing once more upon the piece of his friend, Shepard noticed an uncharacteristic worry. This was not the friend he knew. Beside Liara was a drell, he had no recognition of who the drell was just that he was on his side of the board, thus he was an ally.
This is all part of the pattern, Shepard thought to himself. He just needed to understand it if he wanted to win. Shepard reminisced on one of many phrases he once heard, before you can rules others, you must rule yourself. It was a law for soldiers; it was a code for every leader. Another memory bubbled to the surface, it was him in his youth and a dark skinned human. He saw himself throwing a tantrum, as the dark skinned man patiently waited and then explained the law he now abides by to his younger self. He was once free of restraint, of control.
He once more looked upon the face of Liara. He turned out bad then he thought sadly because he fondly remembered his interactions and the scenarios he was placed in with the crew on the Normandy. His gaze was adjusted to the alien that was bigger than a krogan. He knew it was somehow connected to the insectoid aliens beside it. The alien reeked of greed and self-indulgence. While all beings were selfish in a sense, the being in front of him took it to the extreme.
Another piece manifested in front of him. It was the king piece, it was him. So that's what it's all about, Shepard thought to him. The goal was to have him. He was really dead. No, he was dead if he lost but how could he win? Death had more pieces than him.
'Are you going to make a move?' Death asked. 'Have I told you that this match is on a time limit' He gestured to an hourglass. 'When the sands of time runs out, you lose the match even if you were winning or losing', Shepard did not remember that hour glass being there perhaps it was also manifested by death just like the king piece in front of him.
'I do not like this' Shepard said. 'All the rules are stacked in your favour'.
'If you did not like the game, why you agree to play?'
It was a good question, Shepard thought to himself. Why was he here, willing to fight an unbeatable opponent at a game where he already had the odds stacked against him? His answer came to his mouth quicker than it actually got to his brain.
'I play because I must, if I lose, nothing will live'.
'You had a choice' said Death. 'You had started the game when you destroyed that reaper, Shepard'
Shepard had another memory. It was the reaper, Nazara. As he once again gazed at the board he realised the dimensions of the board formed the shape of a reaper. Indecisively, he touched the piece of the human woman.
'You have touched the piece; do you intend to move it?' Death asked
Shepard looked upon the board once more and considered his moves. 'No. Not yet'.
'Needless to say, I have reminded you we are on a time limit, and time is running out'
Shepard looked at the pieces against him. Of all the unidentifiable aliens he knew that the reaper was not the main threat here. He had to neutralise its minions, he didn't have to kill the reaper, he just had to beat that strange tall alien. Even yet, he was still at a disadvantage, no, Shepard rebuked himself. There was no reason to be complaining. Some things are born out of necessity, rather than of actual choice. He gathered his willpower and raised the piece that represented Liara and moved it towards the big alien.
'Come then, Death'. Shepard said, placing Liara 4 spaces away from the tall alien. Shepard's eyes narrowed, 'Make your move'.
Hello, this is my first fanfiction. This is just my image on what Shepard was doing after he dies. Tell me what you think, should I finish it?
Thanks for reading.