Written for the July contest at the Afterlife Forum. Hope this makes you cry, Rev.
Thanks to my ladies; lady_krios, Palaven Blues, bluekrishna, and MizDirected for the feedback & assistance.
He's been here before. More than once. And that's the worst part of this whole fucking situation. He's hurt, and he's angry, and he's failed. Again. Just like always.
Maybe this is his destiny. What was meant to happen to him all along.
He remembers Mindior. Maybe he was supposed to die with his family. Sixteen years old, coated in their blood, screaming until he couldn't scream anymore as the slavers massacred them. He doesn't know how he survived. Maybe he shouldn't have. Maybe that's why he ended up here.
Or maybe it was Akuze. Maybe that was where he was supposed to die. Fuck, he doesn't know. He still bears the scars from that. They tried to break him, and it might have worked, if he hadn't already been broken. By the time they'd gotten their hands on him, he was so practiced at pretending everything was alright that even he almost believed it.
And then, despite all that, he'd had a chance to do something great; to save them from the Reapers. A chance to make a name for himself. But it had all been swept under the rug, and he'd been sent to hunt geth. He should have fought harder, talked longer, convinced them to believe him. But he'd failed at that, too.
It's all led him here.
Alchera. The final resting place of the Infamous Commander William Shepard. Elite N7, Spectre, Failure. He wonders if anyone will even know this is where he finally died. Where he finally failed for the last time.
He's a fuckup. A failure. It's a wonder the Alliance has kept him as long as he has. A wonder that they'd given him the Normandy. Maybe they had wanted it to fail, and they'd known he was the man for the job. Maybe that was why he was allowed to...
But no, he knows that's not it. Somehow, Anderson had believed in him, had gone to bat for him, despite everything. Despite the fact that "failure" was practically branded across his forehead. He's never understood it, and now he wishes he'd asked why.
Light flashes as the Normandy explodes. It's surreal, watching his home disappear again. Pieces of shrapnel fly past him.
Did any of his crew survive?
Does it matter if they did? It's not like he'll ever know. He's going to die here. Alone. Because he couldn't get it right. No, he's failed again.
Humanity's last hope. Fuck. What a joke.
When the shrapnel hits him, severing his life support, he's almost relieved. At least this way he won't be stuck with his own thoughts much longer.
Still, he can't help flailing a bit, trying to enable the overrides. It's the panic, the self preservation that has kept him alive this long, despite all the times he should have died. He fails- not that it's a surprise- and finally gives up. Maybe if he'd given up sooner, his crew might still be alive.
The thought hurts. My fault, he thinks. His ship. His crew. His responsibility. He's failed them.
The cold and the oxygen deprivation are rapidly taking their toll on him. Darkness teases his vision, and he feels tired. So tired. It's pathetic, really. This stereotypical death. Cold, dark, and alone in the vastness of space.
His thoughts slip away one by one as the cold claims him. By the time the last breath leaves his body, he's already gone.
All that remains is an empty shell.