Disclaimer: I do not own Mass Effect or the characters. They are the property of EA and Bioware. No infringement is intended.
Rating: T – Suggestive themes
Summary: Commander Shepard thinks on his life, his choices and his losses as he decides how to detonate the catalyst.
Spoilers: ME3
Credit: This piece was inspired by the beautiful artwork by KayMarieRose entitled "Here with you, Always." Located on deviantART. I want to thank KayMarieRose.
Commander Shepard stood aboard the catalyst, standing at the crossroads of three choices. Blood caked to his face, his left eye swollen and bruised from the explosion minutes, or was it hours ago before he entered the beam. His body ached, his ribs throbbed and blood oozed from a pierced wound on his side. The warm sticky liquid seeped through his clothing and the fabric clung desperately to the wound as if its close proximity would stop the blood escape. But every movement tugged on the fabric, reopening the injury and again, fresh life liquid gushed.
His split lower lip burned, a coppery taste flooding his mouth. He poked his tongue through a vacancy among the teeth on his lower jaw, a missing tooth the casualty of the last battle. His head pounded, pressure building along his temples and sinuses, his pulse steady and obnoxious behind his eyes. His nose deviated slightly to the right, broken and blood dripped down over his lower lip, dried now as time had passed. After the devastating strike, he had instinctively reached up to his nose and in the process, reset it. Too much. Too long. The End. It had to end. The pain, the loss, the journey. He was done.
Finish this.
Her words echoed in his mind, distant now in memory and his head lulled to one side then the other as his eyes closed. She was gone. Confident, strong, savvy and smart, Miranda tracked her sister's location to her father's hideout on Sanctuary but Kai Leng, Reaper and Cerberus forces proved too much. The assassin landed a critical blow but Miranda's will to succeed pushed her to a final confrontation with Henry Lawson - the man responsible for her creation and her torment.
She died in his arms. How many nights did she lay with him, curled into his side, sprawled across his chest. Her hands were always chilled, cool though it never seemed to bother her. She would pillow her head on his arm or shoulder or chest and her light, warm breath brushed his skin in sleep. He always had to kiss her.
She tasted of … he never could explain it. There was something heady, earthy and intense about her. She overwhelmed him and her tongue always tasted of the faintest hint of something sweet. She loved fruit but in deep space it was always so hard to find fresh produce. After a trip to the Citadel, he procured six large bags of dried fruits, each a different variety and he gifted it to her late in the evening as they mined for Element Zero. They made love that night. He didn't realize it at the time since they had been lovers for the month prior to the gift but something had changed between them at his simple but thoughtful gesture.
Finish this. Promise me.
He promised her as she bled out in his arms. No amount of medi-gel could patch the deep puncture wound through her stomach. She said she loved him. Loved him. He waited months to tell her, never sure how to put it, to express himself to her. He was a soldier, words often escaped him. But she never seemed to mind, never asked for his words. It was as if she just knew, perhaps always knew.
Her blood stained his gloves, coated his armor. He smelled it and tasted it on her lips when he kissed her one last time. Warm, soft, trembling then still.
Her last breath expelled, collapsed and defeated. Limp, lifeless. There was no doubt that whatever force encapsulated her was gone. It was Miranda, but she wasn't there. It was cold since then. Automatic, he continued because he knew he must. He promised her he would finish it and he would not renege on that.
Shepard forced his eyes open and gazed upon the catalyst. He had to choose. He had to finish it. Ignoring the exhaustion and weakness of his body and mind, he looked to the left and the two electrified pylons. Current jumped between them, blue with either heat or maybe biotic energy. He wasn't sure. Control the Reapers. Could he trust the AI child to be honest? Would that really control them or would it simply electrocute him, leaving the Reapers to win. What supreme being would really give up control and allow another to guide their path?
He looked to the center. The walkway upon which he stood extended forward and ended at a circular pit at the center. If he threw himself into the catalyst, synthetics and organics would merge. In essence, saving the Reapers. Save the Reapers after everything they did, everything they took from him. Shepard's grip tightened on the pistol in his right hand, the arm hanging limply at his side. It ached, his tricep burned like fire - maybe torn. His arm trembled at the intensity of his grip.
Before his eyes, a vision of Miranda materialized. Transparent, a smoky haze swirled around her legs and feet, the lower appendages unclear. But he hardly noticed, his eyes focused intently on her face. Any blood and wounds were gone, in their place, the perfect lines he remembered. Her eyes were gentle, calm and loving. No tension radiated from her, instead, simply peace. His heart raced and he limped forward three steps to near her. Gloved hands reached for him, brushing along his cheeks then over his ears. He felt nothing. Her touch nonexistent and he closed his eyes at the sudden longing and loss that overwhelmed him.
The Reapers took so much. The took Ashley years ago. All those colonists. They destroyed the Protheans, bastardized their race and turned them into Collectors. Collectors killed Kasumi, Jack and Jacob. Cerberus, indoctrinated by Reapers, murdered thousands more. Reaper forces destroyed Earth, Thessia, Palavan. He watched in horror as a flipping tank nearly crushed Liara and he forced her back onto the Normandy, knowing Garrus would take her. Did the Normandy escape? Would the Reapers destroy them too? Did Liara still live?
The vision of Miranda hovered in place, watching him with a resigned expression. Without the Reapers, Shepard would have been able to help Miranda stop Cerberus. In fact, there would have been no need to stop Cerberus. The Illusive Man would not have begun his practices in indoctrination. Would he even have met Miranda without the Reapers and the war? The vision moved back from him, flickering and fading. His eyes widened in alarm.
No. No, she couldn't leave him yet. Shepard looked down at the gun clasped in his hand.
Finish this.
There was only one way to end it. He turned to his right and limped up the ramp to the exposed coiling of the catalyst. His leg ached, the knee locked and he dragged himself forward. The vision of Miranda turned slowly, watching his progress up the ramp and to the exposed core.
The Reapers wanted to exterminate the galaxy based on some logic that he didn't understand and he didn't even care. He didn't care about the philosophical answers or the reasons or programming behind the AI. They killed millions. They killed his friends. Miranda …
He lifted the pistol and fired at the center console of the catalyst. She flooded his mind. Exquisite, beautiful, strong, everything. He fired again but the recoil from the heavy pistol strained his arm. He clenched his teeth and gripped the pistol with two hands and continued to fire.
Anderson
He fired again
Jack
He fired again
Miranda.
The console exploded and Shepard turned his head as the flames engulfed him, surrounded him.
Pain suddenly ceased and darkness surrounded him. A peaceful, calming darkness. And warmth. There was warmth as well, a comforting sensation as if cradled or snuggled in a large bed. Small blinking white lights surrounded him, soaring around him in an aerial dance. A few specs hovered before his eyes as if inspecting him before darting off and away. Deep blue light rose from beneath his feet, racing upwards to him and then suddenly washed over him. Shepard closed his eyes but when no impact came, he opened them again.
Any blood from his injuries was gone; his cuts, gone. His swelling lip was healed. His eyes were clear. His head, healed. No pain, no ache, no strain. A firm but gentle hand slid up his back to his shoulders. His eyes closed and lips parted as he sighed in pleasure. He would know that touch anywhere.
Miranda
How often did she touch him, just like that? After a mission, when his body ached from the exertion, she often visited him in his cabin. He used to stare at the fish in the aquarium, entranced by the slow paths of the various fish circling the length of the tank. Her presence never startled him - something that easily happened as a primed soldier - but instead brought comfort and calmness. Anger never radiated from her, even during times of frustration and fury. She was so controlled, so focused and it affected him. Helped him.
He remembered one night when she entered his cabin. Shepard, Grunt and Jack landed on Tuchanka. Grunt sought purpose and Shepard couldn't fault him that desire. Humans sought belonging. Why wouldn't Krogan? The battle was long and arduous. His knee had buckled when he tripped down the stairs, racing from the maelstrom erupting from the mouth of an enraged Klixen. The thresher maw was even worse. Upon returning, dust and blood - a mix of theirs and their enemies - covered them. When his squad exited the shuttle in the hangar bay, Miranda and Jacob were working in the bay, sorting through various crates provided by Cerberus during their last refueling. A handful of crewmates assisted. She glanced at him when he carefully lowered himself from the shuttle, gripping the door of the shuttle tightly to assist him. He was not going to let that knee give out again in front of his crew. No weakness. Never.
Jacob and the crew saluted him with respect when EDI announced the Commander's return and Miranda's relief of the bridge. Her eyes raked him and he lifted his chin proudly. She arched a brow in question then offered the smallest of smirks, amusement perhaps. Stunning.
He couldn't help but return her smile. So sexy, beautiful was maybe a better word. He winked, flirtatious and she chuckled, shaking her head. No matter the danger, no matter the firefight, he always took an opportunity to flirt with her. Initially, it annoyed her that he so easily teased, jibed or flirted during a firefight. Not that he was necessarily creative or funny. In retrospect, he did it to keep sane. To lighten his situation helped him cope with the severity of his constant state of stress.
When Miranda came to his cabin that night and ran her hand over his back and shoulder, he couldn't resist her. He loved her then, he realized that now. But at the time, he didn't know. His knee ached, his head throbbed and he was tired after the fight on Tuchanka but in his cabin, clean and relaxed, he desired nothing more than his executive officer in his arms.
He dreamt of her for months, envisioning her luscious form nude for his eyes. He wanted to taste every part of her, to feel her hands cling to him in lust, to spur him on. He wanted to break that careful control until she writhed with pleasure, succumbed to something uncontrollable, like passion. He turned from the aquarium and pulled her into his arms, captured her lips and she didn't resist. They yielded to their passion. He couldn't wait long enough to carry her to the bed. And she didn't seem to mind. Fast, desperate and satisfying. When the long building tensions released, he held her, pinned to that cool glass tank and kissed her soundly. She spent the rest of the night and all the nights that followed in his bed. Or sometimes, he in hers.
The memory overwhelmed him. The hand on his back slipped up to his shoulder and fingers gripped the muscle. She brushed her lips over the back of his neck, tantalizing, teasing. Exactly how she greeted him that night he remembered. How did she know the memory vividly replayed in his mind? Could she read his thoughts?
He turned quickly then to take her in his arms, fearful the dream would end before he held her. She smiled at that and one hand fisted his belt as the other slipped up around his neck. It was just like that night. She relived it too, remembered it. He kissed her.
She responded eagerly, holding him closer and the hand on his belt tightened, pulling him into her. Real, she felt real. Warm flesh, strong and sure. Her mouth just as he remembered, the taste, the confidence and the desire. She intoxicated him. He needed her, needed to feel flesh, to feel that she was alive again. How could she be alive? He didn't care of the semantics. She was in his arms.
His fingers fiddled with the side flaps of her white honeycombed suit but she broke the kiss and the hand on his waist abandoned its grip to touch his hand, still his motions. She lingered on his tongue, his lips. Tingling, dampened, real. She guided his hand to her waist then reached up to brush gloved fingers over his lower lip.
He loved her, missed her. Never did he see himself as some simpering romantic, dependant on someone, needing someone. He had his friends, but he prefered his distance, his privacy and never found the pain brought on by emotional entanglement worth the process. Miranda was different. He ignored his discomfort and pursued the close relationship he desperately desired and she fulfilled everything he sought. She was perfect for him, for all her faults and his, they fit. Perfectly. But relationships always ended poorly for him. Others had luck; he never did. He knew it and he ignored it. Maybe he shouldn't have deviated from his own rule. Miranda's death proved that pain all too real.
But no. Not dead. Here, in his arms. Flesh, blood, he heard her heartbeat, felt the brush of her breath against his lips. Desire and relief flooded him . Was he finally dead too?
A growl rumbled in his throat when she molded her lips to his again and he savored every second, every sensation though he emitted no sound. He felt, no thought her reaction; she didn't have to say it. He thought of her love for him. He thought of the desperate ache she endured those months separated from him during his arrest.
Kiss me, Shepard.
The prompting thought left no doubt where she desired his kiss. The thoughts blazed through his mind with vivid detail and he didn't hesitate as her head tilted back. He knew what she wanted, what she craved and what made her quiver in his arms. He reached up with a hand, tugged the collar of her suit to the side and sealed his lips to the spot on her throat where the tendons of her neck met the shoulder. She was sensitive there. He discovered it one cool night in her office after an uneventful recovery of supplies from an Eclipse facility.
Yes, there.
Her lips parted in a wordless sigh. It was true. Her thoughts were merged with his, sharing and equal they resided within each other's mind. She relived their first time in his mind when his thoughts wandered moments ago. And now, she easily commanded him to answer her desire. How little things changed. It was often wordless between them.
Love. Need. Mine.
His reaction to her always primal and intense and as he thought those words, she caved into him, clinging to him. She knew.
She cupped his jaw then and pushed him back from her throat so she could taste his lips again and he obliged her.
Happy
Yes, finally he could be happy. They could be together. Alone. He would take her somewhere, anywhere. Peace. Alone. Just Miranda.
When she pulled away, it was far too soon but he released her and smiled contently. She offered a brilliant smile as well.
Beautiful
He sensed her 'thank you' when she kissed the small cleft in his chin at his complimentary thought. She stepped away from him then and walked along the blue-tinted air, or was it glass. A floor? He didn't know and he was too focused on Miranda to care. He stepped forward to follow her.
She continued onward and yet his steps refused to close the distance between them. Brow furrowed, he quickened his pace. No success. Miranda stopped and twisted at the waist to look back at him. This time, her smile was sad, peaceful and gentle but sad. Why was she sad? She should never look sad. He pressed forward but though his legs moved and he thought he walked, he covered no ground. The blue surroundings receded and he reached for her, confused and uncertain. Six hands reached around him from behind: One on each shoulder, one on his waist, one on his hip, another on his left leg and the last around his right ankle. Their grips sure, hard and firm. Bone-like fingers dug into his flesh. They were cold, strong.
No. No, Miranda.
Blackness swallowed him from behind, pushing away the calming light. Fear surged through him. His heart accelerated and his mind raced. She remained calm and he subconsciously reacted to her energy. The hands on him didn't claw, didn't rake or hurt but simply held him in place, keeping him from her.
Why
She reached for him again and though her distance seemed farther than ever, he felt a cool brush against his cheek then over his lips. With a sudden jerk, the six hands tugged him backwards. His back bowed and he instinctively curled as the unseen pulled him downward and into the inky black.
Pain flooded his senses, his legs tingled, numb. Unimaginable pain. His face burned, scorched from heat. His pulse beat obnoxiously in his head and his back pinched, a pointed stabbing sensation near his kidneys. A heavy weight lay across his chest and pinned a useless left arm to the floor. Blood caked around his head and along his hairline as well as leaked from his ears. His eyes opened and he gasped a breath amidst the rubble.
Note: Thank you for reading and by all means, please review. I do enjoy feedback. This is my first attempt at an all narrative piece. I find internal monologue the most difficult but it works best for this story.