Memories Of Places I've Never Been
(A short symbolic story of the final thoughts of Professor Mordin Solus)
(Note: This is only my second fanfiction and I wrote it more as a method of venting rather than for other reasons of vainglory).
Mordin strode confidently across the control room at the top of the Shroud. There was a sad sense of determination in his mind to rectify the STG sabotage and cure the genophage – to amend his mistake.
Explosions were displaying around him, emanating from the crumbling Shroud, a nervous pulse ran throughout his body as he came to terms with his final fleeting moments.
He reached the desk and started reversing the sabotage. Muttering helplessly to himself as he worked in his subversion.
"I am the very model of a scientist salarian...
...I've studied species turian, asari and batarian".
It was done. He stood back to accept his fate; a faint smile now upon his face while he silently marvelled at his final deed.
He now continued muttering to himself for comfort
"My xenoscience studies range from urban to agrarian, I am the very model of..."
A direct explosion snuffed his breath as he was thrown across the room. He now lied unmoving on the far side of the control room - the tower's failure to stand would be the final blow to his being.
The aftermath was more than saddening. Wrex and Eve said they would name their first child after Mordin for his sacrifice. Shepard now sat in his quarters grieving on his own - the rest of the crew also in a solemn mood.
Mordin's body lay crippled and beyond restoration under the debris of the Shroud. Nonetheless, and beyond expectation, there was a flicker of life unknown by his outside friends. A vision came before his eyes breaking the bleak darkness.
Mordin awoke and saw himself to be sitting on a white sandy beach. A pale blue sea licking at his feet and collections of those wanted sea shells resting along the entirety of the shore line.
Mordin spoke aloud to himself.
"What is this? Spiritual experience? Afterlife? No, can't be. But maybe I want it to be? Vivid hallucination caused by excessive physiological and mental trauma? Exacerbation of visual and cerebral cortex causing manifestation of subconscious images? Yes. More plausible explanation. But no, not...not what I want. Must still have minimal cognitive function."
He stood to more fully comprehend his surroundings. They seemed so real, so intense and lucid. He had dabbled in theology before, and pondered on its possibility
"Could it be? Why would it be? Projections of one's wishes have often been taken to be reflective of reality – often amounting in mistake. Not exemplification of verisimilitude. Lesser miracles and all that. Human philosopher David Hume suggested something amounting to such a conclusion. Hallucinations of comfort in dying moments. Nothing more. Yes…Yes. But maybe it could be...something else? I want it to be. Wheel of life. This may not be the end? Could that be... comforting?"
He examined one of the colourful seashells seated on the beach next to him, he cupped it in his hand, smelt it, felt the ridges along its side.
"Shepard was right. I'd go crazy in an hour. Should do tests. But no equipment (sigh)"
His surroundings may well have looked interesting, but after an hour, this would be no paradise.
No other life forms seemed to be present on the beach. Behind him was a thin line of trees. Through them, Mordin could see more of the vast ocean gleaming in the bright sunlight. He deduced that he was on a long, thin, tropical island. The horizon offered no images of other lands.
Mordin was all right with dying, but this was, at least, an inconvenience. He wanted more. Salarian lives were short and death was figured with and comprehended quicker than with other sapient species. Although not being known for common religiosity - a common Salarian belief was the Wheel of Life. Something similar to human Hinduism with the representation of reincarnation. Theology had not offered truly satisfying answers for Mordin - but the Wheel of Life could mean that his efforts transpired into greater events in an illusive "next life". Currently, this is what he thought he wanted.
Death was a common enough occurrence that surprise at its arrival, by basic logic, would seem imprudent. Of course, people do not often work by such logic. Emotion takes over principle.
Mordin took off his clothing and decided to swim in the clear sea. He hadn't been swimming in a while, despite the Salarian's amphibious aptitude for such acts. The sea was filled, sporadically, with tiny purple fishes. He held out his hands under the water and they swam through his fingers. Mordin chuckled at the sight.
Nonetheless, he was now bored. This was too slow for his liking. He strode out of the sea and sat down on the sand.
He crossed his arms and thought of what he had done. A slight rage permeating his thinking at the thought of the STG sabotage. The STG's philosophy of uplifting supposed "lesser races" was ill-thought.
His friend Padok Wiks was correct; partly at least.
The repercussions proved more counter-productive than reasonable. His dying wish was that diplomacy, contextual understandings and rehabilitation would be favoured over the actions of redemptive justice and retributivism. That was what his act signified. It may be difficult to discern motives through action alone, but that was all he wished. His minor legacy. That scientific and cultural advancements would carry forth in the face of limitations. "No limitations, no advancement. No advancement, culture stagnates." To learn that perfection is not a reality and all one may have is their frittered instants of loitering.
It was sunset, and Mordin closed his eyes once again. A tiredness fell upon him and he decided to finally sleep. If we awoke here tomorrow, then maybe this was the afterlife. He was torn between his wishes for this Eden, this bliss, and his hard and thorough , albeit impersonal logic. This was a secret and silent purgatory covered with the façade of paradise.
He did awake, and he was still there. On that desolate island only peopled by shells and, now, boring fishes. Instead of nirvana, utopia, heaven, paradise – he found himself an inhabitant of this terrible dream-world! That first night gave way to dawn, and he wandered aimlessly over the lonely sands, through the intermediate channel of trees running through the middle of this small, lonesome island. When night came, he still wandered, hoping for an awakening from this pipe-dream.
Not finding solace in reality, it was the choice of him, and many, to abandon the real, the authentic, the honest and violent, indifferent and unforgiving universe for illustrations of heavenly places. He now realised his mistake. Imagination and story have a higher credence, status and memorability amongst the people of the universe than the real, because they are divergent from it. From its objective boredom and indifference. Escapism was favoured as it skirted and circumvented the real. Thus, the theological and the fanciful may sometimes prove appealing, but it is dishonest – and more often inimical. Injurious. Incorrect.
One would lack a simple element of empathy if they needed some other-worldly reward such as an afterlife to act as a stimulus to judicious action.
Mordin could now see that the universe is what it is. That is to say, not much.
Yet the honesty in acknowledging such a thing is what amounts to truth - in this bitter sweet consolation.
Realising his folly, the hight of all folly, Mordin closed his eyes and forgot those useless dreams.
Mordin slowly opened his eyes. He was encumbered by the dust and rubble of Tuchunka. His vision unclear.
He mumbled under his breath, straining to do so.
"Just…Just as I…Thought. Hal…Hallucinations. Hmm."
He was beyond repair, his experience being only of what he now thought. He glanced over his broken body and out of the rubble he was partially covered by. A figure far off in the distance was walking towards the broken Shroud.
Mordin tried to call out to the figure but lacked any strength to do so. His vision became even more blurred; a green pool of his own blood now smothering his underside and chest.
He now saw his fate to be that of nothingness, permanent departure. A bitter consolation.
Yet he was accepting of it. Truthful. He expected nothing, no-thing, and he would die as close as possible as it is to be near that illusive will o' the wisp that is authenticity.
Something unattainable, but he was close at least. Content with the real horror of life. With his sacrifice.
The figure moved closer to the ruined tower as Mordin took his final breath.