Disclaimer: I don't own Mass Effect 1, 2, or 3, obviously. People far richer and smarter than I do but I am grateful that I get to play a great set of games-even if they make me cry buckets of tears. No intention to infringe on anyone's rights or opinions is intended. No one but my box of tissues was hurt in the writing of this drabble.
Author's Note: This is only my second foray into writing about Mass Effect but I felt that I had to write this one...as I'm playing my Shepard through the game for the umpteenth time, I'm watching her slowly fall apart. And I had to question why no one else calls her on it. Thus was this story born. It's just a drabble...
**88**88**88**88**88**
Shatter
**88**88**88**88**88**
The cracks were there…visible to anyone who cared to see them. Shepard, always so controlled with a suitably snarky comeback at the ready, was brittle as cut glass. Had been since Mordin's death and it wasn't getting better with every loss since. Thane. Legion. Everyone noticed…well, everyone who mattered…but no one said anything. If you didn't admit to it, ignored it, pretended it away as a vivid imagining, then the crew of the Normandy could go on as they always had.
What had Chakwas called her? The immoveable center of the Normandy.
She rested her forehead against the tiles in the shower, thankful that she'd locked not only the cabin that she shared with Garrus but also the bathroom. She didn't need someone coming in—seeing her like this. Fragile. Weak. The crew needed her to be strong. Needed her to be solid and in control. They couldn't see her shatter.
She thought again about the Carnifex pistol in the bedside table—she'd picked it up on a whim—a reminder of that damnable Collector base. It was loaded. Oiled and cared for with all the care a mother would take with her babe.
It would be so easy.
And this time no one would bring her back. Hell, the Illusive Man might even hold a party to celebrate.
She slammed her palm against the tiles, letting out a muted scream of frustration. Why? What in the name of all that was holy gave the Illusive Man the right to drag her from whatever perdition she'd been sent to by the Collectors and turn her into the walking-talking-robotic freak that now stood under the rapidly cooling spray? She was more metal and tech than person. She'd paid attention to Miranda's recorded journals when she was leaving Lazarus Station—she'd been dead and turned to nothing more than charcoal. That should have been the end.
But nothing was ever easy. Hadn't she said that to someone once? Hell, she'd said that more than once.
"Commander?"
Shepard sighed, wincing at the rawness of her throat. She swiped at her eyes and shut off the shower spray. "What is it, Joker?" she called to the disembodied voice of her pilot.
"ETA to Thessia is one hour. Just wanted to give you a heads up."
Shepard nodded, already drying off and pulling on her underclothes. "Understood, Joker. Thanks."
**88**88**88**88**88**
Fin
**88**88**88**88**88**
