A/N: Well, it seems it has happened. I have caught the dreaded self-insert fever. Created by Herr Wozzeck, presumably in a creepy underground cavern full of stalactites and the sound of dripping water, it is a cruel virus. Once it takes hold in a victim's central nervous system, is hopeless to resist, because one will eventually submit to its tyranny.

But I must confess that I never intended to write this, at least not until I read two stories, the first being Masses to Masses by iNf3ctioNZ, the other the Mass Vexations series by the aforementioned Mr. Wozzeck. Both stories are exemplary works of fiction, and I highly suggest you read them. (Although, admittedly I assume most of you have already read at least one of them.)

And finally, I feel compelled to remind everyone to review. I'm not one to say I'll discontinue a story due to a lack of reviews (and that philosophy holds true here as well. I feel writing anything is pointless if you don't see it through to the end.) It is a wonderful feeling, however, to get that alert saying you have received a review. So, readers who have never written a story, you can barely imagine the ecstasy an author receives with such a generous action, and fellow writers, take pity on me! For you know what it's like! And in my continuous position as resident review whore, I feel compelled to tell you that my birthday is in a mere two days, September 30. So, in the likely event that I am unable to publish again before that, does anyone want to give me a birthday present? There shall be cake! (Which may or may not be a lie.)

And, as I'm sure you know, I don't own anything. Really. Except my guitar and a few meager possessions. Nothing at all of consequence.

And now that that hefty introduction is over, let the real fun begin!

Chapter 1

Waking up

I always did tend to have lucid dreams. So when I found myself wandering through different areas of the Mass Effect universe every night, I thought nothing of it, save for the fact that I was having a pretty kickass series of them.

Tonight, I sit on my bed, a heavy rain spattering loudly against the outside walls of the small apartment block. A drum roll of distant thunder slowly rolls across the landscape, creating the smallest of vibrations in the floor.

I tune out the incessant pounding of the almost frozen raindrops against the thin windows, tune out the chill in the air that the small heater in the corner of the room can do little to force out. I sit calmly on the edge of my unmade bed, the sheets strewn haphazardly across its surface. My cherry red guitar rests lightly across my lap. My head bobs gently to the heavy bassline thrumming through the headphones, intermingling with the noise from the weather outside. My fingers tense against the familiar tautness of the strings, waiting. I grip the pick tightly, beginning to strum lightly along to the first notes, the strings beginning to hum beneath my fingers with a steady pulse. The amp picks up the sounds, projects them, distorts them. There is something rhythmically hypnotic about the sound, my fingers moving to the practiced pace, almost of their own accord.

For the briefest moment, the world seems to fade away to the backdrop of the pounding guitars and harsh vocals. Then everything once again snaps into sharp, sudden clarity. The music continues relentlessly, but I have stopped, sitting passively against my bed.

I am overcome by an inexplicable exhaustion. As the song reaches its conclusion, my eyes begin to drift shut. Another song enters its first notes, but I pull the headphones from my ears, unable to keep my eyelids open any longer. God, if I didn't know any better, I'd say someone had shoved a chloroform rag onto my face while I was playing. Hell, maybe somebody did. I was out of it for a second there.

I place the dark red instrument onto its stand in the corner of the room, looking distastefully at the chipped paint on the bend in the wall. I weave the pick carefully between the bottom three strings. At least then I'll know where I put the damn thing, not have to waste fifteen minutes searching painstakingly for the small tool. I always could just use a different pick, but months of intensive use have it whittled it down to the perfect shape.

My phone lays against the carpet, its charger already located conveniently in the wall socket, as I half-heartedly curse the its short-lived battery. I'm far too exhausted for the muttered oaths to carry any real weight, the words simply a habitual formality.

Lying down on my bed, I notice, but do not really care, that I still wear my jeans and T-shirt. My pajamas aren't exactly overwhelmingly comfortable anyway.

A sudden thought forces me to pry my eyes apart, if only temporarily, flittering about like a moth within my mind. Why am I so tired? This isn't like me at all. Insomnia can be a real bitch sometimes, but at least when I can't fall asleep, I know everything's normal, the nightly routine.

But my thoughts don't linger, quickly replaced by curiosity of what dreams will appear next. The Mass Effect ones have been coming every night without exception for over a month. I've been through events throughout the games, their chronology scattershot and unpredictable.

My eyes drift shut, and soon I'm taken into another world. But something is wrong.

I sit up, confused. My room is gone, replaced instead by walls of cold steel. A single man runs across my vision, a terrified expression plastered upon his face. A single thought crosses my mind before an explosion sends the objects on the wall shattering to the ground. I remember where I came from. I've been able to recall my dreams upon awakening, but never have I comprehended that I was within a one as it occurred.

Then the floor rumbles violently, much more so than it had in my apartment from the persistent thunder. This new pitching seems more an earthquake. I am shaken roughly from the metal surface on which I had lain, a slight pressure leaving the back of my hand. Before I can see my resting place, however, the man I had seen earlier grabs my arm and pulls me none-too-gently from the room. What the Hell is going on here? This is nothing like what I'd ever imagined before, waking or asleep. I have no idea where I am, in an exploding room God knows where, dragged by a figure I don't recognize.

This can't be good.