Title: Metamorphosis (Take One)
Rating: T
Word Count: ~880 for this part
Characters: M!Shepard
Summary: Cerberus claimed that they brought Shepard back the same, just with a few upgrades. Shepard's not so sure.
Author's Notes: I always wondered what must be going through a Shepard's mind when they discovered they went from not being a biotic, to suddenly having the 'Reave' ability. Seemed like, of all the biotic abilities, that one was most likely to result in emotional trauma to the Commander. This fic is a bit experimental, in that I wanted to tackle the same situation using two different Shepards. This first part features M!Shepard adjusting to the changes he has undergone. The second take features F!Shepard and Miranda having themselves a little discussion. Hope you enjoy! And again, still getting back on the fanfic horse. One word at a time.
Metamorphosis, Take One
There are few things that are certain in this universe. One of them, Shepard always assumed, was that - barring any horrible, disfiguring accidents - the face that would greet you in the mirror every morning, would be the same one that would be there before bed every night.
And, he figured, even if you were an unfortunate bastard whose face was irreparably damaged in a firefight (or the equivalent) you could always rest easy knowing that the soul that would stare out from your eyes was always the same.
How wrong he had been.
The transparent face staring back at him through the reflection of his fish tank glass is the same as it ever was. Better, even, then it was before. The scar he'd grown accustomed to across is gone. The skin there over his nose, unblemished. But it's a stranger that stares back at him through his eyes.
Eyes that aren't his anymore. Not really. His eyes never had that faint edging of red glowing around the rims. Evidence of the cybernetic tin-man he's become.
He should be grateful. Should be happy that he isn't a sack of blood and bones rotting in the wreckage of his old ship. But he finds that emotion impossible to catch. In it's place is a churning kind of anger. Anger at the Alliance for giving up on him, at Anderson for not trusting him, at the Council for not believing him, at Cerberus for resurrecting his ass like some fucked up zombie and sticking a damn biotic implant in his skull.
He channels that anger, that burst of rage, into a blast of energy that sweeps from his chest, down his arm, out through his fingers, to hit the tank with a sonic rattle. It moves through the water with a swirl, and a flash of heat fills him - like he just mainlined a stim-pack - as the life is sucked out of all the fish in the tank, and they go bobbing to the surface like little balloons. The sight of them makes him feel vaguely nauseated, even while his body thrums with energy.
He's alive. There is blood pumping in his veins, and air swelling his lungs. But the core of him, who he was at the most base level, has changed. Replaced with someone who sucks down souls like some goddamn vampire.
Someone who, though he's loathe to admit it - even to himself - likes the feeling when he does. Someone who is eager for that exact moment during every fight when he can unleash this new ability on his enemies. For the moment when he can feel them, their essence, filter into his own. The rush of it unlike anything else he has ever known. Ever experienced.
It should disturb him that he is more sorry for the loss of his fish, than he is for anyone else he has killed this way.
But it really doesn't. And it is that fact alone that makes him wonder, just how much has he changed? Miranda claims that there is nothing wrong with him. That he is exactly the same as he has always been, just with the benefit of a few upgrades.
Which makes him wonder: if he is the same as he's always been, what does it say about him that he enjoys this new power so much? What does it say about all his decisions in the past? All his choices? He's never worn the mantle of 'Butcher' with pride, swearing that he only did what any good marine would do.
But did he really? Was there really no other option? The thought sinks in his abdomen, thick and heavy, and threatening to drag him down under its weight. For a few minutes, it leaves him unsettled, just staring through his own reflection at the dead, bobbing fish.
Eventually, the feeling passes, and he pushes away from the wall to start the familiar, methodical process of cleaning the carcasses out of the tank. A tiny voice - one that grows steadily louder with each passing minute - telling him that he only did his job then, as he is only doing his job now. And is it really so wrong for him to maybe, just maybe, feel the barest hint of pleasure when he does? A reward for a job well done? For time served.
As the last fish drops with a loud, squishing sound into the disposal receptacle, he squares his shoulders and decides that yes. Yes it is. To enjoy what he can do... no. Nothing about that is okay. He needs to just focus on the mission, focus on getting his job done. And remember why he has to do what he does - not how it might feel when does it.
Focus on the fact that despite the reddening eyes, and his knew found...talent...nothing about him as truly changed. This ability is just...an upgrade. A new weapon in his arsenal. And if he feels different, well that's just the after-effects of being dead. It'll pass.
He focuses on his reflection once more, and forces the words out like the mantra they have become in recent weeks: "I'm exactly the same as I've always been."
The empty fish tank doesn't respond.
Aren't I?
~End